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UNCLE TOM'S CABIN
A PICTURE
OP
SLAVE LIFE IN AMERICA
BY
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
THE AUTHOR'S UNABRIDGED EDITIOH
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS
Broadway, Ludgate Hill
GLASGOW, MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK
THE PREFACE.
I have been requested to write a few lines of Preface for
a reprint of that very remarkable book, "Uncle Tom's
Cabin." However flattered I might have ffc-i by such a
proposal, under any circumstances, I should probably have
leclined to comply with it, if it had referred to any other
book, or any other subject.
For, first, with regard to the book,—
Its merits, in point of composition, and in its avowed
character of a work of fiction, though founded upon an
actual state of society, and phases of cotcmporary events
and characters, are sufficiently patent to every class of its
nearly unparalleled amount of readers. In this par tier. Jar
alone, its appearance has made a kind of epoch in the lite¬
rary, as well as, I trust, in the moral history of the time.
The mention of the bare reading would, indeed, afford a
most inadequate measure of the extraordinary impression
which it ha3 made upon the public mind and sympathy. Pew
are the societies in which it has not for some time past
formed the staple topic of conversation ; and I have had the
opportunity of knowing, in startling contrast, of the violent
outburst of tears which it has excited in some of the loftiest
regions of our social life, and in the obscure cottages of hard
working and unpolished labourers and miners.
A 2
tv THB PBEEA.CB.
It would be easy, if it were not wholly superfluous, to
dilate on the qualities which have produced such a concur¬
rence, and such an intensity of interest and admiration, the
gay humour, the tender pathos, the skill, so various, so
delicate, so masterly, displayed in tbe delineation of cha¬
racter,—recalling to the readers their foremost favourites,
but surely without any degree of servile imitation. In Aunt
Chloe, and much of the interior economy of the Shelby house¬
hold, and especially in the bright, blue-eyed Eva, have we not
repeated glimpses of Mr. Charles Dickens ? In the tea-table
dialogue of the Ohio Senator and his wife, and in tlie self-
portraying complaints of Mrs. St. Clare, are we not vividly
reminded of our admirable Miss Austen ? I think Topsy
may challenge the honours of entire originality. But behind
and above all these playful graces, or brilliant gifts of the
author, like her own Niagara's main torrent behind its
silver spray, its emerald crest, its saffron rainbow, rushes
and thunders on her mighty moral, the stream of over¬
whelming, irresistible, eternal Truth.
Neither will I be tempted to pause upon a point which I
made the subject of respectful remonstrance in a letter
which I addressed to the writer in thanking her for the copy
of her work she had been good enough to send to me; I
refer to what appeared to me a singular want of knowledge,'
and, therefore, a failure of justice, in speaking of the general
condition of our poor in England. To us, who know what
the real state and facts of the case are, this is of compara*
tively little importance; and as there is much undoubtedly
for us to mend, it may not be amiss that we should have
matters shown to us under a still darker shadow than
legitimately attends them. It is of importance, however,
THE PREFACE.
▼
that the proprietors of slaves should not be encouraged, to
lay the unction to their souls, that the- common run of
mechanics and labourers of England are on a level of suffer¬
ing and degradation with the slaves on a rice-swamp in
Carolina, or at a sugar crop-time in Louisiana. This line of
argument has been most cogently taken up by a very accom¬
plished friend of mine, Mr. Helps, in a paper which has
appeared in " Fraser's Magazine;" and I have reason to
know that Mrs. Beecher Stowe has expressed herself on the
subject with the fairness and the candour which might be
expected from her. I am convinced that the motive which
principally guided her, was a wish not to leave out of sight
any ground upon which the advocates of slavery might fairly,
or even plausibly, rest; and she states that her own point of
view was materially influenced, I must say very naturally, by
the representations contained in some of the most popular
current literature and oratory of our own country.
As was to be expected, the shout of praise and chorus of
approbation with which this work has been received amongst
us, general and loud as they have been, and are, have still not
been perfectly unanimous. "While noble justice has been
rendered to it by some of the most enlightened organs of
public opinion in the country, I cannot dissemble my regret
that in the most powerful of all, a notice of it has appeared,
instinct, as I must say it appeared to me, with all the sus¬
ceptibility, the sourness, and the jealousy of the slave-holding
and slavery-fostering system itself. My chief consolation is,
that it did not appear in the same portion of the paper, and
therefore, I am willing to flatter myself, could not have been
indited by the same pens as those articles, which, more
especially within a recent period, and upon topics connected
THE PBEFACE.
with the politics of Europe, while they have been models of
English composition, have breathed the most generous spirit
of English freedom.
5?he only mode in which detraction ventures to approach
UifCLE Ton, is to set out with admitting the merits of its
style and composition, and then to charge it with general
exaggeration. I fear, undoubtedly, it is but too true, that
human nature will not, under any of its modifications,
present us with many types of Uncle Tom; nor, I hope, on
the other hand, with many of Mr. Legree. But take this
human nature, such as we observe it in the world immedi¬
ately around ourselves, such as we feel it within our own
bosoms, put it in contact with the recognised codes and
published laws of slave-holding states, impregnate it with
the habits and maxims of the surrounding society, transfer
it, apart from check and observation, to the remote planta¬
tion and obscure barracoon, and, without resorting to works
of fiction or dreams of the imagination, work out for your¬
self the inevitable result. Let me adduce, as among the
most cursory, and incidental, and apparently trivial, of the
many illustrations which constantly presented themselves,
one which struck upon my ear at the table of' an American
sailing-packet. The captain, on the whole, was not an
unfavourable specimen of his country and his profession; he
happened one day to be giving to the company some details
of his early life. He had been born in one of the Carolinas,
and at rather an early age had been sent to school in New
England; " and a very disagreeable change I thought it,"
he went on to say, " after coming from home, where I could
order the slaves to be flogged whenever I chose." This
seemed not to excite the slightest observation among my
THE PItJSFACE.
vii
fellow passengers at the time. It is true that when I
remarked upon it a little while afterwards to a southern
gentleman, whose frequent European intercourse and gentle
nature must have made him sufficiently aware of the effect
it was likely to produce upon me, he assured me that I
m ust not consider it as an ordinary specimen; but I want
to know, if you bring together wayward children, and weak
parents, and irresponsible power, how can it help being an
ordinary specimen? And thus I feel that, fbr illustrating
the system of slavery, I have no need to resort to instances
of murder, mutilation, lust and incest, but I place before
you a child in the nursery, with his parents out of doors
and an obsequious attendant at his back.
Having said thus much about the Book, I feel that I
have nearly anticipated all that I have to offer in this con¬
fined space upon its Subject. That subject is slavery, and
it surely constitutes the most difficult and solemn problem
that now engages the attention of mankind. I have no
wish to dissemble or gloss over my entire and ardent,
sympathy with its victims and its opponents. The Anti-
slavery party in the United States may possibly have made
mistakes and miscalculations which I have no means of
correctly appreciating; but, with all due allowance for error,
infirmity, and the intolerance which is apt to entwine itself
even with the noblest of efforts, and the holiest of causes,
my calm belief is, that they are fighting a battle unpa¬
ralleled either in ancient or modern heroism. Of modern
heroism I certainly would not speak lightly in addressing
either the country of Washington or of "Wellington. Let
them be rightfully hailed by the respective populations as
the Fathers of their Country. But glorious as may have
VI.I THE PREFACE.
bivn their exploits in the field, and scarcely less glorioua
their undeviating deference to the laws and constitutions
ot the countries they had adorned and saved, I teel almost
inclined to question whether, in the estimate of an all-
ruling and all-merciful Providence, any cause which even
they had ever adopted can outshine in true Christian
chivalry the efforts of those who, let the law of the Land
be for the moment what it may, make it the business
of their lives to harbour the fugitive slave from his pursuers,
to keep watch over the sanctity of his asylum, and to
transfer him from his broken chain to a share of Freedom.
Having thus expressed in no faltering accents my
sympathy with the enemies of Slavery on its own soil, I
do not wish to quit the topic without a word of counsel to
my own countrymen, to observe entire justice and discretion
towards its friends and abettors. "We must never fonret
that we originally introduced the pestilent system into our
Colonies, and that we did much to fasten and rivet it upon
them when they were indifferent or reluctant. At the same
time, it is to be noted, that the onward course of the present
century, which has witnessed, in England, the successive
abolitions of the slave-trade and of slavery, and in the
United States, the enactment of the Fugitive Slave Law, is
daily tending to diminish the appositeness of this plea ol
complicity. However, again, we must bear in mind that the
difficulties with which even we had to contend in achieving
this great consummation, and which cost us years ol
arduous struggle and repeated disappointment, are infinitely
multiplied in a country where slavery is not relegated, as it
was with us, to distant colonies and separate islands, but is
RDread over immense portions of their continent, throngs in
the pbefac®. is
their markets, jostles in their streets, nestles in their homes,
and festers in the very sanctuary of their constitution; so
that even the very heartiest detester of slavery amongst us
must feel, that even if he could be invested for a moment
with absolute power, he would be utterly at a loss to know
what he could in wisdom recommend, or what assured
remedy he could prescribe for this pervading and dominating
evil. And above all, even supposing that we had the right
to reproach, or the sagacity to advise, we should be most
careful, on the score of policy, that the manner and tone of
our partisanship, to use the word in its best sense, does not
damage the cause we have most at heart, and actually
injure the afflicted race for whom I know there are those
amongst us who would willingly lay down their lives. To
gag the free and full expression of opinion in this country
upon any exhibition of tyranny and unrighteousness, most
assuredly I never will consent, in the face either of Euro¬
pean despots or American slaveholders; but we may be
quite certain that we could not confer more material
assistance upon the friends and patrons of American slavery,
than by arraying on their side any feelings of insulted
nationality. I have seen the most devoted Abolitionists
suddenly fire up, if they thought their country was exposed
to undeserved censure, or inapplicable contumely. The
Anti-slavery party in the United States are entitled to the
most fervid expression of our sympathy and admiration;
the personal intervention of foreigners in their enterprise
would, I am persuaded, only clog their efforts, and nullify
tny which, as a nation, we may ever have a fair and
legitimate opportunity to use. Let the only weapon of
warfare in this high quarrel be the concurring conscience of
X THE PBEPACE.
mankind ; let the only shout of triumph over its adjustment
be the Hallelujahs of the Heavens.
Nevertheless, while I am anxious to prescribe even to
the warmth of sympathy and the ardour of humanity their
due bounds and restraints, I think it most desirable, not
only that the conscience of the American people should be
roused to its inmost depths, but that they should read in
the increased stir and sensation which the question excites
through all the family of man, the certain indications that
it can never sleep, but that it must work and mine its way,
till, in one mode or another, its ultimate consummation be
accomplished. It is for them to examine the ground, to
lay the foundations, to smooth the approaches; happy for
them it will be if they may rear the noble edifice of a race's
freedom in tranquillity and composure, and not amidst
scenes of confusion, violence, and bloodshed, such as the
gaze of Liberty herself would shrink to encounter. Let
them only drink in deep enough the thorough conviction
that things cannot go on for ever as they are going on now.
"Within even the short interval which has elapsed since my
own visit to the Union ten years ago, and from even this
far distance, it appears to me that I can track the footsteps
of no slow progress in the career of this great cause.
Such seems to me the formal proposal of a candidate by the
Anti-slavery party for the next election to the supreme
office of President of the United States; such seems to me
the appointment conferred last year by the eminently
commercial, eminently American state of Massachusetts to
the office of its Senator in Congress, upon my much-valued
friend Mr. Charlt-s Sumner. In our past hours of friendly
intercourse, in our frequent walks by the sparkling estuary
THE FREEACE, £1
of Boston, of upon the sunny brow of Bunker's Hill, liow
little did I, how little did he, I feel well assured, dream of
such an opening upon his quiet and unostentatious career!
and now, while I have been writing these lines, I have
received the speech he has lately delivered in Congress on
the bearings of the Fugitive Slave Law, which, by the
closeness of its logic, and the masculine vigour of its
eloquence, proves to me how all the proportions of his mind
have grown up to, and been dilated with, the inspiration of
the cause which he has now made his own. Indeed, when
I rise from reading such a speech as his, or such a book as
this, to which I have now ventured to prefix this hurried
prelude, I feel constrained at once to temper and to dignify
my own sentiments by clothing them with appropriate
accents borrowed from our own Drama:—
" Reward them for the noble deed, just Heavens!
For this one action, guard them and distinguish them
With signal mercies, and with great deliverance;
Guard them from wrong, adversity, and shame.
The poor, forsaken ones!
Shall they be left a prey to savage power ?
Can they lift up their harmless hands in vain,
Or cry to Heaven for help, and not be beard ?
Go on, pursue ! assert the sacred cause ;
Stand forth, ye proxies of all-ruling Providence,
And save the friendless captives from oppression.
Saints shall assist ye with prevailing prayers,
And warring angels combat on your side."
CARLISLE.
Castle Howard,
Ocl. 9th, 1852,
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
The scenes of this story, as its title indicates, lie among a
race liitlierto ignored by the associations ol polite and re¬
fined society ; an exotic race, whose ancestors, born beneath
a tropic- sun, brought with them, and perpetuated to their
descendants, a character so essentially unlike the hard and
dominant Anglo-Saxon race, as for many years to have won
from it only misunderstanding and contempt.
But another and better day is dawning; every influence
of literature, of poetry, and of art, in our times, is becoming
more and more in unison with the great master-chord of
Christianity, " good-will to man."
The poet, the painter, and the artist, now seek out and
embellish the common and gentler humanities of life, and,
under the allurements of fiction, breathe a humanizing and
8ubduing influence, favourable to the development of the
great principles of Christian brotherhood.
The hand of benevolence is everywhere stretched out,
searching into abuses, righting wrongs, alleviating distresses,
and bringing to the knowledge and sympathies of the world
the lowly, the oppressed, and the forgotten.
In this general movement, unhappy Africa at last is re¬
membered ; Airica, who began the race of civilization and
human progress in the dim, grey dawn, of early time, but
who, for centuries, has lain bound and bleeding at the foot
of civilized and Christianized humanity, imploring compas¬
sion in vain.
But the heart of the dominant race, who have been her
conquerors, her hard masters, has at length been turned
towards her in mercy ; and it has been seen how far nobler
it is in nations to protect the feeble than to oppress them.
Thanks be to God, the world has at last outlived the slave-
trade.
AUTHORS PJiEfACB.
The object of these sketches is to awaken sympathy and
feeling for the African race, as they exist among us; to
show their wrongs and sorrows, under a system so necessa¬
rily cruel and unjust as to defeat and do away the good
effects of all that can be attempted for them, by their test
friends, under it.
In doing this, the author can sincerely disclaim any invi¬
dious feeling towards those individuals who, often without
any fault of their own, are involved in the trials and embar¬
rassments of the legal relations of slavery.
Experience has shown her that some of the noblest cf
minds and hearts are often thus involved; and no one knows
better than they do, that what may be gathered of the evils
of olavery from sketches like these is not the hall that could
be told of the unspeakable whole.
In the northern states, these representations may, per¬
haps, be thought caricatures; in the southern states are
witnesses who know their fidelity. What personal knowledge
the author lias had of the truth or incidents such as here are
related, will appear in its time.
It is a comfort to hope, as so many of the world's sorrows
and wrongs have, from age to age, been lived down, so a
time shall come when sketches similar to these shall be
valuable only as memorials of what has long ceased to be.
When an enlightened and Christianized community shall
have, on the shores of Africa, laws, language, and literature,
drawn from among us, may then the scenes of the house of
bondage be to them like the remembrance of Egj-pt to the
Israelite,—a motive of thankfulness to Him who hath re¬
deemed them!
For, while politicians contend, and men are swerved this
way and that by conflicting tides of interest and passion, the
great cause of human liberty is in the hands of One, of
whom it is said:—
" He shall not fail nor be discouraged
Till He have set judgment in the earth."
" He shall deliver the needy when he crietn,
The poor, and him that hath no helper."
" He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence.
And precious shall their blood be in his sight."
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
I —In which the Reader is introduced to a Man ov
Humanity 1
II.—The Mothkb 8
III.—The Husband and Father 10
IV.—An Evening in Uncle Tom's Cabin .. .. 13
V.—Showing the Feelings of Living Property on
changing Owners 21
VI.—Discovert 27
VII.—The Mother's Struggle S3
VIII.—Escape op Eliza 42
IX.—In which it appears that a Senator is but a Man 62
X.—The Property is carried off 63
XI.—In which Property gets into an Improper State of
Mind 69
XII.—Select Incident of Lawful Trade 7<3
xttt.—The Quaker Settlement .. 90
XIV.—Evangeline 96
XV.—Of Tom's new Master, and various other Matters 102
XVI.—Tom's Mistress and her Opinions 113
XVII.—The Freeman's Defence 125
XVIII.—Miss Ophelia's Experiences and Opinions .. 137
XIX.—Miss Ophelia's Experiences and Opinions, continued 147
XX.—Tops* .. .. •• .. ?£1
XXI.—Kentuck J 71
XXII.—" The Grass witeebbth—the Flower fadeth" .. ih
m coisi£ni&.
"UAJ. RWS
XXIII.—Henriqu* •• •• ,, »». •• •• 179
XXIV.—foreshadowing 3 .. » •• •• 184
XXV.—The Little Evangelist .. .. .. .. 1S3
XXVI.—Death 192
XXVII.—" This is the Last of Eabth " 201
XXVIII.—Re-union 206
XXIX.—The Unprotected .. .. .» .. •• 216
XXX.—The Slave Warehouse .. 221
XXXI.—The Middle Passage •• 227
XXXII.—Dark Places 231
XXXIII.—Cassy 227
XXXIV.—The Quadroon's Stort .. •> .. 242
XXXV.—The Tokens .. .. .. 249
XXXVI.—Emmeline and Cassy 253
XXXVII.—Liberty 2 57
XXXVIII.—The Victory 282
XXXIX.—The Stratagem .. .. «. •« .. 268
XL.—The Martyr 275
XLI.—The Young Master 279
XLII.—An Authentic Ghost Story .. .. .. 283
XLIII.—Results 288
XLIV.—The Liberator .. .. «. .• 293
^llv.—Concluding ke^-arks .. •• •« %,
UNCLE TOM'S
OB,
LIFE AMONG T
CABIN,
HE LOWLY.
CHAPTER L
IN WHICH THE READEB IS INTRODUCED TO A MAN OF HtTMAJJIT?.
_ Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two gentlemen were
sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished dining-parlour, in the
town of P , in Kentucky. There were no servants present, and the
gentlemen, with chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing
some subject with great earnestness.
For convenience sake, we have said, hitherto, two gentlemen. One of
the parties, however, when critically examined, did not seem, strictly
speaking, to come under the species. He was a short, thick-set man,
with coarse, common-place features, and that swaggering air of preten¬
sion which marks a low man who is trying to elbow his way upward in
the world. He was much over-dressed, in a gaudy vest of many colours,
a blue neckerchief, bedropped gaily with yellow spots, and arranged
with a flaunting tie, quite in keeping with the general air of the man.
IJis hands, large and coarse, were plentifully bedecked with rings; and
he wore a heavy gold watch-chain, with a bundle of seals of portentous
size, and a great variety of colours, attached to it, which, in the ardour
of conversation, he was in the habit of flourishing and jingling with evi¬
dent satisfaction. His conversation was in free and easy defiance of
Murray's Grammar, and was garnished at convenient intervals with
various profane expressions, which not even the desire to be graphic in
, our account shall induce us to transcribe.
t His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gentleman: and
1 the arrangements of the house, and the general air of the housekeeping,
indicated easy and even opulent circumstances. As we before stated, thi
two were in the midst of an earnest conversation.
" That is the way I should arrange the matter," said Mr. Shelby.
" I can't make trade that way—I positively can't, Mr. Shelby," said
the other, holding up a glass of wine between his eye and the light.
" Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow; he is certainly
worth that sum anywhere,—steady, honest, capable, manages my whole
farm like a clock." _ .
" You mean honest, as niggers go," said Haley, helping himself w
glass of brandy.
B
2 UK CLE TOM'S OAEIF, OS ^ ^ Ee
•Nos I moan really,Tom iitgA^1
- 1
bouse, horses—and lct in everyt^|- gUrrj>^ said Haley,
always found him true and q ^ pious Bigs© £h (i a teilow, now, ia
»Some /on'tbehevOgU aud. „b ^j da. i ^ a meetitf n()W)
with a candid Rouris ^ Orleans 1 -1e gentle and quiet like,
this yer last lot I t(?°*.. r.rav: and heiwas qui nf n\^an
«*nd no mistake. .. rea] article, if ever a fellow had," rejomeo the
•< Well. T°™ I let hivn go to Cincinnati alone, to do business
rttlier. ' T^'home'five hundred dollars. ' Tom,' says I to him,' I
for mo and TjecaUse I think you're a Christian—I know you wouldn't
trust /°,^om eovlses back sure enough—I knew he would. Some low
Mimvs they say, said to him: 'Torn, why don't yon make tracks for
Canada?'—Ah, master trusted me, and I couldn't!' They told me
about it. I am sorry td*part with Tom, I must say. Tou ought to let
him cover the whole balance of the debt; and you would, Haley, if you
had any conscience."
" Well, I've got. just as much conscience as any man in business can
afford to keep—just a little, you know, to swear by, as 'twere," said the
trader, jocularly; " and then, I'm ready to do anything in reason, to
'Wise friends; but this yer, you see, is a leetle too hard on a fellow—a
leetle too hard."
The trader sighed contemplatively, and poured out some more
brandy.
" Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?" said Mr. Shelby, after an
uneasy interval of silence. -
"Well, haven't you a boy, or gal, that you could throw in with
Tom ?"
"Jfum!—none that I could well spare; to tell the truth, it's only
hard necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don't like parting with
any of my hands—that's a fact."
Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between four and
five years of age, entered the room. There was something in his appear¬
ance remarkably beautiful and engaging. His black hair, fine as floss-
silk, hung in glossy curls about his round, dimpled face, while a pair of
large dark eyes, full of fire and softness, looked out from beneath the
rich long lashes, as he peered curiously into the apartment. A gay robe
of scarlet and yellow plaid, carefully made and neatly fitted, set off' to
advantage the dark and rich style of his beauty; and a certain comic air of
assurance, blended with bashfulness, showed that he had been not unused
«^fln?,P°tted and noticed by his master.
Hulloa, Jim Crow!" said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and snapping a
mu °™ns towards him, " pick that up, now!"
his m^ter la1T''lied?re(^ little strength, after the prize, while
Jim Cr°w?" said he.
Kim under the'ehin1'a master patted the curly head, and chucked
Now, Jim, show this gentleman how you can danoe and sing."
ilFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 3
The boy commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common
among the negroes, in a, rich, clenr voice, accompanying his sinking with
many comic evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all in perfect
time to the music.
" Bravo!" said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an orange.
" Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe when he Las the rheumatism,"
said his master.
Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed the appearance of
deformity and distortion, as, with his back humped up, and his master's
stick in his hand, he hobbled about the room, his childish face drawn
into a doleful pucker, and spitting from right to left, in imitation of an
old man.
Both gentlemen laughed uproariously.
" Now, Jim," said his master, " show us how old elder Bobbins leads
the psalm."
The boy drew his chubby face down to a formidable length, and
commenced toning a psalm-tuns through his nose with imperturbable
gravity.
"Hurrali! bravo! what a young'un!" said Haley; "that chap's a
case, I'll promise. Tell you what," said he, suddenly clapping his hand
on Mr. Shelby's shoulder, " fling in that chap, and I'll settle the business
—I will. Come now, if that ain't doing the thing up about the rightest!"
At this moment, the door was pushed gently open, and a young
quadroon woman, apparently about twenty-five, entered the room.
There needed only a glance from the child to her, to identify her a3
its mother. There was the same rich, full, dark eye, with its long lashes;
the same ripples of silky black hair. The brown of her complexion gave
way on the cheek to a perceptible flush, which deepened as she saw the
gaze of the strange man fixed upon her in bold and undisguised admira¬
tion. Her dre^s was of the neatest possible fit, and set oil' to advantage
her finely moulded shape. A delicately formed hand, and a trim foot
and ankle, were items of appearance that did not escape the quick eye of
the trader, well used to run up at a glance the points of a line female
article.
" Well, Eliza ?" said her master, as she stopped and looked hesi¬
tatingly at him,
" I was looking for Harry, please, sir;" and the boy bounded toward
her, showing his spoils, which he had gathered in the skirt of his robe.
" Well, take him away, then," said Mr. Shelby; and hastily she
withdrew, carrying the child on ner arm.
" By Jupiter!" said the trader, turning to him in admiration, "there's
an article now! Youmightmake your fortune on tli.iL ar yil in Orleans,
any day. I've seen over a thousand, in my day, paid down for gals not
a bit handsomer."
" I don't want to make my fortune on her," said Mr. Shelby, drily,
and, seeking to turn the conversation, he uncorked a bottle of fresh wine,
and asked his companion's opinion of it.
" Capital, sir—first chop !" said the trader; then turning, and slap*
ping his hand familiarly on Shelby's shoulder, he added: " Come, how
will you trade about the gal ? what shall I say for her ? what'll you
" Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold," said Shelby; " my wife would not
part with her for her weight in gold."
" Ay, ay, women always say such things, 'cause they ha'nt no sort of
calculation. Just show 'em how many watches, feathers, and
B 2
4 T7NCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
one's weight in gold would buy, and that alters ths case, ^
rG"kf tell you, Haley, :his must not be spoken of. I say no, and I mean
no," said Shelby, deciiedly. . „.-i„r. « VOu
& Well, you'll let me have the boy, though ? said the trader, y
must own I've come down pretty handsomely for him.
" What on earth can you want with the child ? saldb ^; ,
"Why, I've got a friend that's going into this,
business wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for toi .
Fancy articles entirely-sell for waiters, and so on to rich ^
oay for handsome 'una. It sets off one of yer great a re~l n - a
.iome boy to open door, wait, and tend ihey fetch a gr>od sum , and
this little devil is such a comical, musical concern, he s just the article.
" I would rather not sell him," said Mr. bhelby, thou^htiully, the
fact is, sir, I'm a humane man, and I hate to take the coy irom his
m"tOh",' you do ?—La ! yes—something of that ar natur. I understand,
ferfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on with wo-nen sometimes.
al'ays hates these yer screechin', screamm' times. They are mighty
onpleasant; but, as I manages business, I generally avoids 'em, sir.
Now, what if you get the gal off for a day, or a week, or so; then the
thing's done quietly—all over before she comes home. Your wife
might get her some earrings, or'a new gown, or some such truck, to
make up with her."
" I'm afraid not."
" Lor bless ye, yes! These critters an'"t like white folks, you know;
they gets over tilings, only manage right. Now, they say," said Haley,
assuming a candid and confidential air, " that this kind o' trade is har¬
dening to the feelings; but I never found it so. Fact is, I never could
do things up the way some fellers manage the business. I've seen 'em
as would pull a woman's child out of her arms, and set him up to sell,
and she screechin' like mad all the time;—very bad policy—damages the
article—makes 'em quite unfit for service sometimes. I knew a real
handsome gal once, m Orleans, as was entirely rained by this sort o'
handling. The fellow that was trading for her didn't want her baby;
and she was one of your real high sort, when her blood was up. I tell
you. she squeezed up her child in her arms, and talked, and went on real
awful. It kinder makes my blood run cold to think on't; and when they
carried off the child, and locked her up, she jest went ravin' mad, and
died in a week. Clear waste, sir, of a thousand dollars, just for want of
management,—there's where't is. It's always best to do the humane
thing, sir; that's been m,v experience."
. And the trader leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms, with an
air of virtuous decision, apparently considering himseli a second Wil-
berforce.
nr'^'cn ^hject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply; for while
kheloy was thoughtfully peeling an orange, Haley broke out afresh,
to^py afewTvlris inore6' M lf actualIy driven b>"the force of truth
it lest becauselt'sThe toT,be Praisin' himself; but I say
the finest droves of^iggera th^; is brought Fn —° a^° vf
Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said. " Indeed !"
LIFE AMONG TEE LOWLY. 6
e Now, I've been laughed at for my notions, sir, ind I've been
talked to. They an't pop'lar, and they a'nt common ; but I stuck
to 'em, sir; I've stuck to 'em, and realised well on 'em; yes, sir,
they have paid their passage, I may say;" and the trader laughed at
Ms joke.
There was something so piquant and original in these elucidations of
humanity, that Mr. Shelby could not help laughing in company. Per¬
haps you laugh too, dear reader ; but you know humanity comes out in
a variety of strange forms now-a-days, and there is no end to the odd
things that humane people will say and do.
Mr. Shelby's laugh encouraged the trader to proceed.
It's strange, now, but I never could beat this into people's heads.
Now, there was Tom Loker, my old partner, down in Natchez ; he was
a clever fellow, Tom was, only the very devil with niggers—on principle
'< vva.'j, you see, for a better - hearted feller never broke bread; 'twas his
system, fir. I used to talk to Tom. ' Why, Tom,' I used to say, ' when
cur gals takes on and cry, what's the use o' crackin on 'em over the
ead, and knockin' on 'em round ? It's ridiculous,' says I,' and don't
do no sort o' good. Why, I don't see no harm in their cryin',' says I;
' it is natur,' says I;' and if natur can't blow off one way, it will another.
Besides, Tom,' says I;' it jest spiles your gals; they get sickly, and down
in the mouth; and sometimes they gets ugly—particular yallow girls do,
and it's the devil and all gettin' on 'em broke in. Now,' says I, 'why
can't you kinder coax 'em up, and speak 'em fair P Depend on it, Tom,
a little humanity, thrown in along, goes a heap further than all your
jau in' and crackin'; and it pays better,' says I, ' depend on't.' But
Tom couldn't get the hang on't; and he spiled so many for me, that I
had to break off with him, though he was a good-hearted fellow, and as
fair a business hand as is goin'."
" And do you find your ways of managing do the business bettor than
Tom's ?" said Mr. Shelby.
" Why yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any ways can, I takes
a leetle care about the onpleasan' parts, like selling young uns and that—
get the gals out of the way—out of sight, out of mind, you know; and
when it's clean done, and can't be helped, they naturally gets used to it.
'Tan't, you know, as if it was white folks, that's brought up in the way
of 'spectin' to keep their children and wives, and all that. Niggers, you
know, that's fetched up properly, ha'n't no kind of 'spectations of no
k ind; so all these things comes easier."
" I'm afraid mine are not properly brought up, then," said Mr.
Shelby.
"S'popenot. You Kentucky folks spile your niggers. You mean
well by 'em, but 'tain't no real kindness, arter all. Now, a nigger, you
see, what's got to be hacked and tumbled round the world, and sold to
Tom, and Dick, and the Lord knows who, 'tan't no kindness to be givin*
on him notions and expectations, and bringin' on him up too well, for
the rough and tumble comes all the harder on him arter. Now, I ven¬
ture to say, your niggers would be quite chop-fallen in a place where
some of your plantation niggers would be singing and whooping like all
Eossessed. Every man. you know, Mr. Shelby, naturally thinks well of
is own ways, and I think I treat niggers just about as well as it's ever
worth while to treat 'em."
" It's a happy thing to be satisfied," said Mr. Shelby, with a slight
shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a disagreeable nature.
" Well," said Haley, after they had both silently picked their nuts for
n season, " what do you say ? "
" I'll think the matter over, and talk with my wife," said Mr. Shelby.
6 UNCLE TOM'S CABIH OB
" Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter carried on in the quiet way
you speak of, you'd best not let your business in this neighbourhood be
known. It will get out among my boys, and it will not be a particularly
quiet business getting away any of my fellows, if they know it, I'll pro¬
mise you."
" Oh! certainly, by all means, mum! of course. But I'll tell you,
I'm in a devil of a hurry, and shall want to know, as soon as possible,
what I may depend on," said he, rising, and putting on his or jrcoat.
" Well, call up this evening, between six and seven, and you shall have
my answer," said Mr. Shelby, and the trader bowed himself out of the
apartment.
" I'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the steps," said
he to himself, as he saw the doer fairly closed, "with his impudent
assurance; but he knows how much he has me at advantage. If anybody
had ever said to me that I should sell Tom down south to one of tho: e
rascally traders, I should have said,' Is thy servant a dog, that he should
do this thing?' And now it must come, for aught I see. And Eliza's
child, too ! I know that I shall have some fuss with wife about that;
and, for that matter, about Tom, too. So much for being in debt—
heigho ! The fellow sees his advantage, and means to push it."
Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to be seen in the
state of Kentucky. The general prevalence of agricultural .pursuits of
a quiet and gradual nature, not requiring those periodic seati ras of hurry
and pressure that are called for in the business of more southern dis¬
tricts, makes the task of the negro a more healthful anil reason able one ;
while the master, content with a more gradual style of ac mLition, has
not those temptations to hardheartedne^s which alwajs overcome frail
human nature when the prospect of sudden and rapid gain is weighed
in the balance witfe no heavier counterpoise than the inter eats of the
helpless and unprotected.
Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the good-liumourei
indulgence of seme masters and mistresses, and the aScetionate loyally
of some slaves, might be tempted to dream the oft-fabled pcetic legend
of a patriarchal institution, and all that: but over and above the scenu
there broods a portentous shadow—the shadow of law. So long as the
law considers all these human beings, with beating hearts and living
affections, only as so many things belonging to a master — so long as the
failure, or misfortune, or imprudence, or death of the kindest owner,
may cause them any day to exchange a life of kind pretention and
indulgence for one of hopeless misery and toil—so long it is impossible
to make anything beautiful or desirable in the best-regulated adminis-
tralion of slavery.
Sir. Shelby was a fair average kind of man, good-natured and kindly,
and disposed to easy indulgence of those around him, and there had never
been a la-jk of anything which might contribute to the physical comfort
of the negroes on his estate. He had, however, speculated largely and
quite loosely—had involved himself deeply, and his notes to a 'large
amount had come into the hands of Haley; and this small piece of in¬
formation is the key to the preceeiing conversation.
Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the door, Eliza had
caught enough of the conversation to know that a trader was making
oflers to her master for somebody.
She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as she camo out;
but her mistress just then calling, she was obliged to hasten away.
Still she thought she heard the trader make an oUt for her'boy
eould she be mistaken ? Her heart swelled and throbbed, and slia
filO AMONG THE 10WL2". 1
involuntarily strained him so tight that the little fellow looked up into
her face in astonishment.
"Eliza, girl, what ails you to-day?" said her mistress, when Eliza
had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked down the work-stand, and finally
was abstractedly offering her mistress a long nightgown in place of the
silk dress she had ordered her to bring from the wardrobe.
Eliza started. "O, missis!" she said, raising her eyes; then, burst¬
ing into tears, she sat down in a chair and began sobbing.
' Why, Eliza, child ! what ails you?" said her mistress.
wO! missis, missis," said Eliza, "there's been a trader talking with
master in the parlour! I heard him."
" Well, silly child, suppose there has."
"O, missis, do you suppose mus'r would sell my Harry ?" And the
poor creature threw herself into a chair and sobbed convulsively.
" Sell him! No, you foolish girl! Jfou know your master never deals
with those southern traders, and never means to sell any ol his servants,
as long as they behave well. Why, you silly child, who do yon think
would want to buy your Harry ? Do you think all the world a?e set on
him as you are, you goosie ? Come, cheer up; and hook my drcs«. There
now, put my back hair up in that pretty braid you learnt the other day,
and don't go listening at doors any more."
"Well, but, missis, you never would give your consent—to—to—"
"Nonsense, child! to be sure, I shouldn't. What do y u talk to for?
I would as soon have one of my own children sold. But really, hliza, j ou
are getting altogether too proud of that little fellow. A man can't, put his
nose into the door, but you think he must be coming to buv him."
Reassured by her mistress's confident tone, Eliza proceeded nimbly
and adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her own fears as she proceeded.
Mrs. Shelby was a woman of a high class, both intellectually and
morally. To that natural magnanimity and generosity of mind which
one often marks as characteristic of the women ol Kentucky, she add 3d
high moral and religious sensibility and principle, carried out with great
energy and ability into practical results. Her husband, who made no
professions to any particular religious character, neverl iielc.-.-! t crcronerd
and respected the consistency of hers, and stood, periling, ■ h'lle m aue
of her opinion. Certain it was, that he gave her unlimited scoj>e in all
her benevolent efforts for the comfort, instruction, and imp i.ement of
her servants, though he never took any decided part in them iiimself. in
fact, if not exactly a believer in the doctrine of the ellieiency of the extra
good works of saints, he really seemed somehow or other to fancy that
his wife had piety and benevolence enough for two—to indulge a shadowy
expectation of getting into heaven through her superabundance of quali¬
ties to which he made no particular pretension.
The heaviest load on his mird. after his conversation with the trader.
Jay in the foreseen necessity of breaking to his wile the arrangement
contemplated—meeting the importunities and opposition which he knew
he should have reason to encounter.
Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband's embarrassmen ts,
and knowing only the general kindliness of his temper, had been qui! a
sincere in the entire incredulity with which she had met Eliza's suspi¬
cions. In fact, she disnu sed the matter from her mind without a f*coiu!
thought, and, being occupied in preparations for an evening visit, ir
passed out of her thoughts entirely.
8
EJJfCLE TOil'8 CABIN OB
CHAPTER II.
THE MOTHEB.
Eiiz.4. had beeu brought up by her mistress, from girlhood, as a pelted
and indulged favourite.
The traveller in the south must often have remarked that peculiar air
of refinement, that softness of voice and manner, which seems in many
cases to be a particular gift to the quadroon and mulatto women. These
natural graces in the quadroon are often united with beauty of the most
dazzling kind, and in almost every case with a personal appearance pre¬
possessing and agreeable. Eliza, such as we have described her, is not a
fancy sketch, but taken from remembrance, as we saw her years ago in
Kentucky. Safe under the protecting care of her mistreoS, Eliza had
reached maturity without those temptations which make beauty so fatal
an inheritance to a slave. She had been married to a bright and talented
young mulatto man, who was a slave on a neighbouring estate, and bore
the name of George Harris.
This young man had been hired out by his master to work in a bag¬
ging factory, where his adroitness and ingenuity caused him to be con¬
sidered the first hand in the place. He had invented a machine for the
cleaning of the hemp, which, considering the education and circum¬
stances of the inventor, displayed quite as much mechanical genius as
Whitney's cotton-gin*
He was possessed of a handsome person and pleasing manners, and
was a general favourite in the factory. Nevertheless, as this young man
was in the eye of the law not a man, but a thing, all these superior
qualifications were subject to the control of a vulgar, narrow-minded,
tyrannical master. This same gentleman, having heard of the fame of
George's invention, took a ride over to the factory, to see what this
intelligent chattel had been about. He was received with great enthu¬
siasm by the employer, who congratulated frim on possessing so valuable
a slave.
He was waited upon over the factory, shown the machinery by George,
who, in high spirits, talked so fluently, held himself so erect, looked so
handsome and manly, that his master began to feel an uneasy conscious¬
ness of inferiority. What business had his slave to be marching round
the country, inventing machines, and holding up his head among gentle¬
men ? He'd soon put a stop to it. He'd take him back, and put him to
hoeing and digging, and " see if he'd step about so smart." Accordingly,
the manufacturer and all hands concerned were astounded when he
suddenly demanded George's wages, and announced his intention of
taking him home.
" But, Mr. Harris," remonstrated the manufacturer, "isn't this rather
sudden ? "
" What if it is ?—isn't the man mine ? "
" We would be willing, sir, to increase the rate of compensation."
"No object at all, sir. I don't need to hire any of my hands out,
unless I've a mind to."
* A macliine of this description was really the invention of a young coloured
roan in Kentucky.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 9
" But, sir, lie seems peculiarly adapted to this business/'
"Dare say he may be; never was much adapted to anything that I
eet him about, I'll be bound."
" But only think of his inventing this machine," interposed one of the
workmen, rather unluckily.
" Oh yes!—a machine for saving work, is it ? He'd invent that, I'll
be bound; let a nigger alone for that, any time. They are all labour-
saving machines themselves, every one of 'em. No, he shall tramp!"
George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doom thus sud¬
denly pronounced by a power that he knew was irresistible. He folded
his arms, tightly pressed in his lips, but a whole volcano of bitter feelings
burned in his bosom, and sent streams of fire through his veins. He
breathed short, and his large dark eyes flashed like live coals ; and he
might have broken out into some dangerous ebullition, had not the
kindly manufacturer touched him on the arm, and said, in a low tone,
" Give way, George; go with him for the present. We'll try to help
you, yet."
The tyrant observed the whisper, and conjectured its import, though
he could not hear what was said; and he inwardly strengthened himself
in his determination to keep the power he possessed over his victim.
George was taken home and put to the meanest drudgery of the farm.
He had been able to repress every disrespectful word; but the flashing
eye, the gloomy and troubled brow, were part of a natural language that
could not be repressed—indubitable signs, which showed too plainly
that the man could not become a thing.
It was during the happy period of his employment in the factory that
George had seen and married his wife. During that period—being
much trusted and favoured by his employer—he had free liberty to
come and go at discretion. The marriage was highly approved of by
Mrs. Shelby, who; with a little womanly complacency in match-making,
fcit pleased to unite her handsome favourite with one of her own class,
who seemed in every way suited to her; and so they were married in
her mistress's great parlour, and her mistress herself adorned the bride's
beautiful hair with orange-blossoms, and threw over it the bridal veil,
which certainly could scarce have rested on a fairer head; and there
was no lack of white gloves, and cake and wine—of admiring guests to
praise the bride's beauty, and her mistress's indulgence and liberality.
For a year or two Eliza saw her husband frequently, and there was
nothing to interrupt their happiness, except the loss of two infant
children, to whom she was passionately attached, and whom she
mourned with a grief so intense as to call for gentle remonstrance from
her mistress, who sought, with maternal anxiety, to direct her naturally
passionate feelings within the bounds of reason and religion.
After the birth of little Harry, however, she had gradually become
tranquillized and settled; and every bleeding tie and throbbing nerve,
once more entwined with that little life, seemed to become sound ana
healthful, and Eliza was a happy woman up to the time that her hus¬
band was rudely torn from his kind employer, and brought under the
iron sway of his legal owner.
The manufacturer, true to his word, visited Mr. Harris a week or two
after George had been taken away, when, as he hoped, the heat of the
occasion had passed away, and tried every possible inducement to lead
him to restore him to his former employment.
" You needn't trouble yourself to talk any longer," said he, doggedly;
* I know my own business, sir."
"I did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I only thought that
i© UNCI 3 TOM'S CABIN, OB
you might think, it for your interest to let your man to us on the terms
proposed." . . ,
" Oh, i understand the matter well enough. I saw your winlung ana
whispering, the day I took him out of the factory; but you don't come
it over me that way. It's a free country, sir; the man's mine, and 1 co
what I plea«e with him—that's it!" _ .
And so fell George's last hope;—nothing before him but a jue 01 ton
and drudgery, rendered more bitter by every little smarting vexation
and indignity which tyrannical ingenuity could devise.
A very humane jurist once said: " The worst u?e you can put a mon
to is to hang him." No; there is another use that a man can be put to
that is wokse !
CHAPTEB III.
the husband and fathee.
friks. Shelby had gone on her visit, and Eliza stood in the verandah,
rather dejectedly looking after the retreating carriage, when a hand
was laid on her shoulder. She turned, and a bright smile lighted up
her fme eyes.
" George, is it you ? Eow you frightened me! YvV-1; I am so glad
you's come ! Missis is gone to spend the J'ternoon; so come into my
little room, and we'll have the time nil to ourselves."
Saying this, she drew him into a neat little apartment opening on the
verandah, where she generally sat at her sewing,within c\> 11 of her mistress.
" IIow dad I am !—why don't you smile?—and look at Harry—how
he grows.' The boy stood shyly regarding his father through his cutis,
holding close to the skirts of his mother's dress. "Isn't he beautiful?"
said Eliza, lifting his long curls and kissing him.
" I wish he'd never been born!" said George, bitterly. "I wish I'd
never been born myself! "
Surprised and frightened^ Eliza sat down, leaned her head on her hus¬
band's shoulder, and burst into tears.
" There now, Eliza, it's too bad for me to make you feel so, poor girl!"
said he, fondly; "it's too bad. Oh, how I wish you never had seen me
—you might have been happy!"
" George ! George! 'how can you talk so ? TThat dreadful thing has
happened, or is going to happen ? I'm sure we've been very happy, till
lately."
" So we have, dear," said George. Then drawing his child on his knee,
he gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and passed his hands through
his long curls.
" Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest woman I ever saw,
and the best one I ever wish to see j but, oh, I wish I'd never s^en you,
nor you me !"
" Oh, George, how can you ? "
" Yes, Eliza, it's all misery, misery, misery! Mv life is bitter v
wormwood • the very life is burning out of me. I'm a poor, miserable",
forlorn drudge; I shall only drag you down with me, tint's all. What's
the use of our trying to do anything, trying to know anything, tryinc
to be anything? What's the use of living? I wish I was dead '"
On, now, dear George, that is really wicked! I know how you fee]
Bbout losing your place m the factory, and you have a hard master ■ but
pray be patient, and perhaps comcthing—" '
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 11
" Patient!" said he, interrupting her; " haven't I been parent ? Did
I say a word when he came and took me away, for no earthly reason,
from the place where everybody was kind to me ? I'd paid him truly
every cent of my earnings; and they all say I worked well."
" Well, it is dreadful," said Eliza; " but, after all, he is your master
you know."
" My master ! and who made him my master ? That's what I think
of—what right has he to me ? I'm a man as much as he is; I'm a better
man than he is; I know more about business than he does; I'm a better
manager than he is; I can read better than he can ; I can write a belter
hand; and I've learned it all myself, and no thanks to him—I've learned
it in spite of him; and now what right has he to make a dray-horse of
me ?—to take me from things I can do, and do better than he can, and
ut me to work that any horse can do ? He tries to do it; he says he'll
ring me down and humble me, and he puts me to just the hardest,
meanest, and dirtiest work, on purpose."
" Oh, George—George—you frighten me! "Why, I never heard you
talk so; I'm afraid you'll do something dreadful. I don't wonder at
your feelings at all; but oh, do be careful—do, do—for my sake—for
Harry's!"
" I have been careful, and I have been patient; but it's growing worse
and worse—flesh and blood can't bear it any longer. Every chance ho
can get to insult and torment me, he takes. I thought I could do my
work well, and keep on quiet, and have some time to read and learn out
of work-hours; but the more he sees I can do, the more he loads on.
He says that, though I don't say anything, he sees I've got the devil in
me, and he means to bring it out; and one of these days it will come
out in a way that he won't like, or I'm mistaken."
" Oh, dear, what shall we do ?" said Eliza, mournfully.
"ft was only yesterday," said George, " as I was busy loading stones
into a cart, that young Mas'r Tom stood there, slashing his whip so near
the horse, that the creature was frightened. I asked him to stop, as
pleasant as I could: he just kept right on. I begged him again, and
then he turned on me, and began striking me. I held his hand, and
then he screamed, and kicked, and ran to his father, and told him that I
was fighting him. He came in a rage, and said he'd teach me who was
my master; and he tied me to a tree, and cut switches for young master,
and told him that he might whip me till he was tired; and he did do it.
If I don't make him remember it some time !"
And the brow of the young man grew dark, and his eyes burned with
an expression that made his young wife tremble. " Who made this man
my master ?—that's what I want to know," he said.
"Well," said Eliza, mournfully, " I always thought that I must obey
my master and mistress, or I couldn't be a Christian."
" There is some sense in it, in your case: they have brought you up
like a child—fed you, clothed you, indulged you, and taught you. so that
you have a good education,—that is some reason why they should claim
you. But I have been kicked, and cuffed, and sworn at, and at the best
only let alone; and what do I owe ? I've paid for all my keeping a
hundred times over. I won't bear it—no, I won't!" he said, clenching
his hand, with a fierce frown.
Eliza trembled and was silent. She had never seen her husband in
this mood before; and her gentle system of ethics seemed to bend like a
reed in the surges of such passions.
"You know poor little Carlo that you gave, me?" added George;
0 the creature has been about all the comfort that I've had. He haa
IS UNCLE TCIii'S CABIN, OS
slept with me nights, and followed me around days, and kind o' looked
at me as if he understood how I felt. Well, the other day I was just
feeding him with a few old scraps I picked up by the kitchen-door, and
Mas'r camo along, and said I was feeding him up at his expense, and that
he couldn't afford to have every nigger keeping his doc:, and ordered mo
to tie a stone to his neck, and throw him in the pond."
" Oh, George, you didn't do it!"
" Do it—not I; hut he did. Mas'r and Tom pelted the poor drowning
creature with stones. Poor thing! he looked at me so mournful, as if
he wondered why I didn't save him. I had to take a floating because I
wouldn't do it myself. I don't care; Mas'r will find out that I'm one
that whipping won't tame. My day will come yet, if he don't look
out."
" What are you ;■ oing to do ? Oh, George, don't do anything wicked;
i? you only trust, hi God, and try to do right, he'll deliver you."
"I an't a Christian like you, Eliza; my heart's full of bitterness; I
can't trust in God. Why does he let things be so ? "
" Oh, George, we must have faith ! Mistress says that when all things
go wrong to us, we must believe that God is doing the very best."
" That's easy to say, for people that are sitting on their sofas, and
riding in their carriages; but let 'em be where I am, I guess it would
come some harder. I wish I could be good; but my heart burns, and
can't be reconciled any how. You couldn't in my place; j ou can't now,
if I tell you all I've got to say. Tou don't know the whole yet."
" What can be coming now ?"
"Well, lately Mas'r has been saying, that he was a fool to let me
marry off the place; that ho hates Mr. Shelby and ail his tribe, because
they are proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I've got
proud notions from you: and he says he won't let me come here any
more, and that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first
he only scolded and grumbled these t nines; but yesterday he told me
that I should take Mina for a wile, and settle down in a cabin with her,
or he would sell me down river."
" Why, but you were married to me, by the minister, as much as if
you'd been a white man " said Eliza, simply.
" Don't you know a slave can't be married ? lhere is no law in this
country for that: I can't hold you for my wife, if he chooses to part us.
That's why I wish I'd never seen you—why I wish I'd never been
born; it would have been better for us b jth—it would have been better
for this poor child if he had never been born. All this maj happen to
him yet!"
" Oh, but master is so kind!"
"Yes, but who knows? he may die; and then he may be sold to
nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart,
and bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce throujh your
soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has—it will make
him worth too much for you to keep."
The words smote heavily on Eliza's heart; the vision of the trader
came before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck her a deadly blow,
she turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the
verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired,
and where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby's
walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears,
but checked herself.
" No, no, he has enough to bear, poor fellow!" she thought. "No
I won't tell him; besides, it an't true; missis never deceives us."
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. II
" So, Eliza, my girl," said the husband, mournfully, " bear up, now,
End good bye; for I'm going."
" Going, George—going where ? "
i " To Canada," said he, straightening himself up; "and when I'm
there. I'll buy you—that's all the hope that's left us. You have a kind
master, that won't refuse to sell you. I'll buy you and the boy—God
helping me, I will!"
" Oh, drca'lfu!—if you should be taken!"
" I won't be taken, Eliza—I'll die first! I'll be free, or I'll die!"
" You won't kill yourself! "
"No need of that; they will kill me fast enough; they never will get
mo down the river alive."
" Oh, G'.^oivc, for my soke, do be careful! Don't do anything wicked;
don't binds on yourself, or anybody else. You are tempted too much
—too much; but don't—go you must—but go carefully, prudently; pray
God to help you."
" Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas'r took it into his head to
send me riyht by here, with a note to Mr. Symmes, that lives a mile
past. I believe he expected I should come hereto tell you what I have.
It would please him, if he thought it would aggravate ' Shelby's folks,5
as he calls 'em. I'm going home quite resigned, you understand, as if
all was over. I've gut some preparations made, and there are those that
will help me; and, in the course of a week or so, I shall be among the
missing, some day. Pray for me, Eliza; perhaps the good Lord will
hear t/ou."
" Oh, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in him ; then you won't
do am thing wicked."
" Well, now, good lye" said George, holding Eliza's hands, and gazing
into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent; then there were last
words, and sobs, and bitter weeping—such parting as those may make
whose hope to meet again is as the spider's web; and the husband and
wife were parted.
CHAPTEE IV.
AN EVENING IN UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.
The cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, close adjoining to
" the house," as the negro par excellence designates his master's dwell¬
ing. In front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, straw¬
berries, raspberries, and a variety of fruits and vegetables, flourished
under careful tending. The whole front of it was covered by a large
scarlet bignonia and a native multiflora-rose, which, entwisting and
interlacing, left scarce a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here,
also, in summer, various brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias,
four-o'clocks, found an indulgent corner in which to unfold their splen¬
dours, and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe's heart.
Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house is over,
and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as head cook, has
left to inferior officers in the kitchen the business of clearing away and
washing dishes, and come out into her own snug territories, to " get
her old man's supper;" therefore, doubt not that it is her you see by the
fire, presiding with anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a
etewpan, and anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-
kettle, from whence steam forth indubitable intimations of " something
14 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
good." A round, black, shining face is liers, so glossy as to suggest tli«
idea that she might have been washed over with white of egirs, like one
<;f iicr own tea-rusks. Her whole plump countenance beams with satis¬
faction and contentment from under her well-starched checked turban,
bcpring on it, however, if we mubt confess it, a little of that tinge of
self-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the neighbourhood,
as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.
A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul.
Not a chicken, or turkey, or duck in the barnyard, but looked grave
when they saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on
their latter end; and certain it was that she was always meditating cn
trussing, stuffing, and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire
terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties of
noe-eake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous to mention,
was a sublime mystery to all less practised compounders; and she would
shako her fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would nar¬
rate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her compeers had made
to attain to her elevation.
The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinners and
suppers " in style," awoke all the energies of her soul; and no sight was
more welcome to her than a pile of travelling trunks launched on the
verandah; for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs.
Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the bake-pan;
in which congenial operation we shall leave her till we finish our pio»
ture of the cottage.
In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread;
and by the side of it was a piece of carpeting, of some considerable size.
On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly
in the upper walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the
whole corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished consideration, and
made, so far as possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecra¬
tions of little folks. In fact, that corner was the drawing-room of the
establishment. In the other corner was a bed of much humbler p. eten-
sions, and evidently designed for use. The wall over the firepl; <•? was
adorned with some very brilliant scriptural prints, and a portn.it of
General Washington, G:awn and coloured in a manner which would cer¬
tainly have astonished tLat hero, if ever he had happened to meet with
its like.
On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headed boys, with
glistening black eyes, and fat shining cheeks, were busy in superintend¬
ing the lirst walking operations of the baby, which, as is usually the case,
consisted in getting up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then tum¬
bling down—each successive failure being violently cheered, as some¬
thing decidedly clever.
A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs was drawn out in front of
the fixe, and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and saucers of a
decidedly brilliant pattern, with other symptoms of an approaching
meal. At this table was seated Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelby's best hand, who,
as he is to be the hero of our story, we must daguerreotype for our
readers. He was a large, broad-chested, powerfully-made man, of a full
glossy bhuk, and a face whose truly African features were characterized
by an expression of grave and steady good sense, united with much
kindliness and benevolence. There was something about his whole air
self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a confiding and humble
simplicity.
He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him,
IIFJS ASfONO £1X3 LOWLY. 15
on which he was carefully and slowly endeavouring to accomplish a copy
c.f some letters, in which operntion he was overlooked by young Mas'r
George, a smart, bright boy of thirteen, who appeared fully to realize
the dignity of his position as instructor.
" Not that way, Uncle Tom—not that way," said he, briskly, as
Uncle Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his g the wrong side out;
" that makes a q, you see."
"La sakes, now, does it ?" said Uncle Tom, looking with a respectful,
admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly scrawled o^s and g's
innumerable for his edification; and then, taking the pencil in his big,
heavy fingers, he patiently recommenced.
" How easy white folks al'us does things!" said Aunt Chloe, pausing
while she was greasing a griddle with a scrap of bacon on her fork, and
regarding young Master George with pride. "The way tie can write
now! and read too ! and then to come out here evenings and read his
lessons to us,—it's mighty interestin'!"
"But, Aunt Chloe, I'm getting mighty hungry," said George. "Isn't
that cake in the skillet almost done ?"
"Mose done, Mas'r George," said Aunt Cloe, lifting the lid, and
peeping in; "browning beautiful—a real lovely brown. Ah, let me
alone for dat! Misses let Sally try to make some cake t'other day, jes to
lam her, she said. ' Oh, go way, misses!' says I; ' it really hurts my
feelings, now, to see good vittles spiled dat ar way!' Cake ris all to one
side—no shape at all, no more than my shoe—go way !'"
And with this final expression of contempt for Sally's greenness, Aunt
Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-keitle, and disclosed to view a
neatly-baked poundcake, of which no city confectioner need to have
been ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertain¬
ment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper
department.
" Here you, Mose and Pete, get out de way, you niggers! Get away,
Polly, honey; mammy'll give her baby someiin by and by. Now, Mas'r
Geovi}?, you jest take off dem books, and set down, now, with my old
man,I*lid I'll take up de sausages, and have de first griddle full of cakes
on your plates in less dan no time."
"'They wanted me to come to supper in the house," said George,
" but 1 knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe."
" So you did—so you did, honey," said Aunt Chloe, heaping the
smoking batter-cakes on his plate; "you know'd your old aunty'd keep
the best for you. Oh, let you alone for dat—go way !"
And with that Aunty gave George a nudge with her finger, designed
to be immensely facetious, and turned again to her griddle with great
briskness.
" Now for the cake," snid Mas'r George, when the activity of the
griddle department had somewhat subsided; and, with that, the youngster
flourished a large knife over the article in question.
" La bless you, Mas'r George!" said Aunt Chloe, with earnestness,
catching his arm ; " you wouldn't be for cuttin' it wid dat ar great heavy
knife ! Smash all down—spile all de pretty rise of it! Here, I've got
a thin old knife I keeps sharp a purpose. Bar now, see—comes apart
light as a feather! Now eat away—you won't get anything to beat
dat ar!"
" Tom Lincoln. says " said George, speaking with his mouth full,
"that their Jinuy is a better cook than you."
"l)emLincons an't much count, no way!" said Aunt Chloe, con.
tew/i* wusly; " I mean, set along side owr folks. They's 'spectable folks
TIN CLE TOM'S CABIK, OB
-be make's pies'—sartin she does; but what kinder crust ? Can she
Vvo vour real ilecky paste, as melts in your mouth and lies all up like
s^ruVi' Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be mar¬
ried and Jenny she jest showed me de weddin' pies. Jinny and I i3
pood friends, ye know. I never sai'l nothin5; but go long, Mas'r
Georce! Avhy, I shouldn't sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of
pies like dem ar. Why, dey wan't no 'count't all."
" I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice?" said George.
" Thought so !—didn't she ? Thar she was, showing'era, as innocent!
Ye see, it's jest here, Jinny don't know. Lor, the family an't nothing!
She can't be 'spected to know! 'Tan't no fault o' hern. Ah, Mas'r
George,you doesn't know hnlf your privileges in yer family and bringin'
up !" Here Aunt Clil^e sighed, and rolled up ber eyes with emotion.
" I'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and pudding privi¬
leges," said George. " Ask Tom Lincoln if I don't crow over liim, every
time I meet him."
Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a hearty guffaw of
laughter, at this witticism of young mas'rs, laughing till the tears
rolled down her black, shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with
playfully slapping and poking Mas'r Georgey, and telling him to go way,
and that he was a case—that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin
would kill her, one of these days; and, between each of these sanguinary
predictions, going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than the
other, till George really began to think that he was a very dangerously
witty fellow, and that it became him to be careful how he talked " as
funny as he could."
" And so ye telled Tom, did ye ? O Lord! what young uns will be up
ter! Ye crowed over Tom ? O Lor! Mas'r George, if ye wouldn't make
a hornbug laugh!"
" Yes," said George, "I says to him, 'Tom, you ought to see some of
Aunt Chloe's pies; they're the right sort,' says I."
" Pity, now, Tom couldn't/' said Aunt Chloe, on whose benevolenl
heart the idea of Tom's benighted condition seemed to make a strong
impression. "Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner, some o' tlu-^
times, Mas'r George," she added; " it would look quite pretty of ye. Ye
know, Mas'r George, ye OllL'Iifpri tor fppl 'hnvp rmhnrlv An V'niint vernri-
.. —*VAU <*» wenerai ixnox Y I and missis, we come pretty
MM AMONG TH3 lOWtf. 1?
fc&ar quarrelling about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies some-
t;/ries, I don't know; but sometimes, when a body has delieaviest kind
o: 'sponsibility on 'em, as ye may say, and is all kinder 'seris' and taken
up, dey takes dat ar time to be hangin' round and kinder interferin'!
Now, misses, she wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me to do dat
way ; and finally, I got kinder sarcy, and, says I, ' Now, misses, dojist
look ar. deni beautiful white hands o3 yourn, with long fingers, and all a
sparkling with rings, like my white lilies when de dew's on 'em; and
look at my great black stumpin' hands. Now, don't ye think dat de
Lord must have meant me to make de pie-crust, and you to stay in de
parlour ?' Dar ! I was jist so sarcy, Mas'r George."
" And what did mother say ?" said George.
" Say ?—why she kinder larfed in her eyes—dem great handsome eyes
o' hern; and, says she,' Well, Aunt Chloe, I think you are about in the
right on't,' says she; and she went off in de parlour. She oughter
cracked me over de head for bein' so sarcy; but dar's whar 'tis—I can't
do nothin' with ladies in de kitchen!"
" Well, you made out well with that dinner—I remember everybody
said so," said George.
" Didn't I ? And wan't I behind de dinin'-room door dat bery day ?
and didn't I see de General pass his plate three times for some more dat
bery pie P and, says he, 'You must have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby.'
Lor! I was fit to split myself."
" And de Gineral, he knows what cookin' is," said Aunt Chloe, draw¬
ing herself up with an air. " Bery nice man, de Gineral! He comes
of one of the bery fastest families in Old Yirginny! He knows what's
what, now, as well as I do—de Gineral! Ye see, there's pints in all
pies, Mas'r George ; but tan't everybody knows what they is, or orter
be. But the Gineral, he knows; I knew by his 'marks he made. Yes,
he knows what de pints is!"
By this time Master George had arrived at that pass to which even a
boy can come (under uncommon circumstances), when he really could
not eat another morsel, and, therefore, he was at leisure to notice the
pile of woolly heads and glistening eyes which were regarding their
operations hungrily from the opposite corner.
" Here, you Mose, Pete," he said, breaking off liberal bits, and throw¬
ing it at them; " you want some, don't you ? Come, Aunt Chloe, bake
them some cakes."
And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney-
corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took her
baby on her lap, and began alternately filling its mouth and her own,
and distributing to Mose and Pete, who seemed rather to prefer eating
theirs as they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling each
other, and occasionally pulling the baby's toes.
" Oh, go long, will ye?" said the mother, giving now and then a kick,
in a kind of general way, under the table, when the movement became
too obstreperous. "Can't ye be decent when white folks comes to see
ye ? Stop dat ar, now, will ye ? Eetter mind yerselves, or I'll take ye
down a buttonhole lower, when Mas'r George is gone!"
What meaning was couched under this terrible threat it is difficult to
say, but certain it is that its awful indistinctness seemed to produce
very little impression on the young sinners addressed.
" La, now !" said Uncle Tom," they are so full of tickle all the while
they can't behave theirseives."
Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with hands and
faces well plastered with molasses, began a vigorous kissing of the baby.
c
18 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
"Get along wid ye!" said the mother, pushing away
heads. " Ye'il all stick together, and never get clar, if yo do dat tashion.
Go long to de spring and wash yerselves. she said, se which
exhortations by a slap, which resounded ve^fOTmida y> aa
geemed only to knock out so much more ^ug [];0^ doors w^'ere they
they tumbled precipitately over each other out of doors, wiiere ey
fairly screamed with merriment. . , Chine
"Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns? said Aant t^nioe,
rather complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept for such emer¬
gencies, she poured a little water out of the cracked teapot on it, and
Degan rubbing off the molasses from the baby's face and hands, and
having polished her till she shone, she sat her down in -Com s lap, while
she busied herself in clearing away supper. The baby employed the
intervals in pulling rioni's no^c, scrtitcliing Ins nice, and burning nor tat
hands in his woolly hair, which last operation seemed to afford her
special content. , „ . . , , ,
"Ain't she a peart young un?" said Tom, holding her from him to take
a full-length view ; then, getting up, he set her on his broad shoulder,
and began capering and dancing with her, while Mis'r George snapped
at her with his pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and Pete, now returned
again, roared after her like bears, till Aunt Chloe declared that they
" fairly took her head off" with their noise. As, according to her own
statement, this surgical operation was a matter of daily occurrence in
the cabin, the declaration no whit abated the merriment, till every one
had roared and tumbled and danced themselves down to a state of
composure.
" Well, now, I hopes you are done," said Aunt Chloe, who had been
busy in pulling out a rude box of a trundle-bed, " and now, you Mose
and. you Pete, get into tliar; for we's ciing to have the meetin'."
" Oh mother, we don't wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin'—
meetins is so curis. We likes 'em."
" La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let 'em sit up," said Mas'r
George, decisively, giving a push to the rude machine.
Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed highly delialited
to push the thing under, saying, as she did so, " Well, mebbe 'twill do
'em some good."
The bouse now resolved itself into a committee of the whole, to con¬
sider the accommodations and arrangements for the meeting.
" What we's to do fOT cheers, now,"/ declar I don't know,'' said Aunt
Chloo. As the mooting had been held at Uncle Tom's weekly for an
indefinite length of time, without any more " cheers," there seemed some
^ounrjrment to hope that a way would be discovered at present.
Old Lnde Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, lasfe
week/' suggested Mose.
said\(uiit'Chlrl* boun' you pulled'em out; some o' your shines,"
<•' De? Vlndf £ kfePsJam «P agin de wall!" said Mose.
gets a sinking. Ho hitched m-H-tv"1 '°aUSe al'ays llitches when lie
laid Pete. Ucd pietty nigh across de room, t'other night,"
'Come, saints 'and^inMrs^ear^mTrif'^ ?anc* den he'd begin,
Mose imitated precisely tl'ie down he'd go"—ancf
floor to illustrate the supposed catStrophe! °id ^ tumbHnS 011 the
ehamedf^ U°W' decmb> can't yet" said Aunt Chlo©., "jm't yet
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 1.0
Mas'r Geofgs, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and de¬
clared decidedly that Moss was a "buster." So tlie maternal admonition
seemed rather to fail of effect.
" Well, ole man," said Aunt Chloe, " you'll have to tote m thom ar
bar'ls."
" Mother's bar'ls is like dat ar widder's Mas'r George was reading 'bout
in de good book—dey never fails," said Mose, aside to Pete.
" I'm sure one on 'em caved in last week," said Pete, " and let 'em all
down in de middle of de singin'; dat ar was failin', warn't it ?"
During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty casks had been
rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling by stones on each
side, boards were laid across them, which arrangement, together with
the turning down of certain tubs and pails, ana the disposing of the
rickety chairs at last completed the preparation.
" Mas'r George is such a beautiful reader now, I know he'll stay to
read for us," said Aunt Chloe; "'pears like 'twill be so much more
interestin'."
George very readily consented; for your boy is always ready for any¬
thing that makes him of importance.
The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from the old gray-
headed patriarch of eighty to the young girl and lad of fifteen. A little
harmless gossip ensued on various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally
got her new red headkerchief, and how " missis was a going to give Lizzy
that spotted muslin gown, when she'd got her new berage made upand
how Mas'r Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt, that was
going to prove an addition to the glories of the place. A few of the
worshippers belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to
attend, and who brought in various choice scraps of information, about
the sayings and doings at the house and on the place, which circulated
as freely as the same sort of small change docs in higher circles.
After awhile the singing commenced, to the evident delight of all
present. Not even all the disadvantage of nasal intonation could prevent
the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited.
The words were sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung in
the churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character,
picked up at camp-meetings.
The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was sung with great
energy and unction
" Die on the field of battle,
• Die on the field of battle,
Glory in my soul."
Another special favourite had oft reported the words—
" Oh, I'm going to felory—won't you come along with me ?
Don't you see the angel's beck'ning, anil a calling me away?
Don't you see the golden city and the everlasting day ?"
There were others which made incessant mention of " Jordan's banks,"
and "Canaan's fields," and the "New Jerusalem;" for the negro mind,
impassioned and imaginative, always attaches itself tc hymns and expres¬
sions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and, as they sung, some laughed,
and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook hands rejoicingly with
each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side of the river. _
Various exhortations or relations of experience followed, and inter-
unruffled with the singing. One old gray-hcaded woman, long past won
C 3
ed UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
hut much revered as a sort of chronicle of the past, rose, and leaning on
her staff, said,—
" Well, chil'en! Well. I'm mighty glad to hear ye all and see ye all
once more, 'cause I don t know when I'll be gone to glory; but I've
done got ready, chil'en; 'pears like I'd got my little bundle all tied up,
and my bonnet on, jest a waitin' for the stage to come along and take me
home; sometimes, in the night, I think I hear the wheels a rattlin', and
I'm looking out all the time; now, you jest be ready too, for I tell ye all,
chil'en," slie said, striking lier staff hard on the floor, "dat ar glory is a
mighty thing! It's a mighty thing, chil'en—you don'no nothing about
it—it's wonderful." And the old creature sat down, with streaming
tears, as wholly overcome, while the whole circle struck up—
1 " Oh, Canaan, bright Canaan,
I'm bound for the land of Canaan."
Mas'r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation, often
interrupted by such exclamations as "The sakes now!" "Only hear
that !" "Jest think on't!" " Is all that a comin' sure enough ?"
George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious things by
his mother, finding himself an object of general admiration, threw in
expositions of his own, from time to time, with a commendable serious¬
ness and gravity, for which he was admired by the young, and blessed by
the old ; and it was agreed, on all hands, that a minister couldn't lay
it off better than he did that" 'twas reely 'mazin'!"
Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters in the neigh¬
bourhood. Having naturally an organization in which the morale was
strongly predominant, together with a greater breadth and cultivation
of mind than obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with
great respect, as a sort of minister among them; and the simple, hearty,
sincere style of his exhortations might have edified even better educated
persons. But it was m prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing
could exceed the touching simplicity, the childlike earnestness of his
prayer, enriched with the language of Scripture, which seemed so
entirely to have wrought itself into his being as to have become a part
of himself, and to drop from his lips unconsciously; in the language of
a pious o!u negro, he prayed right up." And so much did his prayer
always work on the devotional feelings of his audiences, that there seemed
often a danger that it would be lost altogether in the abundance
&f the responses which broke out everywhere around him.
While this scone was passing in the cabin of the man, one quite other¬
wise passed in the halls of the master.
The trader and Mr. Shelby were seated together in the dining-room
aforenamed, at a table covered with papers and writing utensils.
Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bills, which, as they
were counted, he pushed over to the trader, who counted them likewise.
" All fair," said the trader; " and now for signing these yer."
Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale towards him, and signed them
like a man that hurries over some disagreeable busin ess, and then pushed
them over with the money. Haley produced, from a well-worn valise, a
parchment, which, after looking over it a moment, he handed to Mr.
Shelby, who took it with a gesture of suppressed eagerness.
" Wal, now the thing's done!" said the trader, getting up.
"It's donesaid Mr. Shelby, in a musing tone; and, fetching a long
breath, he repeated, "If s done!"
life among the lowly. 21
" Yer don't seem to feel much pleased with it, 'pears to me," aaid the
trader.
" Haley," said Mr. Shelby," I hope you'll remember that you pro¬
mised, 011 your honour, you wouldn't sell Tom, without knowing what
sort of hands he's going into."
" "Why, you've just done it sir," said the trader.
"Circumstances, you well know, obliged me," said Shelby, haughtily.
"Wal, you know they may oblige me, too," said the trader. " How-
sorne^er, I'll do the very best I can in gettin' Tom a good berth; as to
my treating on him bad, you needn't be a grain afeard. If there's any¬
thing that I thank the Lord for, it is that I'm never noways cruel."
After the expositions which the trader had previously given of his
humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel particularly reassured by
these declarations; but as they were the best comfort the case admitted
of, he allowed the trader to depart in silence, and betook himself to a
golitary cigar.
CHAPTER V.
showing the feelings op living pbopebty on changing
ownebs.
Mb. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment for the night.
He was lounging in a large easy chair, looking over some letters that
had come in the afternoon mail, and she was standing before her mirror,
brushing out the complicated braids and curls in which Eliza had ar¬
ranged her hair; for, noticing her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had
excused her attendance that night, and ordered her to bed. The em¬
ployment, naturally enough, suggested her conversation with the girl in
the morning; and, turning to her husband, she said, carelessly,
" By-the-by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you lugged ia
to our dinner-table to-day ?"
" Haley is his name/' said Shelby, turning himself rather uneasily in
his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a letter.
" Haley ! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray ?"
""Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with last time I
was at Natchez," said Mr. Shelby.
" And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and
dine here, eh ?"
" Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him," said Shelby.
" Is he a negro-trader ?" said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a certain embar¬
rassment in her husband's manner.
" Why, my dear, what put that into your head?" said Shelby, looking
up.
"Nothing—only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a grent worry,
cryiug and taking on, and said you were talking with a trailer, and
that she heard him make an offer for her boy—the ridiculous liuie
goose!"
"She did, eh?"said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper, which ho
seemed for a few moments quite intent upon, not perceiving that he
was holding it bottom upwards.
" It will have to come out," said he, mentally; " as well now as ever."
"I told Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing licr hair.
" that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had an;'thing
S3 UNCI® TOM'S CABIN, 03
to do witih that sort of persons. Of course, I knew you E6T2r meant to
sell any of our people—least of all, to such a fellow."
"Well, Emily," said her husband, "sol have always felt and said;
but the fact is, my business lies so that I cannot get on without. 1 shall
have to sell some of my hands."
" To that creature ? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be se¬
rious."
"I am sorry to say that I am," said Mr. Shelby. "I've agreed to
sell Tom."
" What! our Tom ?—that good faithful creaturebeen your faithful
servant from a boy! Oh, Mr. Shelby!—and you have promised him bis
freedom, too—you and I have spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well,
I can believe anything now; I can believe now that you could sell little
Harry, poor Eliza's only child!" said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between
grief and indignation.
" Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to sell Tom
and Harry both; and I don't know why I am to be rated as if I were a
monster for doing what every one does every day."
" But why, of all others, choose these ?" said Mrs. Shelby. " Why
sell them of ail on the place, if you must sell at all ?"
"Because they will bring the highest sum of any—that's why. I
could choose another, if you say so. The fellow made me a high bid on
Eliza, if that would suit you any better," said Mr. Shelby.
" The wretch!" said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.
"Well, I didn't listen to it a moment—out of regard to your feelings,
I wouldn't; so give me some credit."
" My dear," said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, " forgive me. I
have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared for this; but
surely you will allow me to intercede for these poor creatures. Tom is a
noble-hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr. Shelby,
that if he were put to it, he would lay down his life for you."
" I know it—I dare say; but what's the use of all this ? I can't help
myself."
" Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice ? I'm willing to bear my part
of the inconvenience. O Mr. Shelby, I have tried—tried most faith¬
fully, as a Christian woman should—to do my duty to these poor, sim¬
ple, dependent creatures. I have cared for them, instructed tbem,
watched over them, and known all their little cares and joys, for years;
and how can I ever hold up my head again among them, if, for the sake of
n little paltry gain, we sell such a faithful, excellent, confiding creature
us poor Tom, and tear from him in a moment all we have taught him to
love and value ? 1 have taught them the duties of the family, of parent
raid child, and husband and wife; and how can I bear to have this open
acknowledgment that we care for no tie, no duty, no relation, however
sacred, compared with money ? I have talked with Eliza about her
boy—her duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch over him, pray
lor him, and bring him up in a Christian way ; and now what can I say,
if you tear him away, and sell him, soul and body, to a profane, unprin¬
cipled man, just to save a little money ? I have told her that one soul
is worth more than all the money in the world; and how will she believe
me when she sees us turn round and sell her child ?—sell him, perhaps,
to cei tain ruin of body and soul!"
"I'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily—indeed I am," said Mr.
Shelby; "and I respect your feelings, too, though I don't pretend to
t-hare ^hem to their lull extent; but I tell you now, solemnly, it's of no
use—] ?*in't help myself. I didn't mean to tell you this, Emily; but,
LIFE AMONG THE IOWLY, 28
in plain words, there is no choice between selling these two and selling
everything. Either they must go, or all must. Haley has come into
possession of a mortgage, which, if I don't clear off with him directly,
will take everything before it. I have raked, and scraped, and borrowed,
and all but begged—and the price of these two was needed to make up
the balance, and I had to give them up. Haley fancied the child; he
Agreed to settle the matter that way, and no other. I was in his power,
and had to do it. If you feel so to have them sold, would it be any better
to have all sold ?"
Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning to her toilet, she
rested her face in her hands, and gave a sort of groan.
" This is God's curse on slavery!—a bitter, bitter, most accursed
thing!—a curse to the master, and a curse to the slave ! I was a fool to
think I could make anything good out of such a deadly evil. It is a sin
to hold a slave under ^ts like ours; I always felt it was—I always
thought so when I was a girl—I thought so still more after I joined the
church; but I thought I could gild it over—I thought, by kindness, and
care, and instruction, I could make the condition of mine better than
freedom—fool that I was I"
" Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite.
" Abolitionist! if they knew all I know about slavery, they might talk?
"We don't need them to tell us; you know I never thought that slavery
was right—never felt willing to own slaves."
" Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men," said Mr.
Shelby. " You remember Mr. B.'s sermon the other Sunday ?"
"I don't want to hear such sermons: I never wish to hear Mr. B. in
our church again. Ministers can't help the evil, perhaps—can't cure
iu, any more than we can—but defend it!—it always went against
my common sense. And I think you didn't think much of that ser¬
mon either."
"Well," said Shelby, "I must say these ministers sometimes carry
matters further than we poor sinners would exactly dare to do. We
men of the world must wink pretty hard at various things, and get used
to a deal that isn't the exact thing. But we don't quite fancy, when
women and ministers come out broad and square, and go beyond us in
matters of either modesty or morals—that's a fact. But now, my dear,
I trust you see the necessity of the thing, and you see that I have done
the very best that circumstances would allow."
" Oh, yes, yes !" said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly, and abstractedly fingering
her gold watch. " I haven't any jewellery of any amount," she added,
thoughtfully, "but would not this watch do something?—it was an
expensive one when it was bought. If I could only, at least, save Eliza's
ehild, I would sacrifice anything I have."
" I am sorry, very sorry, Emily," said Mr. Shelby, " I am sorry this
takes hold of you so; but it will do no good. The fact is, Emily, the
thing's done; the bills of sale are already signed, and in Haley's hands;
and you must be thankful it is no worse. That man has had it in his
ower to ruin us all, and now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as
do, you'd think that we had had a narrow escape."
" Is he so-hard, then ?"
" Why not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather—a man alive to
nothing but trade and profit—cool, and unhesitating, and unrelenting as
death and the grave. He'd sell his own mother at a good per-centage—
not wishing the old woman any harm either."
"And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and Eliza's child?"
"Well, my dear, the fact is. that this goes rather hard with mo—it's
24 tTNCIE TOM'S CABIN, OS
a thing I hate to think of,—Haley wants to drive matters, and take pos¬
session to-morrow. I'm going to get out my horse bright and early, and
be off. I can't see Tom, that's a fact; and you had better arrange a
drive somewhere, and carry Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she
is out of sight."
"No, no," said Mrs. Shelby; "I'll be in no sense accomplice or help
in this cruel business. I'll go and see poor old Tom, God help him,
in his distress! They shall see, at any rate, that their mistress can
leel for, and with, them. As to Eliza, I dare not think about it. The
Lord forgive us! What have we done, that this cruel necessity should
come on us?"
There was one listener to this conversation, whom Mr. and Mrs.
Shelby little suspected.
Communicating with their apartment was a large closet, opening
by a door into the outer passage. When Mrs. Shelby had dismissed
Eliza for the night, her feverish and excited mind had suggested tho
idea of this closet; and she had hidden herself there, and, with her
ear pressed close against the crack of the door, had lost not a word
of the conversation.
When tjae voices died into silence, she rose and crept stealthily
away. Pale, shivering, with rigid features and compressed lips, she
looked an entirely altered being from the soft and timid creature she
had been hitherto. She moved cautiously along the entry, paused one
moment at her mistress's door, and raised her hands in mute appeal to
Heaven, and then turned and glided into her own room. It was a
quiet, neat apartment, on the same floor with her mistress's. There
was the pleasant sunny window where she had often sat singing at her
sewing; there a little case of books, and various little fancy articles
ranged by them, the gifts of Christmas holidays; there was her simple
wardrobe in the closet and in the drawers; here was, in short, her
home, and, on the whole, a happy one it had been to her. Eut there,
on the bed, lay her slumbering boy, his long curls falling negligently
around his unconscious face, his rosy mouth half 'open, his little fat
hands thrown out over the bed-clothes, and a smile spread like a sun¬
beam over his whole face.
"Poor boy! poor fellow!" said Eliza, "they have sold you! but
your mother will save you yet!"
No tear dropped over that pillow. In such straits as these the heart
has no tears to give; it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence.
She took a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote hastily:
" Oh, missis ! dear missis! don't think me ungrateful — don't think
hard of me, any way—I heard all you and master said to-night. I am
going to try to save my boy — you will not blame me! God bless and
reward you for all your kindness! "
Hastily folding and directing this, she went to a drawer and made up
a little package of clothing for her boy, which she tied with a handker¬
chief firmly round her waist; and so fond is a mother's remembrance,
that, even in the terrors of that hour, she did not forget to put in the
little package one or two of his favourite toys, reserving a gaily painted
parrot to amuse him when she should be called on to awaken him. It
was some trouble to arouse the little sleeper; but after some efl'ort, he
sat up, and was playing with his bird, while his mother was putting on
her bonnet and shawl.
"Where are you going, mother?" said he, as she drew nsar the
bed with his little coat apd cap,
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. S5
His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his eyes, that he
at once divined that something unusual was the matter.
"Hush, Iiarry," she said; " lnubn't speak loud, or they will hear us.
A wicked man was coming to take little Harry away from his mother,
and carry him 'way off in the dark ; but mother won't let him — she'3
going to put on her little boy's cap and coat, and run off with him, so
the ugly man can't catch him."
Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the child's simple
outfit, and, taking him in hef arms, she whispered to him to be very
still; and, opening a door in her room which led into the outer veran¬
dah, she glided noiselessly out.
It was a sparkling, frosty, starlight night, and the mother wrapped
the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet with vague terror, he
clung round her neck.
Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end of the porch,
rose, with a low growl, as she came near. She gently spoke his name,
and the animal, an old pet and playmate of hers, instantly wagging his
tail, prepared to follow her, though apparently revolving much, in his
simple dog's head, what such an indiscreet midnight promenade might
mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence or impropriety in the measure
seemed to embarrass him considerably; for he often stopped, as Eliza
glided forward, and looked wistfully, first at her and then at the house,
and then, as if reassured by reflection, he pattered along after her again.
A few minutes brought them to the window of TJncle Tom's cottage, and
Eliza, stopping, tapped lightly on the window-pane.
The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom's had, in the order of hymn-
singing, been protracted to a very late hour; and as Uncle Tom had
indulged himself in a few lengthy solos afterwards, the consequence was,
that, although it was now between twelve and one o'clock, he and his
worthy helpmeet were not yet asleep.
" Good Lord ! what's that ? " said Aunt Chloe, starting up, and hastily
drawing the curtain. " My sakes alive, if it an't Lizzy ! Get on your
clothes, old man, quick ! There's old Bruno, too, a-pawin' round—what
on airth! I'm gwine to open the door."
And, suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and the light
of the tallow candle, which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the haggard
face and dark wild eyes of the fugitive.
" Lord bless you ! I am skeered to look at ye, Lizzy! Are ye tuck sick,
or what's come over ye? "
"I'm running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe — carrying off my
child. Master sold him! "
" Sold him ? " echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay.
" Yes, sold him !" said Eliza firmly; " I crept into the closet by mis¬
tress's door to-night, and I heard master tell missis that he had sold my
Harry and you, Uncle Tom, both to a trader, and that he was going off
this morning on his horse, and that the man was to take possession
to-day."
Tom had stood during this speech with his hands raised, and his eyes
dilated, like a man in a dream. Slowly and gradually, as its meaning
came over him, he collapsed, rather than seated himself, on his old chair
and sunk his head down upon his knees.
" The good Lord have pity on us !" said Aunt Chloe. " Oh, it
don't seem as if it was true ! What has he done that inas'r should
sell him ?"
" He hasn't done anything — it isn't for that. Master don't want to
2$ UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OS
sell, and missis—she's always good. I heard her plead and beg for n»;
but he told her 'twas no use—that he was in this man's debt, and that
this man had got the power over him—and that if he didn't pay him off
clear, it would end in his having to sell the place and all the people, and
move off. Yes, I heard him say there was no choice between selling
these two and selling all, the man was driving them so hard. Master
said he was sorry; but oh, missis! you ought to have heard her talk!
If she an't a Christian and an angel, there never was one. I'm a
wicked girl to leave her so; but then I rian't help it. She said herself
one soul was worth more than the world; and this boy has a soul, and
if I let him be carried off, who knows what'll become of it ? It must
be right; but if it an't right, the Lord forgive me, for I can't help
doing it!"
" Well, old man!" said Aunt Chloe, " why don't you go too ? Will
you wait to be toted down river, where they kill niggers with hard work
and starving ? I'd a heap rather die than go there, any day ! There's
time for ye; be off with Lizzy—you've got a pass to come and go any
time. Come, bustle up, and I'll get your things together."
Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but quietly around
it and said,
" No, no; I an't going. Let Eliza go — it's her right. I wouldn't be
the one to say no. 'Tan't in natur for her to stay; but you heard what
she said! If I must be sold, or all the people on the place, and every¬
thing go to rack, why, let me be sold. I s'pose I can b'ar it as well as
any on 'em," he added, while something like a sob and a sigh shook his
broad, rough chest convulsively. " Mas'r always found me on the spot
—he always will. I never have broke trust, nor used my pass no ways
contrary to my word, and I never will. It's better for me alone to go
than to break up the place and sell all. Mas'r an't to blame, Chloe; and
he'll take care of you and the poor "
Here he turned to the rough trundle-bed full of little woolly heads,
and broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of the chair, ana
covered his face with his large hands. Sobs, heavy, hoarse, and loud,
shook the chair, and great tears fell through his fingers on the floor—■
just such tears, sir, as you dropped into the coffin where lay your first-
corn son; such tears, woman, as you shed when you heard the cries of
your dying babe—for, sir, he was a man, and you are but another man.
And, woman, though dressed in silk ana jewels, you are but a woman,
and, in life's great straits and mighty griefs, ye feel but one sorrow !
" And now," said Eliza, as she stood in the door, " I saw my husband
only this afternoon, and I little knew then what was to come. They
have pushed him to the very last standing-place, and he told me, to-day,
that he was going to run away. Do try, if you can, to get word to him.
Tell him how I went, and why I went; ana tell nim I'm going to try
and find Canada. You must give my love to him? and tell him, if I
never see him again,"—she turned away and stood with her back to them
for a moment, and then added, in a husky voice, " tell him to be as good
as he can, and try and meet me in the kingdom of heaven."
" Call Bruno m there," she added. " Shut Vne door on him, poor
beast! He mustn't go with me!"
A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings, and,
clasping her wondering and affrighted child in her arms, she glided
noiselessly ew&y.
iib among the lows.?,
P
CHAPTER VI.
discovery.
Mb. and Mrs. Shelby, after their protracted discussion of the night
before, did not readily sink to repose, and, in consequence, slept some¬
what later than usual the ensuing morning.
" I wonder what keeps Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, after giving her bell
repeated pulls to no purpose.
Mr. Shelby was standing before his dressing-glass, sharpening his
razor; and just then the door opened, and a coloured boy entered with
his shaving-water.
" Andy, said his mistress, "step to Eliza's door, and tell her I have
rung for her three times. Poor thing !" she added, to herself, with
a sigh.
Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonishment.
"Lor, missis! Lizzy's drawers is all open, and her things all lying every
which way; and I believe she's just done clared out ["
The truth flashed upon Mr. Shelby and his wife at the same moment.
He exclaimed—
" Then she suspected, and she's off!"
" The Lord be thanked!" said Mrs. Shelby. " I trust she is."
"TV'ife, you talk like a fool! Eeally, it will be something pretty
awkward for me, if she is. Haley saw that I hesitated about selling this
child, and he'll think I connived at it, to get him out of the way. It
touches my honour !" And Mr. Shelby left the room hastily.
There was great running and ejaculating, and opening and shutting
of doors, and appearance of faces in all shades of colour in different
places, for about a quarter of an hour. One person only, who might
have shed some light on the matter, was entirely silent, and that was the
head cook, Aunt Chloe. Silently, and with a heavy cloud settled down
over her once joyous face, she proceeded making out her breakfast
biscuits, as if she heard and saw nothing of the excitement around her.
Very soon about a dozen young imps were roosting, like so many
crows, on the verandah railings, each one determined to be the first one
to apprise the strange mas'r of his ill luck.
" He'll be rael mad, I'll be bound," said Andy.
" Won't he swar !" said little black Jake.
" Yes, for he does swar," said woolly-headed Mandy. " I hearn him
yesterday, at dinner. I hearn all about it then, 'cause I got into the
closet where misses keeps the great jugs, and I hearn every word." And
Mandy, who had never in her life thought of the meaning of a word she
had heard, more than a black cat, now took airs of superior wisdom, and
strutted about, forgetting to state that., though actually coiled up
among the jugs at the time specified, she had been fast asleep all the
time.
When, at Jast, Haley appeared, booted and spurred, he was saluted
with the bad tidings on every hand. The young imps on the verandah
were not disappointed in their hope of hearing him "swar," which he
did with a fluency and fervency which delighted them all amazingly, as
they ducked and dodged hither and thither to be out of the reach of his
fo tTKCLS TOM'S CABIN, 08
jriding-whip; and all whooping off tcgdher, they tumbled, in a pile of
immeasurable giggle, on the withered iuri' under the verandah, where
they kicked up their heels and shouted to their full satisfaction.
" If I had the little devils!" muttered Haley between his teeth.
"But you han't got'em though!" said Andy, with a triumphant
flourish, and making a string of indescribable mouths at the unfortunate
trader's back, when he was fairly beyond hearing.
"I say now, Shelby, this yer's a most exlro'rnary business!" said
Haley, as he abruptly entered the parlour. "It seems that gal's off,
with her young un."
" Mr. Haley, Mrs. Shelby is present," said Mr. Shelby.
" I beg pardon, ma'am," said Haley, bowing slightly, with a still
lowering brow; " but still I say, as I said before, this yer's a sing'lar
report. Is it true, sir ?"
Sir," said Mr. Shelby, "if you wish to communicate with me, you
must observe something of the decorum of a gentleman. Andy, take
Mr. Haley's hat and riding-whip. Take a seat, sir. lL as, sir, I regret
to say that the young woman, excited by overhearing, or having reported
to her, something of this business, has taken her child in the night, and
made off."
'■ I did expect fair dealing in this matter, I confess," said Haley.
" Well, sir," said Mr. Shelby, turning sharply round upon him,
" what am I to understand by that remark ? If any man calls my honour
in question, I have but one answer for him."
The trader cowered at this, and in a somewhat lower tone said that
"it was plaguy hard on a fellow, that had made a fair bargain, to be
gulled that way."
"Mr. Haley," said Mr. Shelby, "if I did not think you had some
cause for disappointment, I should not have borne from you the rude
and unceremonious style of your entrance into my parlour this morning.
I say thus much, however, since appearances call for it, that I shall allow
of no insinuations cast upon me, as if I were at all partner to any unfair¬
ness in this matter. Moreover, I shall feel bound to give you every
assistance, in the use of horses, servants, &c., in the recovery of your
property. So, in short, Haley," said he, suddenly dropping from the tone
of dignified coolness to his ordinary one of easy frankness, " the best way
for you is to keep good-natured and eat some breakfast, and we will then
Bee what is to be done."
Sirs. Shelby now rose, and said her engagements would prevent her
being at the breakfast-table that morning; and, deputing a very respect¬
able mulatto woman to attend to the gentlemen's coffee at the sideboard,
she left the room.
" Old lady don't like your humble servant, over and above," said
Haley, with an uneasy effort to be very familiar.
" I am not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with such freedom,"
said Mr. Shelby, drily.
"Beg pardon; of course, only a joke, you kaow," said Haley, forcing
& laugh.
" Some jokes are less agreeable than others," rejoined Shelby.
" Devilish free, now I've signed those papers, cuss him !" muttered
Haley to himself; "quite grand since yesterday !"
Never did fall of any prime minister at court occasion wider surges of
sensation than the report of Tom's fate among his compeers on the
place. It was the topic in every mouth, everywhere; and nothing was
done in the house or in the field butf to discuss its probable results.
LifE aHong the lowly. 2i
filiza's flight—an unprecedented event on the place—was also a great
accessory in stimulating the general excitement.
Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being about three
shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place, was revolving
the matter profoundly in all its phases and bearings, with a compre¬
hensiveness of vision and a strict look-out to his own personal well
L-eing that would have done credit to any white patriot in Washington.
_ " It's an ill wind da,t blows nowhar—dat ar a fact," said Sam, senten-
tiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons, and adroitly substi¬
tuting a long nail in place of a missing suspender-button, with which
effort of mechanical genius he seemed highly delighted.
"Yes, it's an ill wind blows nowhar," he repeated. "Now, dar,
Tom's down—wal, course der's room for some nigger to be up—and why
not dis nigger ?—dat's de idee. Tom, a riding round de country—boots
blacked—pass in his pocket—all grand as Cuffee; who but he ? Now,
why shouldn't Sam ?—dat's what I want to know."
' Halloo, Sam—O Sam! Mas'r wants you to cotch Bill and Jerry,"
said Andy, cutting short Sam's soliloquy.
" High ! what's afoot now, young un ?"
" Why, you don't know, I s'pose, that Lizzy's cut stick, and clared out,
with her young un ?"
"You teach your granny!" said Sam, with infinite contempt;
" knowed it a heap sight sooner than you did; this nigger an't so greeu,
now!"
"Well, any how, mas'r want's Bill and Jerry geared right up ; and
you and I's to go with Mas'r Haley, to look after her."
" Good, now! dat's' de time o' day!" said Sam. " It's Sam dat's called
for in dese yer times. He's de nigger. See if I don't cotch her, now;
mas'r '11 see what Sam can do !"
"Ah! but, Sam," said Andy, "you'd better think twice; for missis
don't want her cotched, and she'll be in your wool."
" High!" said Sam, opening his eyes. " How you know dat ?"
" Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin', when I bring m
mas'r's shaving-Avater. She sent me to see why Lizzy didn't come to
dress her; and when I telled her she was off, she jest riz up, and ses she,
4 The Lord be praised;' and mas'r he seemed real mad, and ses he,' W ife,
you talk like a fool.' But Lor! she'll bring him to! I knows well
enough how that'll bs—it's allers best to stand misses' side the fen 'e,
now I tell yer."
Black Sam, upon this, scratched his woolly pate, which, if it did not
contain very profound wisdom, still contained a great deal of a particu¬
lar species much in demand among politicians of all complexions and
countries, and vulgarly denominated " knowing which side the bread is
buttered;" so, stopping with grave consideration, he again gave a hitch
to his pantaloons, which was his regularly organized method of assisting
his mental perplexities.
"Der an't no sayin'—never—'bout no kind o' thing in dis yer world,"
he said, at last.
Sam spoke like a philosopher, emphasizing this—as if he had had a
large experience in different sorts of worlds, and therefore had come to
his conclusions advisedly.
"Now, sartin I'd a said that missis would a scoured the varsal world
after Lizzy," adaed Sam, thoughtfully.
" So she would " said Andy; " but can't ye see through a ladder, ya
black nigger ? Missis don't want dis yer Mas'r Haley to get Lizzy's boy,
dat's de go!"
SO UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OS
" High!" said Sam, with an indescribable intonation, known only fca
those who have heard it among the negroes.
" And I tell you more'n all," said Andy • " I specs you'd better D8
making tracks for dem horses—mighty sudden, too—for I hearn missis
'quirin arter yer—so you've stood foolin' long enough."
Sam, upon this began to bestir himself in real earnest, and after a while
appeared, bearing down gloriously towards the house, with Bill ana
Jerry in a full canter, and adroitly throwing himself oil betore tuey had
any idea of stopping, he brought them up alongside of the horje-post
like a tornado. Haley's horse, which was a skittish young colt, winced
and bounced, and pulled hard at his halter.
"Ho, ho !" said Sam, "skeery, are ye?" and his black vi::t 'e lighted
up with a curious, mischievous gleam. " I'll fix ye, now," said lie.
There was a large beech-ttee overshadowing the place, and tlie small,
sharp, triangular beechnuts lay scattered thickly on the ground. Yv'ith
one of these in his fingers, Sam approached the colt, stroked and patted,
and seemed apparently busy in soothing his agitation. On pretence of
adjusting the saddle, he adroitly slipped under it the sharp little nut, in
such a manner that the least weight brought upon the saddle would
annoy the nervous sensibilities of the animal, w ithpui leaving any per¬
ceptible graze or wound.
"Dar!" he said, rolling his eyes with an approving grin; "me fix
'em!"
At this moment, Mrs. Shelby appeared on the balcony, beckoning to
him. Sam approached with as good a determination to pay court £3
did ever suitor after a vacant place at St. James's or Washington.
" Why have you been loitering so, Sam ? I sent Andy to tell you to
hurry."
" Lord bless you, misses !" said Sam, " horses won't be cotched all in
a minit; they'd done clared out way down to the south pasture, and
the Lord knows whar !"
" Sam, how often must I tell you not to say' Lord bless you, and the
Lord knows,' and such things ? It's wicked."
" O Lord bless my soul! I done forget, miss&s! I won't say
colli in ir of de sort no more."
" Why, Sam, you just have said it again."
" Did IPO Lord! I mean—I didn't go fur to say it."
" You must be careful, Sam."
"Just let me get my breath, misses, and I'll start fair. I'll be berry
careful."
" 'Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show him the road,
and help him. Be careful of the horses, Sam; you know Jerry was
a liltiti l.iiue last week; don't ride them too feat."
Mrs. bliclby spoke the last words with a low voice, and strong
emphasis.
"Let dis child alone for dat!" said Sam, rolling up his eyes with a:
volatue of meaning. "Lord knows! Hi^rh ! Didn't say dat!" said
lie, suddenly catching his breath, with a ludicrous flourish ofapprehen-
siou, which made his mistress laugh, spite of herself. "Yes. missis
I'll liuk out for de ho^ces!"
"Now, Andy," said Sam, returning to his stand under the beech-
tree^, "you see I wouldn't be'tall surprised if dat ar gen'Iman's crittnr
should gib a fling, by and by, when he comes to be a gettin' up. You
know, Andy, oritturs will do such things;" and therewith Sam poked
Andy in the side, in a highly suggestive manner.
" High !" said Andy, with an air of instant appreciation.
UFfi AMOKG THE LOWLY. &
"Yes, you see, An3y, misses wants to make time,—dat air's clar to
der most or'nary 'bserver. I jis make a little for her. Now, you see,
fst all dese yer hosses loose, caperin' permiscus round dis yer lot anu
own to de wood dar, and I spec mas'r won't be off in a hurry."
Andy grinned.
"Yer see," said Sam, "yer see, Andy, if any such thing should happen
as that Mas'r Haley's horse should begin to act contrary, and cut up,
you and I jist let's go of our'n to help him, and we'll help him—oh yes !"
And Sam and Andy laid their heads back on their shoulders, and broke
into a low, immoderate laugh, snapping their fingers and flourishing
their heels with exquisite delight.
At this instant, Haley appeared on the verandah. Somewhat mollified
by certain cups of very good coffee, he came out smiling aod talking, in
tolerably restored humour. Sam and Andy, clawing for certain fragmen¬
tary palm-leaves, which they were in the habit of considering as hats,
flew to the horse-posts, to be ready to " help mas'r."
_ Sam's palm-leaf had been ingeniously disentangled from all preten¬
sions to Braid, as respects its brim; and the slivers starting apart, and
standing upright, gave it a blazing air of freedom and defiance, quite
equal to that of any Fejee chief; while the whole brim of Andy's being
departed bodily, he rapped the crown on his head with a dexterous
thump, and looked about well pleased, as if to say, " "Who says I haven't
got a hat ? "
a Well boys," said Haley, " look alive now; we must lose no time."
"Not a bit cf him, mas'r!" said Sam, putting Haley's rein in his
hand, and holding his stirrup, while Andy was untying the other
two horses.
The instant Haley touched the saddle, the mettlesome creature
bounded from the earth with a sudden spring, that threw his master
sprawling, some feet off, on the soft, dry turf. Sam, with frantic ejacu¬
lations, made a dive at the reins, but only succeeded in brushing the
blazing palm-leaf aforenamed into the horse's eyes, which by no means
tended to allay the confusion of his nerves. So, with great vehemence,
he overturned Sam, and giving two or three contemptuous snorts,
flourished his heels vigorously in the air, and was soon prancing away
towards the lower end of the lawn, followed by Bill and Jerry, whom
Andy had not failed to let loose, according to contract, speeding them off
with various direful ejaculations. And now ensued a miscellaneous
scene of confusion. Sam and Andy ran and shouted,—dogs barked here
and there,—and Mike, Mose, Mandy, Fanny, and all the smaller speci¬
mens on the place, both male and female, raced, clapped hands, whooped
and shouted, with outrageous officiousness and untiring zeal.
Haley's horse, which was a white one, and very fleet and spirited,
appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene with great gusto; and
having for his coursing-ground a lawn of nearly half a mile in extent,
gently sloping down on every side into indefinite woodland, he appeared
to take infinite delight in seeing how near he could allow his pursuers to
approach him, and then, when within a hand's breadth, whisk off with a
start and a snort, like a mischievous beast as he was, and career far down
into some alley of the wood-lot. Nothing was further from Sam's mind
than to have any one of the troop taken until such season as should
geem to him most befitting,—and the exertions that he made were cer¬
tainly most heroic. Like the sword of Coeur de Lion, which always
blazed in the front and thickest of the battle, Sam's palm-leaf was to be
geen everywhere when there was the least danger that a horse could ba
caughtthere he would bear dovra full tilt, shouting, " Now for it I
B2 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
cotch him! cotck him!" in a way that would set everything to indis¬
criminate rout in a moment. , , m;,wna.
Haley ran up and down, and cursed and swore, and stampe . ■ •
neously. Mr. Shelby in vain tried to shout directions f"'"1 the 1 wh.01 ,r
and Mrs. Shelby from her chamber window alternaiely 'au-'ied. ana
wondered,—not without some inkling of what lay at the
thAtkst"about twelve o'clock, Sam appeared triumpliaiit mumit^d or
Jerrv with Haley's horse by his side, reeking with sweat, but wun tjaai-
ing eyes and dilated nostrils, showing that the spirit of freedom had not
ye« Ixe^cotchedf" he exclaimed, triumphantly. " IPt hadn't been for
me, they might a bust theirselves, all on 'em; but I cotched hnu !
You growled Haley, in no amiable moocL If it kadn t been for
you, this'never would have happened."
" Lord bless us, mas'r," said ham, m a tone of the deepest concern,
" and me that has been racin' and chasin' till the swet jest pours otf
m " Well, well!" said Haley," you've lost me near three hour?, wilh your
cursed nonsense. Now, let's be off, and have no more fooling."
" Why, mas'r," said Sam, in a deprecating tone, " I believe you mean to
kill us all clar, horses and all. Here we are all just ready to drop down,
and the critters all in a reck of sweat. AY hy, mas'r, won't think of
startin' on now till arter dinner. Mas'r's hoss wants rubbiu' down ; see
how he splashed hisself; and Jerry limps too; don't think missis would
be willin' to have us start dis yer way, no how. Lord bless you, mas'r,
we can ketch up, if we do stop. Lizzy never was no great oi a walker."
Mrs. Shelby, -who, greatly to her amusement, had overheard this con¬
versation from her verandah, now resolved to do her pai t. She came
forward, and courteously expre^ing her concern for Haley's accident,
pressed him to stay to dinner, saj ing that the cook should bring it on
the immediately.
Thus, all things considered, Haley, with rather an equivocal grace,
proceeded to the parlour, while Sam, rolling his eyes after him with
unutterable meaning, proceeded gravely with" the horses to the stable-
i ard.
" Pid yer see him, Andy ? d?l yer see him ?" said Sain, when he had
got fairly beyond the sheirer of the barn, and fastened the horse toapost.
" O Lor, if it warn't as goo 1 as a mcetiu', now, to see him a dancin' and
kickin' and swarm' at us. Didn't I hear him ? ' Swar away, ole fellow'
(says I to myself); 'will yer have yer hoss now, or wait till you cotch
him ?' (says 1). Lor, Andy, I think I can see him now." And Sam and
Andy leaned up against the barn, and laughed to their hearts' content.
" Yer ougliter seen hmv mad he looked, when I brought the hoss up-
Lord, he'd a killed me, if he durs' to; and there I was a standin' as
inneroent and as humble."
" Lor, I seed you," said Andy; " an't you an old hoss, Samf'
"Eather specks I am," said Sam; "did yer see missis up stars at the
winder? I seed her laughiii'."
"I'm sure, I was racin' so, I didn't see nothing," said Andy.
"Well yer see," said Sam, proceeding gravely to wash down Haley's
pony, I se quired what yer may call a habit o' bubservation Andy
It's a very 'portunt habit, Andy ; and I'commend yer to be a cultivatin'
ft, now yer young. Hist up that hind foot, Andy, l'er see, Andy it's
lobservation makes all de difference in niggers. Didn't I see'which'way
the wind blew dis yer mornin' ? Didn' ■ ' <ee what missis wanted though
LJPE AMONG THE LOWLY. S3
lie bever let on ? Dat ar's bobservation, Andy. I 'spects it's what you
may call a faculty. Faculties is different in different peoples, but culti¬
vation of 'em goes a great way."
" I guess if I hadn't helped your bobservation dis mornm', yer
wouldn't have seen your way so smart," said Anrly.
"Andy," said Sam, "you's a promisin' child, der an't no manner o'
doubt. I thinks lots of vcr, Andy; and I don't feel no ways ashamed to
take idees from you. Yvre oughtenter overlook nobody, Andy, cause the
smartest on us gets tripped up sometimes. And so, Andy, let's go up ta
the house now. I'H be boun' Missis '11 give us ua uncommon good bite
dis yer time."
CHAPTER VII,
THE MOTHER'S STRUGGLE.
It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more wholly desolata
and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom's
cabin.
Her husband's suffering and dangers, and the danger of her child, all
blended in her mind, with a confused and stunning sense of the risk sha
was running, in leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting
loose from the protection of a friend she ever loved and revered. Then
there was the parting from every familiar object,—the place where she
had grown up, the trees under which she had played, the groves where
she had walked many an evening in happier days, by the side of her
young husband,— everything, as it lay in the clear, frosty starlight,
seemed to speak reproachfully to her, and ask her whither could she go
from a home like that ?
But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysm of
frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy was old
enough to have walked by her side, and in an indifferent case she would
only have led him by the hand; but now the bare thought 9f putting
him out of her arms made her shudder, and she strained him to her
bosom with a convulsive grasp, as she went rapidly forward.
The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled at the
sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow sent the blood back¬
ward to her heart, and quickened her footsteps. She wondered within
herself at the strength that seemed to be come upon her ; for she felt the
weight of her boy as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of fear
seemed to increase the supernatural power that bore her on, while from
her pale lips burst forth, infrequent ejaculations,the prayer to v.Lriend
above—'"Lord help; Lord, save me!"
If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be
jorn from you by a brutal trader, to-morrow morning,—if you hadseeu
the man, and heard that the pipers were signed and delivered, aud you
<ad only from twelve o'clock till morning to n nke good your escape,—
how fast could you walk ? How mauy miles could you make in those
few brief hours, with the darling at your bo^ora,—the little sleepy head
3ii your shoulder,—the small, soft tnan tiustingly holding ou to you*
-Jo/ the child slept. At first the novelty and alarm kept him
waking; but his mother so hurriedly repressed every breath or sound,
proceeding from him that if be were only still she would certainly sav?
D
34 titfCLS TOM'S CABIN, OB
hitu, that lie dung quietly round lier neck, only asking as he found him¬
self sinking to sleep,
" Mother, I don t need to keep awake, do I ?"
" No, my darling; sleep, if you want to."
" But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won't let him get me ?"
" No! so may God help me!" said his mother, with a paler cheek, and
a brighter light in her large dark eyes.
" You're sure, an't you, mother ?"
" Yes, sure 1" said the mother, in a voice that startled herself; for it
seemed to her to come from a spirit within, that was no part of her; and
the boy dropped his little weary head on her shoulder, and was soon
asleep. How the touch of those warm arms, the gentle brealhinn* that
came in her neck, seemed to add fire and spirit to her movements ! It
seemed to her as if strength poured into her in electric streams, from
every gentle touch and movement of the sleeping, confiding child. Sub¬
lime is the dominion of the mind over the body, that, for a time, can
make flesh and nerve impregnable, and string the sinews like steel, so
that the weak become so mighty.
The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed by her
dizzily, as she walked on; and still she went, leaving one familiar object
after another, slacking not, pausing not, till reddening daylight found
her many a long mile from all traces of any familiar objects upon tha
open highway.
She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connections, in
the little village of T , not far from the Ohio river, and knew the
road well. To go thither, to escape across the Ohio river, were the first
hurried outlines of her plan of escape; beyond that, she could only hope
in God.
When horses and vehicles began to move 'along the highway, with
that alert perception peculiar to a state of excitement, and which seems
to be a sorb of inspiration, she became aware that her headlong pace and
distracted air might bring on her remark and suspicion. She therefore
put the boy on the ground, and, adjusting her dress and bonnet, she
walked on at as rapid a pace as she thought consistent with the preser¬
vation of appearances. In her little bundle she had provided a store of
cakes and apples, which she used as expedients for Quickening the speed
of the child, rolling the apple some yards before them, when the boy
would run with all his might after it; and this ruse, often repeated,
carried tliom over many a half-mile.
After a while, they came to a thick psttch of woodland, through which
murmured a clear brook. As the child complained of hunger and thirst,
sho climbed over the fence with him; and, sitting down behind a large
pock, which concealed them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out
of her little package. The boy wondered and grieved that she rnuld not
eat; and when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to wcd^e & jme
of his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that the rising in her throat
would choak her.
" No, no, Harry darling! mother can't eat till you are safe! We
must go on—on—till we come tc \he river !" Ana she hurried again
into the road, and again constrained hersdf to walk regularly and com¬
posedly forward.
She was many miles past any neighbourhood where she was personally
known. If she should chance to meet any who knew her, she relucted
that the well-known kindness of the family would be of itt-eli a Mind to
suspicion, as making it an unlikely supposition that she could be a fugi¬
tive. As she was also so white as not to be known as of colours1
SJFE AMONG THE lOWX*. 39
without a critical survey, and her child was white also, it was much
easier for her to pa«s on unsuspected.
On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse, to
rest herself, and buy some dinner for her child and self; for, as the
danger decreased with the distance, the supernatural tension of the ner¬
vous system lessened, and she found herself both weary and hungry.
The good woman, kindly and gossiping, seemed rather pleased than
otherwise with having somebody come in to talk with; and accepted,
without examination, Eliza's statement, that she "was going on a little
piece, to spend a week with her friends,"—all which she hoped in her
heart might prove strictly true.
An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T , by the Ohio
river, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in heart. Her first glance
was at the river, which lay, like Jordan, between her and the Canaan of
i liberty on the other side.
j It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and turbulent;
1 great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the turbid
waters. Owing to the peculiar form of the shore on the Kentucky side,
the land bending far out into the water, the ice had been lodged and
detained in great quantities, and the harrow channel which swept round
the bend was full of ice, piled one cake over another, thus forming a
temporary barrier to the descending ice, which lodged, and formed a
great undulating raft filling up the whole river, and extending almost
to the Kentucky shore.
Eliza stood for a moment, contemplating this unfavourable aspect of
things, which she saw at once must prevent the usual ferry-boat from
running, and then turned into a small public-house on the bank, to make
a few inquiries.
The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing operations
over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal, stopped, with a fork in
her hand, as Eliza's sweet and plaintive voice arrested her.
" What is it P " she said.
" Isn't there a ferry or boat, that takes people over to B ■ y,
now ?" she said.
" No, indeed !" said the woman; " the boats has stopped running."
Eliza's look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, and she
said, inquiringly— -
"May be you're wanting to get over?—anybody sick? Te seem
mighty anxious ?"
'• I've got a child that's very dangerous," said Eliza. " I never
heard of it till last night, and I've walked quite a piece to-day, in hopes
to get to the ferry."
Well., now, that's onlucky," said the woman, whose motherly
sympathies were much aroused; "I'm re'lly consarned for ye. Solo¬
mon S" she called, from the window, towards a small back building. A
man in leather apron and very dirty hands appeared at the door.
" I say, Sol," said the woman, is that ar man going to tote thexs
bar'ls over to-night ?"
" He said he should try, if 'twas any way prudent," said the man.
"There's a man a piece down here that's going over with some
truck this evening, if he durs' to; he'll be in here to supper to-night, so
you'd better set down aud wait. That's a sweet little fellow," added th®
woman, oti'oniig him a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
" Poor fellow! he isn't used to walking, and I've hurried him oa SSh
said Eliza.
D 2
S3 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, 02
"Well, take him into this room," said the woman, opening into 6
small bedroom, where stood a comfortable bed, Eliza laid the weary
boy upon it, and held his hands in hers till he was fast asleep. For her
there was no rest. As a fire in her bones, the thought of the pursuer
urged her on; and she gazed with longing eyes on the sullen, surging
waters that lay between her and liberty.
Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the
jDurse of her pursuers.
Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried
Sti table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen before,
that it required more than one to make a bargain. So, although the
order was fairly given out in Haley's hearing, and carried to Aunt Chloe
by at least half & dozen juvenile messengers, that dignitary only gave
certain very gruff snorts and tosses of her head, and went on with every
operation in an unusually leisurely and circumstantial manner.
Por some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among the
servants generally that missis would not be particularly disobliged by
delay; and it was wonderful what a number of counter accidents
occurred constantly, to retard the course of things. One luckless wight
cortrived to upset the gravy; an I then gravy had to be got up de novo,
with due care and formality, Aunt Chloe watching ami stirring with
dogged precision, answering shortly, to all suggestions of haste, that she
"warn't a going to have raw gravy on the table, to help nobody's
catchings." One tumbled down with the water, and had to go to the
spring for more; and another precipitated the butter into the path of
events; and there was, from time to time, giggling news brought into
the kitchen that "Mas'r Haley was mighty oneasy, and that he couldn't
sit in his cheer no ways, but was a walkin' and stalkin' to the winders
and through the porch."
" Sarves him right!" said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. " He'll get wus
nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don't mend his ways. His master '11
be sending for him, and then see how he'll look !"
"He'll go to torment, and no mistake," said little Jake.
"He deserves it!" said Aunt Chloe, grimly; "he's broke a many,
many, many hearts! I tell ye all," she said, stopping, with a fork up¬
lifted^ in her hands, " it's like what Mas'r George reads in Revelations
—souis a eallin' under the altar! and a callin' on the Lord for vengeance
on sich!—and by and by the Lord he'll hear 'em—so he will!"
Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listened to
with open mouth; and, the dinner being now fairly sent in, the whole
""jtchen was at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to her remarks.
" Sich '11 be burnt up for ever, and no mistake; won't ther P" said
Indy.
" I'd be glad to see it; I'll be boun'," said little Jake.
" Chil'en!" said a voice that made them all start. It was Uncle Tom,
yho had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at the door.
" Chil'en!" he said, " I'm afeard you don't know what ye're sayin'.
for ever is a dre'ful word, chil'en; it's awful to think on't. You ought-
enter wish that ar to any human crittur."
""We wouldn't to anybody but the soul-drivers," said Andy;
" nobody can help wishing it to them, they's so awful wicked."
" Don't natur herself kinder cry out on 'emsaid Aunt Chloe.
" Don't dey tear der suckin' baby right off his mother's breast, and sell
frim P And der little children as is crying and holding cm by her clothes,
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. S7
don't dey pull 'em off and sells 'em ? Don't dey tear wife and husband
apart?" said Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, "when it's jest takin' the
very life on 'em ?—and all the while does they leel one bit, don't dey
drink and smoke, and take it oncommon easy ? Lor, if the devil don't
get 'em, what's he good for ?" And Aunt Chloe covered her face with
her checked apron, and began to sob in good earnest.
" Pray for them that 'spitefully use you, the good book says,*' said
Tom.
" Pray for 'em!" said Aunt Chloe, " Lor, it's too tough; I can't pray
/or 'em."
"It's natur, Chloe, and natur's strong," said Tom; "but the Lord's
grace is stronger. Besides, you oughter think what an awful state a poor
crittur's soul's in that '11 do them ar things; you oughter thank God that
you an't like him, Cbloe. I'm sure I'd rather be sold, ten thousand
times over, than to have all that ar poor crittur's got to answer for."
" So'd I a heap," said Jake. "Lor, shouldn't we cotch it, Andy ?"
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.
" I'm glad mas'r didn't go off this morning, as he looked to," said
Tom; " that ar hurt me more than sellin', it did. Mebbe it might havt
been natural for him, but 'twould have come desp't hard on me, as has
known him from a baby; but I've seen mas'r, and I begin ter feel sort o
reconciled to the Lord's will now. Mas'r couldn't help hisself; he did
right, but I'm feared things will be kinder goin' to rack, when I'm gone.
Mas'r can't be 'spected to be pryin' round everywhar, as I've done, a
keepin' up all the ends. The boys all means well, but they's powerful
car'less. That ar troubles me."
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlour.
" Tom," said his master kindly, " I want you to notice that I give
this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not on the
spot when he wants you ; he's going to-day to look after his other busi¬
ness, and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like, boy."
" Thank you, mas'r," said Tom.
" And mind yerself," said the trader, " and don't come it over your
master with any o' your nigger tricks; for I'll take every cent out of
him, if you an't thar. If he'd hear to me, he wouldn't trust any on
ye—slippery as eels !"
" Mas'r," said Tom—and he stood very straight—" I was jist eight
years old when ole missis put you into my arms, and you wasn' a year
old. ' Thar,' says she,' Tom, that's to be your young mas'r ; take good
care on him,' says she. And now I jist ask you, mas'r, have I ever
broke word to you, or gone contrary to you, 'specially since I was a
Christian ?"
Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.
" My good boy," said he, " the Lord knows you say but the truth; and
if I was able to help it, all the world shouldn't buy you."
"And sure as I am a Christian woman," said Mrs. Shelby, "you
shall be redeemed as soon as I can any way bring together means.
Sir," she said to Haley, " take good account of who you sell him to, and
let me know."
" Lor, yes; for that matter," said the trader. " I may bring him up in a
year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back."
" I'll trade with you, then, and make it for your advantage," said Mrs.
Shelby.
"Of course," said the trader, " all's equal with me; li'ves trade 'em up
as down, so I does a good business. All I want is a livin', you know
ma'axa; that's all aijy on us wants, I s'oose."
S3 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familial
impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of
putting a constraint on their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and
insensible he appeared, the greater became Mrs. Shelby's dread of his
succeeding in recapturing Eliza and her child, and of course the greater
her motive for detaining him by every female artifice. She, therefore,
graciously smiled, absented, chatted familiarly, and did all she could to
make time pass imperceptibly.
At two o'clock, Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts,
apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the
morning.
Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous
and ready ofliciousness. As Haley approached, he v, lua&tiug, in flou-
ishing style, to Andy, of the evident and eminent sucvess of the opera-
on, now that he had " farly come to it."
" Your master, I s'pose, don't keep no dogs ? " said Haley, thoughtfully,
he prepared to mount.
"Heaps on 'em," said Sam, triumphantly; "thir's Bruno—he's a
roarer! and, besides that, 'bout every nigger of us keeps a pup of some
natur or uther."
" Poh!" said Haley—and he said something else, too, with regard to
the said dogs, at which Sam muttered—
" I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way."
" But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don't)
for trackin' out niggers."
Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest
and desperate simplicity.
_" Our dogs all smells round considerable sharp. I 'spect they's the
kind, though they han't never had no practice. They's far dogs, though,
at most anything, if you'd get 'em started. Here, Bruno," he called,
whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came piIching tumul-
tuously towards them.
"You go hang ! " said Haley, getting up. " Come, tumble up, now."
Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy
as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly
to Haley's indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip.
"I's 'stonished at yer, Andy" said Sam, with awful gravity. "This
yer's a seris business, Andy. 1 er musn't bo a makin' game. This yer
an't no way to help mas'r."
" I shall take the straight road to the river," said Haley, decidedly,
after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. " I know the way
of all of 'em—they make tracks for the underground."
" Sa.rtin," said Sam, " dat's de idee. Mas'r Haley hiti de thing right in
de middle. Now, dor's two roads to de ri\er—do dirt road, and der
pike—which mas'r mean to take P"
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at h"rring this new
geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he ss.id by a vehement
reiteration.
" 'Cause," said Sam," I'd rather be 'clined to 'magino that Lizzy'd take
de dirt road, beiu' it's the least tiavelled."
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally
inclined to be suspicious of chatf, was rather brought up by this view
of the case.
" If yer warn't both on ye such cussed liars, now!" said he, contem¬
platively, as he pondered a moment.
The pensive, refleotive tons in which tlm w,is tpoken, appeared tf
Eiifl AH01*<* ill 3 10WI,y. 39
Amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind and shook so ad
apparently to rua a great risk of foiling off his horse, while Sam's faofc
was hnmovably composed into the most doleful gravity.
44 Course/' said Sam, " mas'r can do as he'd ruther; go de straight road,
if mas'r think best—it's all one to us. Now, when I study 'pon it, X
think de straight road de best deridedbj."
" She would naturally go a lonesome way," said Haley, thinking aloud,
not minding Sam's remark.
"Bar an't no sayin',"said Sum; "gals is peoular. They never does
nothin' ye thinks they will—most gen'lly the contrar. Gals is nat'lly
made contrary; and so, if you thinks they've gone one road, it is sartin
you'd better go t'other, and then you'll be sure to find 'em. Now, my
private 'pinion is, Lizzy tookder dirt road; 60 I think we'd belter take
de straight one."
This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem to
dispose Haley particularly to the straight road: and he announced
decidedly that he should go the other, ana asked Sam when they should
come to it.
" A little piece ahead," said Sam, riving a wink to Andy, with the eye
which was on Andy's side of the head; and he added, gravely, "but I've
studded on de matter, and I'm quite clar we ought not to go dat ar way.
I nebber been over it, no way. It's despit lonesome, and we might lose
our way—whar we'd come to, de Lord only knows."
" Nevertheless," said Haley," I shall go that way."
" Now I think on't, I think I hearn 'em tell that dat ar road was al)
fenced up and down by der creek, and thar; an't it, Andy ?"
Andy wasn't certain, he'd only hearn tell" about that road, but neve*
been over it. In short, he was strictly non-comxnittal.
Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between lies
of greater or less magnitude, thought that it lay in favour of the dirt
road aforesaid. The mention of the thing he thought he perceived waa
involuntary on Sam's part at first; and his confused attempts to dissuade
him he set down to a desperate lying, on second thoughts, as being un¬
willing to implicate Eliza.
Yvlien, therefore, Sam indicated the road, Haley plunged briskly into
it, followed by Sam and Andy.
Now, the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerly been a
thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many years after the laying
of the new pike. It was open for about an hour's ride, and after that it
was cut across by various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly
well; indeed, the road had been so long closed up that Andy had never
heard of it. He therefore rode along with an air of dutiful submission
only groaning and vociferating occasionally that 'twas " desp't rough, ana
bad for J erry's foot."
" Now, I jest give yer warning," said Haley, "I know yer; yer won't
get me to turn off this yer road, with all yer fussin'—so you shet up !"
" Mas'r will go his own way !" said Sam, with rueful submission, at
the same timo w inking most portentously to Andy, whose delight ra
now very near the explosive point,
Sam was in wonderful spirits; professed to keep a very brisk look-oci—■
at one time exclaiming that he saw " a gal's bonnet" on the top of some
distant eminence, or calling to Andy " if that thar wasn't Lizzy down in
the hollow"—always making these exclamations in some rough or craggy
part of the road, where the sudden quickening Oi speed was a speciaf
^convenience to all parties concerned, and thus keeping Hiley in &
of constant commotion.
40 UK JtiK Toil's PaBIK, OB
After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party mads a P1®"
rapitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a large
fanning establishment. Not a soul was in sight, all the hands being
errn.'hn'e'i in the field:?; but, as the barn stood conspicuously and plainly
square across the road, it was evident that tncir journey m that direction
ha-1 reached a decided finale. . . . ,
" YYan't dat ar what I teiled mas'r ? said Sam, with an air of injured
innocence. "Mow does strange gentlemen spect to know more about
a country dan de natives born and raised?' .
" You rascal!" said Haley, "you knew all about this.
" Didn't I tell yer I know'd, and yer wouldn t believe me r 1 teiled
mas'r 'twas .all shet up, and fenced up, and I didn't spect we could get
through—Andy heard me."
It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had to pocket
,'his wrath with the best grace he was able, and all three faced to the right
I about, and took up their line of march for the highway.
In consequence of all the various delays, it was about three quarters
of an hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleej' in the village tavern
that the party came riding into the same place, .bliza was standing by
the window, looking out in another direction, when Sam's quick eye
caught a glimpse of her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At
this crisis Sam contrived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud
and characteristic ejaculation, which startled her-at once; she drew
suddenly back; the whole train swept by the window, round to the front
door.
A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment to
Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her
child, and sprang down the steps towards it. The trader caught a full
glimpse of her, just as she was disappearing down the bank; and throwing
liimsei. from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy, he was after
her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment her feet to her
scarce seemed to touch the ground, and a moment brought her to the
water's edge. Eight on behind they came; and,nerved with strength such
as God gives only to the desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap,
she vaulted sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of
ice beyond. It was a desperate leap—impossible to anything but madness
and despair; and Haley, Sam, and Andy, instinctively cried out, and
lifted up their hands, as she did it.
The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitched and
creaked as her weight came on it; but she stayed there not a moment.
With wild cries and desperate energy she leaped to another and still
another cake;—stumbling—leaping—slipping—springing upwards again!
- Her shoes are gone—her stockings cut from her feet—while blood marked
every step; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly, as in a dream,
she saw the Ohio side, and a man helping her up the bank.
"Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!" said the man, with an
oath.
Eliza recognised the voice and face of a man who owned a farm not far
from her old home.
pointing
uoy!"
" So I have," said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drew ber up tfye
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 41
steep bank. " Besides, you're a right brave gal. I like grit wherever I
see it."
When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused.
"I'd be glad to do something for ye,"said he, "but then there's no-
whar I could take ye. The best I can do is to tell ye to go thar" said he,
pointing to a largo white house which stood by itself, oil' the main street
of the village. ' Go thar; they're kind folks. Tliar's no kind o' danger
but they'll help you—they're up to all that sort o' thing."
" The Lord bless you !" said Eliza, earnestly.
"No 'casion, no 'casion in the world," said the man. "What I've
done's of no 'count."
" And, oh, surely, sir, you won't tell any one!"
" Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for P In course
not," said the man. " Come, now, go along like a likely, sensible gal, as
you are. You've arnt your liberty, and you shall have it, for all me."
The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmly and
swiftly away. The man stood and looked after her.
"Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neighbourly
thing in the world; but what's a feller to do ? If he catches one of my
gals in the same fix, he's welcome to pay back. Somehow I never could
see no kind o' critter a strivin' ana pantin', and tryin' to clar their-
selves, with the dogs arter 'em, and go agin 'em. Besides, I don't see
no kind of 'casion for me to be hunter and catcher for other folks,
neither."
So spoke this poor heathenish Kentuckian, who had not been in¬
structed in his constitutional relations, and, consequently, was betrayed
into acting in a sort of Christianized manner, which, ii he had been
better situated and more enlightened, he would not have been left to do.
Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene, till Eliza
had disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank inquiring look
on Sam and Andy.
" That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business," said Sam.
" The gal's got seven devils in her, I believe," said Haley. " How
like a wildcat she jumped !"
" Wal, now," said Sam, scratching his head, "I hope mas'r '11 'scuse
us tryin' dat ar road. Don't think I feel spry enough for dat ar, no
way !" and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle.
" You laugh !" said the trader, with a growl.
" Lord bless you, mas'r, I couldn't help it, now," said Sam, giving way
to the long pent-up delight of his soul. "She looked so curis, a
leapin' and springin'—ice a crackin'—and only to hear her—plump ! ker
chunk ! ker splash! Spring ! Lord ! how she goes it!" and Sam and
Andy laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks.
" I'll make ye laugh t'other side yer mouths !" said the trader, laying
about their heads with his riding-whip.
Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on their horses
before he was up.
" Good evening, mas'r!" said Sam, with much gravity. "I berry
much spect missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r Haley won't want us
no longer. Missis wouldn't hear of our ridin' the critters over Lizzy's
bridge to-night;" and, with a facetious poke into Andy's ribs, he started
oil', followed by the latter, at full speed—their shouts of laughter coming
fgintly on the wind.
CNCLE TOM^ v^ABXH, OS
CHAPTER Till
escape of eliza.
Eliza made her desperate retreat across the river just in the dusk of
twilight. The gray mist of evening, rising slowly from the river, enve¬
loped her as she disappeared up the bank, and the swollen current and
floundering masses of ice presented a hopeless barrier between her and
her pursuer. Haley therefore slowly and discontentedly returned to the
little tavern, to ponder further what was to be done. The woman opened
to him the door of a little parlour, covered with a rag carpet, where stood
a table with a very shining black oil-cloth, sundry lank, high-backed
wood chairs, with some plaster images in resplendent colours on the
mantel-shelf, above a very dimly-smoking grate; a long hard-wood settle
extended its uneasy length by the chimney, and here Haley sat him
down to meditate on the instability of human hopes and happiness in
general.
" What did I want with the little cuss, now," ho said to himself,
" that I should have got myself treed like a coon, as I am, this yer way ?"
and Haley relieved himself by repeating over a not very select litany of
imprecations on himself, which, though there was the best possible reason
to consider them as true, we shall, as a matter of taste, omit.
He was startled by the loud and dissonant voice of a man who was
apparently dismounting at the door. He hurried to the window.
" By the land ! if this yer au't the nearest, now, to v.liat. I've heard
folks call Providence," said Haley. " I do b'lieve that ar's Tom Loker."
Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in the corapr of the room,
was a brawny, muscular man, full six feet in height and broad in pro¬
portion. He was dressed in a coat of buiMo-okiu, made with the hair
outward, which gave hirn a shaggy and fierce apjjp'trance, perfectly in
keeping with the whole air of his physiognomy. In the head and face,
every organ and lineament expressive of brutal and unhesitatin g violence
was in a state of the highest possible development. Indeed, 6ould our
readers fancy a bull-dog come unto man's estate, and walking about in a
hat and coat, they would have no unapt idea of the general style and
effect of his physique. He was accompanied by a travelling companion,
in many respects an exact contrast to himself. He was short and slender,
lithe and cat-like in his motions, and had a peering, mousing expression
about his keen black eyes, with which every feature of his face seemed
sharpened into sympathy; his thin, long nose ran out as if it was eager
to bore into the nature of things m general; his sleek, thin, black hair
was stuck eagerly forward, and all his motions and evolutions expres.-ed
a dry, cautious acuteness. The great big man poured out a big tumbler
half full of raw spirits, and gulped it down without a word. The little
man stood tip-toe, and putting nis head first to one side and then to the
other, and snuffing considerately in the directions of the various bottles,
ordered at last a mint julep, in a thin and quivering voice, and with an
air of great circumspection. When poured out, he took it and 1< >oked at
it with a sharp, complacent air, like a man who thinks he has done about
the right thing, and hit the nail on the head, and proceeded to dispose
of it in short and well-advised sips.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 4$
" "Wal, now, who'd a thought this yer luck 'ad come to me P Why
Loker, how are ye P" said Haley, coming forward, and extending his hand
to the big man.
"The devil!" was the civil reply. " What brought you here, Haley ?"
The mousing man, who bore the name of Marks, instantly stopped
his sipping, ana, poking his head forward, looked shrewdly on our new
acquaintance, as .a cat sometimes looks at a moving dry leaf, or some
other possible object of pursuit.
" I say, Tom, this yer's the luckiest thing in the world. I'm in a
devil of a hobble, and you must help me out."
" Ugh! aw! like enough!" grunted his complacent acquaintance.
" A body may be pretty sure of that, when you're glad to see 'em; some-
thin® to be made off of 'em. What's the blow now ?"
" 1 ou've got a friend here ?" said Haley, looking doubtfully at Marks,
"partner, perhaps ?"
" Yes, I have. Here, Marks ! here's that ar feller that 1' "Was in with
in Natchez."
" Shall be pleased with his acquaintance," said Marks, thrusting out a
long thin hand, like a raven's claw. " Mr. Haley, I believe ?"
" The same, sir," said Haley. " And now, gentlemen, seem' as we've
met so happily, I think I'll stand up to a small matter of a treat in this
here parlour. So now, old coon," said he to the man at the bar, " get us
hot water, and sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the real stuff,\ and we'll
have a blow-out."
Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to the burning
point in the grate, and our three worthies seated round a table, well
spread with all the accessories to good fellowship enumerated before.
Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles. Loker shut
up his mouth, and listened to him with gruff and surly attention.
Marks, who was anxiously and with much fidgeting compounding a
tumbler of punch to his own peculiar taste, occasionally looked up from
his employment, and poking his sharp nose and chin almost into Haley's
face, gave the most earnest heed to the whole narrative. The conclu¬
sion of it appeared to amuse him extremely, for he shook his shoulders
and sides m silence, and perked up his thin lips with an air of great
internal enjoyment.
" So, then, ye'r fairly sewed up, an't ye ?" he said, " He ! he! he! It's
neatly done, too."
" This yer young-ua business makes lots of trouble in the trade," said
Haley, dolefully.
" If we could get a breed of gals that didn't care, now, for their young
uns," said Marks, " tell ye, I think 'twould be 'bout the greatest mod'rn
improvement I knows on"—and Marks patronised his joke by a quiet
introductory sniggle.
" Jes so," said Haley; "I never couldn't see into it. Young uns is
heaps of trouble to 'em—one would think, now, they'd be glad to getclar
on 'em; but they arn't. And the more trouble a young un is, and the
more good for nothing, as a gen'ral thing, the tighter they sticks
to 'em."
"Wal, Mr. Haley," said Marks, "jest pass the hot water. Yes, sir; you
say jest what I feel, and all'us have. Now, I bought a gal once, when I
was in the trade—a tight, likely wench she was, too, and quite consider¬
able smart—and she had a young un that was mis'able sickly, it had a
crooked back, or something or other, and I jest gin't away to a man that
thought he'd take his chance raisin' on't, being it didn't cost nothin'—
never thought, yer know, of the gal's takin' on about it—but, Lord, ye?
44 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
aughter see how she went on! Why, re'lly, she did seem to me to valley
the child more 'cause 'twas sickly ar.d cross, and plagued her; and she
warn't making b'lieve, neither—cried about it, she did, and lopped round,
as if she'd lost every friend she had. It re'lly was droll to think on't.
Lord, there an't no end to women's notions."
"Wal, jest so with me," said Haley. "Last summer, down on Bed
liiver, I got a gal traded off on me, with a likely-lookin' child enough,
and his eyes looked as bright as yourn ; but, come to look, I found him
stone blind. Fact—he was stone blind. Wal, ye see, I tlwught there
warn't no harm in my jest passing him along, and not sayin' nothin';
and I'd got him nicely swapped off for a keg of whiskey; but come to get
him away from the gal, she Avas jest like a tiger. So 'twas before we
started, and I hadn't got my gang chained up, so what should she do but
ups on a cotton-bale, like a cat, ketches a knife from one of the deck
hands, and„I tell ye, she made all fly for a minnit, till she saw 'twan't no
use ; and she jest turns round and pitches head first, young un and all,
into the river—went down plump, and never ris."
" Bah!" said Tom Loker, who had listened to these stories with ill-
repressed disgust. " Shif'less, both on ye! My gals don't cut up no such
shines, I tell ye!"
" Indeed! how do you help it ?" said Marks, briskly.
" Help it ? why, I buys a gal, and if she's got a young un to be sold, I
jest walks up and puts my fist to her face, and says,' Look here, now; if
you give me one word out of your head, I'll smash yer face in. I won't
hear one word—not the beginning of a word.5 I says to 'em,' This yer
young un's mine, and not yourn, and you've no kind o' business with it.
I'm going to sell it, first chance; mind you don't cut up none o' yer
shines about it, or I'll make ye wish ye'd never been born.' I tell ye,
they sees it an't no play, when I gets hold. I makes 'em as whist as
fishes; and if one on 'em begins and gives a yelp, why—" and Mr. Loker
brought down his fist with a thump that fully explained the hiatus.
" That ar's what ye may call emphasis," said Marks, poking Haley
in the side, and going into another small giggle. " An't Tom peculiar P
he! he ! he! I say, Tom, I s'pect you make 'em understand, for all
niggers' heads is woolly. They don't never have no doubt o' your mean¬
ing, Tom. If you an't the devil, Tom, you's his twin brother, I'll say
that for ye."
Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty, and began to
look as affable as was consistent, as John Bunyan says, with his dog¬
gish nature."
Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple of the evening,
began to feel a sensible elevation and enlargement of his moral faculties
—a phenomenon not unusual with gentlemen of a serious and reflective
turn, under similar circumstances.
"Wal, now, Tom," he said, "ye reily is too bad, as I al'ays have told
ye. Ye know, Tom, you and I used to talk over these yer matters down
in Natchez, and 1 used to prove to ye that we made full as much, and
was as well off for this yer world, by treatin' on 'em well, besides keepin'
a better chance for(comin' in the kingdom at last, when wust comes to
wust, and thar an't nothing else left to get, ye know."
" Boh !" said Tom, " don't I know ?—don't make me too sick with any
yer stuff—my stomach is a little riled nowand Tom drank half a glass
of raw brandy.
" I say," said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and gesturing im¬
pressively, " I'll say this, now, I al'ays meant to drive my trade so as to
make money on't, fust and foremost, as much as any man; but, then.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 46
trade an't everything, and money an't everything, 'cause we's all got
souls. I don' care, now, who hears me say it—and I think a cussed sight
on it, so I may as well come out with it. I b'lieve in religion, and one
of these days, when I've got matters tight and snug, I calculate to 'tend
to my soul and them ar matters: ana so what's the use of doin' any
more wickedness than's reily necessary ?—it don't seem to me it's 'tall
prudent."
" 'Tend to yer soul!" repeated Tom contemptuously; " take a bright
look-out to find a soul in you—save yourself any care on that score. If
the devil sifts you through a hair-sieve, he won't find one."
" Why, Tom, you're cross," said Haley; " why can't ye take it plea¬
sant, now, when a feller's talking for your good r'
" Stop that ar jaw o' yourn, there," said Tom, gruffly. "I can stand
most any talk o' yourn, but your pious talk—that kills me right up.
After all, what's the odds between me and you ? 'Tan't that you care
one bit more, or have a bit more feelin'—it's clean, sheer, dog meanness,
wanting to cheat the devil and save your own skin; don't I see through
it ? And your ' gettin' religion,' as you call it, arter all, is too p'isin
mean for any critter; run up a bill with the devil all your life, and then
sneak out when pay-time comes! Boh!"
" Come, come, gentlemen, I say; this isn't business," said Marks.
"There's different ways, you know, of looking at all subjects. Mr.
Haley is a very nice man, no doubt, and has his own conscience; and,
Tom, you have your ways, and very good ones, too, Tom; but quar¬
relling, you know, won't answer no kind of purpose. Let's go to busi¬
ness. Now, Mr. Haley, what is it ? you want us to undertake to catch
this yer gal ?"
" The gal's no matter of mine—she's Shelby's; it's only the boy. I
was a fool for buying the monkey !"
"You're generally a fool!" said Tom, gruffly.
" Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs," said Marks, licking his lips;
" you see, Mr. Haley's a putting us in a way of a good job, I reckon; just
hold still; these yer arrangements is my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley,
how is she ? what is she ?"
" Wal! white and handsome—well brought up. I'd a gin Shelby
6ight hundred or a thousand, and then made well on her."
" White and lianasome—well brought up !" said Marks, his sharp
eyes, nose, and mouth, all alive with enterprise. " Look here, now
Loker, a beautiful opening. We'll do a business here on our own
account; we does the catchin'; the boy, of course, goes to Mr. Haley—
we takes the gal to Orleans to speculate on. A'nt it beautiful ?"
Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during this communi¬
cation, now suddenly snapped it together, as a big dog closes on a piece
of meat, and seemed to be digesting the idea at his leisure.
" Ye see," said Marks to Haley, stirring his punch as he did so, " ye
see, we has justices convenient at all p'ints along shore, that does up any
little jobs in our line quite reasonable. Tom, he does the knockin' down
and that ar; and I come in all dressed up—shining boots—everything
first chop, when the swearin's to be done. You oughter see, now," said
Marks, in a glow of professional pride, "how I can tone it off. One
day, I'm Mr. Twickem, from New Orleans; 'nother day, I'm just come
from my plantation on Pearl Biver, where I works seven hundred
niggers; then, again, I come out a distant relation of Henry Clay, or
some old cock in Ken tuck. Talents is different, you know. Now, Tom's
a roarer when there's any thumping or fighting to be done; but at
lying he a'nt good—Tom an't—ye see it don't oome natural to him
43 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
but, Lord, if thar's a feller in the country that can swear to anything
and everything, and put in all the circumstances and flourishes witli a
longer face, and carry't through better'n I can, why, I d like to see him,
that's all! I b'lieve, my heart, I could get along and snake throu,b,
even if justices were more particular than they is. Sometimes I rather
wish they was more particular; 'twould be a heap more relishin if they
was—more fun, yer know." , ,
Tom Loker, who, as we have made it appear, was a man ol slow
thoughts and movements, here interrupted Marks by bringing rns
heavy fist down on the table, so as to make all rmg again. It a do I
" Lord bless ye, Tom, ye needn't break all the glasses! said Marks;
" save your fist for time o'need." . ... .,
"But, gentlemen, an't I to come m for a share of the pionts?" said
^"An't it enough we catch the boy for ye ?" said Loker. " YvTiat do ye
want?" ,
" Wal," said Haley, "if I gives you the 30b, it s worth something—say
ten per cent, on the profits, expenses paid."
"Now," said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and striking the tiUe
with his heavy fist, " don't I know you, Dan Haley ? D jn't you think
to come it over me! Suppose Marks and I have taken up tile CjMiiu'
trade, jest to 'commodate gentlemen like you, and get nothin' for
ourselves? Not by a long chalk! we'll have the gal out a:il out,
and you keep qiret, or, ye see, we'll have b'j IL—what's lo hinder? Han't
you show'd us the game ? It's as free to us as you, I hope. If you or
Shelby wants to chase us, look where the pahidges was last year; if you
find them or us, you're quite welcome."
" Oh, wal, certainly, jest let it j?o at that," said Haley alarmed; "you
catch the boy for the job; you allers did trade far with me, Tom, and
was up to yer word."
"Ye know that," said Tom; "I don't pretend none of your snivelling
ways, but I won't lie in my 'counts with the devil himsajx. What I ses
I'll do, I will do; you know that, Dan Haley."
" Jes se, jes so, I said so, Tom," said Haley; "and if you'd only pro¬
mise to have the boy for me in a week, at any point you'll name, that's
all I want."
" But it an't all I want by a long jump," said Tom. "Ye don't think
I did business with you, down in Natchez, for nothing, Haley; I've
learned to hold an eel when I catch him. You've got to fork over fifty
dollars, flair down, or this child don't start a peg. I know yer."
" Why, when you have a job in hand that m.iy briug a clean profit of
somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hundred ? Why, Tom, you're
onreasonable!" said Haley.
" Yes, and hasn't we business booked for five weeks to come—aU
we can do? And suppose we leaves all, and goes to bushwhacking
round arter yer young un, and finally doesn't catch the gal—and gali
allers is the devil to catch—what's then ? would you pay us a cent.—would
you? I think I see you a doin5 it—ugh ! No, no; flap down your fifty
If we get the job, and it pays, I'll hand it back; if we don't, it's for mir
trouble—that's far, an't it, Marks P"
" Certainly, certainly," said Marks, with a conciliatory tone. " It's
only a retaining fee, you see—he J he ! he!—we lawyers, you know. Wal
we must all keep good-natured—keep easy, yer know. Tom'll have the'
boy for yer anywhere ye'll name: won't ye, Tom P"
11* E AMONG THE LOWLY. 47
* If I find the young un, I'll bring him on to Cincinnati, and leave
him at Granny Belcher's, on the landing," said Loker.
Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocket-book, and taking a
long paper from thence, he sat down, and fixing his keen black eyes on
it, began mumbling over its contents: "' Barnes—Shelby county—boy
Jim, three hundred dollars for him, dead or alive. Edwards—Dick and
Lucy—man and wife, six hundred dollars; wench Polly and two chil¬
dren—six hundred for her or her head.'—I'm jest a runnin' over our
business, to see if we can take up this yer handily. Loker," he said,
after a pause, " we must set Adams and Springer on the track of these
yer; they've been booked some time."
" They'll charge too much," said Tom.
" I'll manage that ar; they's young in the business, and must spect
to work cheap," said Marks, as he continued to read. " There's three on
'em easy cases, 'cause all you've got to do is to shoot 'em, or swear they
is shot: they couldn't, of course, charge much for that. Them other
cases," he said, folding the paper, " will bear puttin' off a spell. So now
let's come to the particulars. Now, Mr. Haley, you saw this yer gal
when she landed ?"
" To be sure—plain as I see you."
" And a man helpin' on her up the bank ?" said Loker.
" To be sure, I did."
" Most likely," said Marks, " she's took in somewhere; but where, 's
a question. Tom, what do you say ?"
We must cross the river to-night, no mistake," said Tom.
" But ther's no boat about," said Marks. " The ice is running awfully,
Tom; a'nt it dangerous ? "
" Don'no nothing 'bout that, only it's got to be done," said Tom,
decidedly.
" Dear me," said Marks, fidgeting, " it'll be—I say," he said, walking
to the window, "it's dark as a wolf's mouth, and Tom—"
" The long and short is, you're scared, Marks; but I can't help that,
you've got to go. Suppose you want to lie by a day or two, till the gal's
been carried on the underground line up to Sandusky or so, before
you—"
" Oh, no; I an't a grain afraid," said Marks; "only —"
" Only what ?" said Tom.
" Weil, about the boat. Yer see there an't any boat."
" I heard the woman say there was one coming along this evening,
and that a man was going to cross over in it. Neck or nothing, we must
go with him," said Tom.
" I s'pose you've got good dogs ?" said Haley.
" First rate," said Marks. " But what's the use ? you han't got
nothin' o' hers to smell on."
"Yes, I have," said Haley, triumphantly. "Here's her shawl she
left on the bed in her hurry; she left her bonnet, too."
" That av's lucky," said Loker, " fork over."
" Though the dogs might damage the gal, if they come on her
unawares," said Haley.
" That ar's a consideration," said Maries. " Our dogs tore a feller
half to pieces, once, down in Mobile, 'fore we could- get 'em otf."
" Well, ye see, for this sort that's to be sold for their looks, that *ar
won't answer, ye see," said Haley.
" I do see," said Marks. " Besides, if she's got took in, 'tan'tno go,
neither. Dogs is no 'count in these yer up states where these critter#
48 tncte toll's cabin, ob
geta carried; of course, ye can't get on their track. They only does
down in plantations, where niggers, when they runs, has to do their own
running, and don't get no help."
" Well," saidLoker, who had just stepped out to the bar to make
some inquiries, " they say the man's come with the boat; so, Marks—"
That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quarters he was
leaving, but slowly rose to obey. After exchanging a few words of further
arrangement, Haley, with visible reluctance, handed over the fifty dollars
to Tom, and the worthy trio separated for the night.
If any of our refined and Christian readers object to the society into
which this scene introduces them, let us beg them to begin and conquer
their prej udices in time. The catching business, we beg to remind them,
is rising to the dignity of a lawful and patriotic profession. If all the
oroad land between the Mississippi and the Pacific becomes one great
market for bodies and souls, and human property retains the locomotive
tendencies of this nineteenth century, the trader and catcher may yet
be among our aristocracy.
"Wliile this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and Andy, in a
state of high felicitation, pursued their way home.
Sam was in the highest possible feather, and expressed his exultation
by all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations, by divers odd motions
and contortions of his whole system. Sometimes he would sit backward,
with his face to the horse's tail and sides, and then with a whoop and a
somerset, come right side up in his place again, and drawing on a grave
faco, begin to lecture Andy in high-sounding tones for laughing and
playing the fool. Anon, slapping his sides with his arms, he would
burst forth in peals of laughter, that made the old woods ring as they
passed. With all these evolutions, he contrived to keep the horses up
to the top of their speed, until, between ten and eleven, their heels
resounded, on the gravel at the end of the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to
the railings.
" Is that you, Sam ? Where are they ? "
" Mas'r Haley's a-restin' at the tavern; he's drefful faticued, missis."
"And Eliza, Sam?"
" Wal, she's clar 'cross Jordan. As a body may say, in the land
o' Canaan."
"Why, Sam, what do you mean ? " said Mrs. Shelby, brentliless, and
almost faint, as the possible meaning of these words came over her.
" Wal, missis, de Lord he presarves his own. Lizzy's done gone over
the river into 'Ilio, as 'markably as if de Lord took her over in a charrit
S re >an Pwo bosses."
Dresfinf.S0Ve'n,i ^ P^ty was always uncommonly fervent in his mistress1
" Corns u m^de great capital of scriptural figures anu images,
verandah "Wrf m''Mr- Shelby, who had followed on to the
said he, passim? )iii /°ur m'stress what she wants. Come, come, Emily,"
you allow yourself tnr* wUnd iler> " you are cold and all in a shiver;
" Feel too much ' a ™ t°° much-"
responsible to God for this a-w,°":1!in—a mother ? Are we not both
"Ww • P°°r girl ? My God, lay not this sin to our
W" There's a^a ^ W& haye Cnl? done wha*
"1 0811,4 reason " away?" n8 °f guilt aboufc ^ though," said Mrs. Shelby.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 44
«Andy' y°u nioger, be alive!" called Sam, under the verandah:
take these yer liosses to der barn; don't ye hear mas'r a callin' ?" and
Sam soon appeared, palm-leaf in hand, at the parlour duor.
" N°w> Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was," said Mr. Shelby,
here is Eliza, if you know ? "
" Wal, mas'r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin' on the floatin'
ice. She crossed most 'markably; it wasn't no less nor a miracle; and I
saw a man help her up the 'Hio side, and then she was lost in the dusk."
# " Sam, I think this rather apocryphal—this miracle. Crossing on float¬
ing ice isn't so easily done," said Mr. Shelby.
" Easy! couldn't nobody a done it, widout de Lord. Why, now,"
said Sam, "'twas jist dis yer way. Mas'r Haley, and me, and Andy, we
comes up to de little tavern by the river, and I rides a leetle ahead—(I's
so zealous to be a cotchin' Lizzy, that I couldn't hold in, no way)—and
when I comes by the tavern winder, sure enough there she was, right in
plain sight, and dey diggin' on behind. Wal, I loses off my hat, and
eings out nuff to raise the dead. Course Lizzy she bars, and she dodges
back, when Mas'r Haley he goes past the door; and then, I tell ye, she
clared out de side door; she went down de river bank; Mas'r Haley he
seed her, and yelled out; and him, and me, and Andy, we took arter.
Down she come to the river, and thar was the current running ten feet
wide by the shore, and over t'other side ice a sawin5 and a jiggling up
and down, kinder as 'twere a great island. We come right behind her,
and I thought my soul he'd got her sure enough—when she gin sich a
screech as I never hearn, and thar she was, clar over t'other side the
current, on the ice, and then on she went, a screeching and a jumpin'—
the ice went crack! c'wallop! cracking! chunk! and she a boundin'
like a buck ! Lord, the spring that ar gal's got in her an't common,
I'm o' 'pinion."
Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement, while Sam told
his story.
" God be praised, she isn't dead!" she said; " but where is the poor
child now ? "
" De Lord will pervide," said Sam, rolling up his eyes piously. " As
I've been a sayin', dis yer's a providence and no mistake, as missis hao
allers been a instructin' on us. Thar's allers instrum i-ts ris up to do
de Lord's will. Now, if't hadn't been for me to-day, she'a a been took a
dozen times. Warn't it I started off de hosses, dis yer mornin, and kept
'em chasin' till nigh dinner-time ? And didn't I car Mas'r Halev nigh
five miles out of de road, dis evening ? or else he'd a come up with Lizzy
as easy as a dog arter a coon. These yer's all providences."
" They are a kind of providences that you'll have to be pretty sparing
of, Master Sam. I allow no such practices with gentlemen on my place,"
said Mr. Shelby, with as much sternness as he could command, under
the circumstances.
Now, there is no more use in making believe to be angry with a negro
than with a child; both instinctively see the true state of the case,
through all attempts to affect the contrary; and Sam was in nowise
disheartened by this rebuke, though he assumed an air of doleful
gravity, and stood with the corners of his mouth lowered in most peni¬
tential style. ,, ,
" Mas'r's quite right—quite; it was ugly on me—there s no disputin
that ar; and of course mas'r and missis wouldn't encourage no such
works. I'm sensible of dat ar; but a poor nigger like me's 'mazin
'tempted to act ugly sometimes, wher fellers will cut up such shmes a*
50 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OS
dat ar Mas'r Haley; he an't no gen'l'man no way; anybody's been raided
as I've been can't help a scorn' (lat ai\{ .. to have a proper
" Well, bam," said Mrs. bhelbv, as y Chloe she may get
sense of your errors, you may go n?^(.^f1: ^ f"to.day. You and Andy
you some of that cold ham that was left of dinner y>
m«Mtss?SUisSTheap too good for us - said Sam, making his bow with
alTt"vSil bTpercefvedf'as has been before intimated, that Master Sam
had a native talent that might, undoubtedly, ■ j^m J oTeve^thiS; that
nence in political life—a talent of making capital out of everjrtmng that
turned up, to be invested for his own especial praise and glory, and
havin" doAe up his piety and humihty, as he trusted, to the satisfaction
of the parlour, he clapped his palm-leaf on his head, with a sort of
rakish free-and-easy air, and proceeded to the dominions of Aunt Chloe,
with tlie intention of flourishing largely in the kitchen.
" I'll speechify these yer niggers," said Sam to himself, "now I've got
a chance. Lord, I'll reel it off to make 'em stare!"
It must be observed, that one of Sam's especial delights had been to
ride in attendance on his master to all kinds of political gatherings,
where, roosted on some rail fence, or perched aloft in some tree, he would
eit watching the orators, with the greatest apparent gusto, and then,
descending among the various brethren of his own colour, assembled on
the same errand, -he would edify and delight them with the most ludi¬
crous burlesques and imitations, all delivered with the most imperturb¬
able earnestness and solemnity; and though the -auditors immediately
about him were generally of his own colour, it not unfrequently happened
that they were fringed pretty deeply with those of a fairer complexion,
who listened, laughing and winking, to Sam's great self-congratulation.
In fact, Sam considered oratory as his vocation, and never let slip an
opportunity of magnifying his office.
Now, between Sam ana Aunt Chloe there had existed, from ancient
times, a sort of chronic feud, or rather a decided coolness; but as Sam
was meditating something in the provision department, as the necessary
and obvious foundation of bis operations, he determined, on the present
occasion, to be eminently conciliatory; for he well knew that although
" missis' orders" would undoubtedly he followed to the letter, yet he
should gain a considerable deal by enlisting the spirit also. He therefore
appeared beforeAunt Chloe with a touchingly subdued, resigned expres¬
sion, like one who has suffered immeasurable hardships in behalf of a
persecuted fellow-creature — enlarged upon the fact that missis had di¬
rected him to come to Aunt Chloe fcr whatever might be wanting to,
make up the balance in bis solids and fluids — and thus unequivocally
acknowledged her right and supremacy in the cooking department, and
all thereto pertaining.
The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple, virtuous body wus
ever cajoled by the attentions of an electioneering politician with more
ease than Aunt Chloe was won over bv Master Sam's suavities • and if
he had been the prodigal son himself, he could not have been over¬
whelmed with more maternal bountifulness; and he soon found himself
seated happy and glorious, over a large tin pan, containing a sort of olla
podnda of all that had appeared on the table for two or three davs nasi,
Savoury morsels of ham, golden blocks of corn-cake, fragments of Die of
every conceivable mathematical figure, chicken wings, gizzards, and
drumsticks, all appeared m picturesque confusion; an! Sam, as mon.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 51
arch of all he surveyed, sat with his palm-leaf cocked rejoicingly to one
Bide, and patronising Andy at his right hand.
_ The kitchen was full oi all his compeers, who had hurried and crowded
xa from the various cabins, to hear the termination of the day's exploits.
Now was Sam's hour of glory. The story of the day was rehearsed,
witli all kinds of ornament and varnishing which might be necessary
to heighten its effect; for Sam, like some of our fashionable dilettanti,
never allowed a story to lose any of its gilding by passing through his
hands. Roars of laughter attended the narration, and were taken up
and prolonged by all the small fry, who were lying, in any quantity,
about on the floor, or perched in every corner. In the height of the
uproar and laughter, Sam. however, preserved an immovable gravity,
only from time to time rolling his eyes up, and giving his auditors divers
inexpressibly droll glances, without departing from the sententious
elevation of his oratory.
"Yer see, fellow-countrymen," said Sam, elevating a turkey's leg
with energy, " yer see, now, what dis yer chile's up ter, for fendin.' yer
all—yes, ail on yer. For him as tries to get one o' our people, is as good
as tryin' to get all; yer see the principle's de same—dat ar's clar. And
any one o' these yer drivers that comes smelling round arter any our
people, why he's got me in his way; I'm the feller he's got to set in with
—I'm the feller for ye all to come to, bredren — I'll stand up for yer
rights. I'll fend 'em to the last breath !"
"Why, but Sam, yer tell'd me, only this mornin', that you'd held this
yer mas'r to cotch Lizzy; seems tome yer talk don't hang together," said
Andy.
" I tell you now, Andy," said Sam, with awful superiority, " don't
yer be a talkin' 'bout what yer don't know nothin' on; boys like you,
Andy, means well, but they can't be spected to collusitate the great
principles of action."
Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard word collusitate, which
most of the youngerly members of the company seemed to consider as a
settler in the case, while Sam proceeded :—
" Dat ar was conscience, Andy; when I thought of gwine arter Lizzy, L
raily spected mas'r was sot dat way. When I found missis was sot the
contrar, dat arwas conscience more yet—cause fellers allers gets more by
stickin' to missis' side—so you see I's persistent either way, and sticks
up to conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes, principles," said Sam,
giving an enthusiastic toss to a chicken's neck—"what's principles good
for, if we isn't persistent, I wanter know ? Thar, Andy, you may have
dat ar bone, 'tan't picked quite clean."
Sam's audience hanging on his words with open mouth, he could not
but proceed.
" l)is yer matter 'bout persistence, feller niggers," said Sam, with the
air of one entering into an abstruse subject, dis yer 'sistency's a thing
what an't seed into very clar, by most anybody. Now, yer see, when a
feller stands up for a thing one day and night, de contrar de next, folks
ses (and nat'rally enough dey ses), why he an't persistent — hand me dat
ar bit o' corn cake, Andy. But let's look inter it. I hope the gen'lemen
and der fair sex will scuse my usin' an or'nary sort o5 'parison. Here,
I'm a tryin'to get top o' der hay. Wal, I puts up my lasrder dis yer side;
'tan't no go; den, cause I don't try dere no more, but puts my larder
right de contrar side, an't I persistent ? I'm persistent in wanting to
get up which ary side my larder is; don't yer see, all on yer ?"
« Tfs the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows!" muttered
s 2
52 uncle tom's cabin, ob
Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather restive; the merriment of the
evening being to her somewhat after the Scripture companso
" vinegar upon nitre." . , „ . oin-ro fnr s
"Yes, indeed!" said Sam, rising, full of supper and £017,™r ■
closing, effort. "Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies.of de ««»
isssjs a is& \*«& ^ my
to bed some time to-night, and not to be a keepm.everybody up till
mornin'; now, every one of you young uns that dont want to be
cracked, had better be scase, mighty sudden. . ... , .
" Niggers ! all on yer," said Sam, waving his palm-leaf with benignity,
» j give ver my blessin'; go to bed now, and be good boys."
And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed.
CHAPTER IX.
in which it appears that a senatoe is but a man.
The light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carppt of a cosy
parlour, and glittered on the sides of the tca-cups and well-brightened
tea-p9t, as Senator Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to insert¬
ing his feet in a pair of new handsome slippers, which his wife had been
working for him while away on his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird, looking
the very picture of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the
table, e ver and anon minding admonitory remarks to a number of frolic¬
some juveniles, who were effervescing in all those modes of untold
gambol and mischief that have astonished mothers ever since the Flood.
" Tom, let the door-nob alone—there's a man ! Mary! Miry, don't
pull the cat's tail—poor pussy ! Jim, you mustn't climb on that table—
no, no !—You don't know, my dear, what a surprise it is to us all, to see
you here to-night!" said she, at last, when she found a space to say
something to her husband.
" Yes, yes, I thought I'd just make a run down, spend the night, and
have a little comfort at home. I'm tired to death, and oiy 'lead aches !"
Sirs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor-bottle, which stood in the half-
open closet, and appeared to meditate an approach to it, but her hus¬
band interposed.
" No, no, Mary, no doctoring! a cup of your good hot tea, and some
of our good home living, is what I want. It's a tiresome business, this
legislating!"
.And the senator smiled, as if he rather liked the idea cf considering
liiniself a sacrifice to his country.
" Well," said his wife, after the business of the tea-table was gettin™
rather slack, and what have they been doing in the Senate ?" 0
Now, it was a very unusual tiling for gentle little Mrs. Bird ever to
trouble her head with what was going on in the house of the state very
wisely considering that she had enough to do to mind her own Mr
Bird,therefore, opened his eyes m surprise, end gaid^ ■*
JNot very much of importance."
1IFE AMONG THE LOWlY. 53
"Well; but is ittruetliat they have been passing a law forbidding
people to give meat and drink to tliose poor coloured folks that coma
along ? I heard they were talking of some such law, but I didn't think
any Christian legislature would pass it!"
Why, Mary, you are getting to be a politician, all at once."
'No, nonsense ! I wouldn't give a fip for all your politics, generally,
but I think this is something downright cruel and unchristian. I hops,
my dear, no such law has been passed."
" There has been a law passed forbidding people to help off the slaves
that come over from Kentucky, my dear; so much of that tiling haa
been done by these reckless Abolitionists, that our brethren in Kentucky
are very strongly excited, and it seems necessary, and no more than
Christian and kind, that something should be done by our state to quiet
the excitement."
" And what is the law ? It don't forbid us to shelter these poor creatures
a night, does it ? and to gi^ve 'em something comfortable to eat, and a few
old clothes, and send them quietly about their business ?"
" Why, yes, my dear; that would be aiding and abetting, you know."
Mrs. Bird was a timid; blushing little woman, of about four feet in
height, and with mild blue eyes, and a peach-blow complexion, and the
gentlest, sweetest voice in the world—as for courage, a moderate sized
cock-turkey had been known to put her to rout at the very first srobhle,
and a stout house-dog of moderate capacity would bring her into subjec¬
tion merely by a show of his teeth. Her husband and children were
her entire world, and in these she ruled mtffe by entreaty and persuasion
than by command or argument. There was only one thing that was
capable of arousing her, and that provocation came in on the side of her
unusually gentle and sympathetic nature; anything in the shape of
cruelty would throw her into a passion, which was the more alarming
and inexplicable in proportion to lfhe general softness of her nature.
Generally the most indulgent and easy to be entreated of all mothers,
still her boys had a very reverend remembrance of a most vehement
chastisement she once bestowed on them, because she -found them
leagued with several graceless boys of the neighbourhood, stoning a de¬
fenceless kitten.
" I'll tell you what," Master Bill used to say, " I was scared that time.
Mother came at me so that I thought she was crazy, and I was whipped
and tumbled off to bed, without any supper, before I could get oyer
wondering what had come about; and, after that, I heard mother crying
outside the door, which made me feel worse than all the rest. I'll tell
you what," he'd say* " we boys never stoned another kitten !"
On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly, with very red cheeks,
which quite improved her general appearance, and walked up to her
husband, with quite a resolute air, and said, in a determined tone—
" Now, John, I want to know if you think such a law as that is right
and Christian ? "
" You won't shoot me, now, Mary, if I say I do!"
" I never could have thought it of you, John! You didn't vote for it?
" Even so, my fair politician."
" You ought to be ashamed, John! Poor, homeless, houseless
creatures ! It's a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and I'll break it,
for one, the first time I get a chance; and I hope I shall have a chance,
I do! Things have got to a pretty pass, if a woman can't give a warm
supper and a bed to poor, starving creatures, just because they are
ilaves and have been abused and oppressed all their lives, poor things !
" Hut, ary, just hsUm to me. Your leelings are all quite right, dear,
64 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
End interesting, and I love you for them l^Jhe^de^e^musn't
suffer our feelings to run away with our judgment. interests in-
it's not a matter of Fivate/eel^ng^^er?+a^^nrS w?mStput
volved; there is such a state oi public agitation risi g,
SoSflSSn<>wmytMng atout^Mte butl»n^m|
Bible; and there I see that I must feed the hun^y. clotlie
and comfort the desolate; and that Bible I mean ^ follow. .
" But in cases where your doing so would involve a great puM
" Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it can t. I.a
always safest, all round, to do as He bids us.
" Now, listen to me, Mary, and X can state to you a very clear argu*
m"nC)h, nonsense, John! you can talk all night, but you wouldn't do it.
I put it to you, John, would you now turn away a poor, shiverine,
hungry creature from your door, because he was a runaway ? Y/ovld
you, now?"
Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the misfortune to be
a man who had a particularly humane and accessible nature, and turn¬
ing away anybody that was in trouble never had been his forte; and
what was worse for him in this particular pinch of the argument was,
that his wife knew it, and, of course, was making an assault on rather
an indefensible point. So ne had recourse to the usual means of gaining
tim^ for such cases made and provided; he said " ahem," and coughed
several times, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began to wipe his
glasses. Mrs. Bird, seeing the defenceless condition of the enemy's ter¬
ritory, had no more conscience than to push her advantage.
" I should like to see you doing that, John—I really should! Turn¬
ing a woman out of doors in a snow-storm, for instance, or may be
you'd take har lip and put her in jail, wouldn't you ? You wo-ild make
a great hand a\ that!"
' Of course, would be a very painful duty," began Mr. Bird, in a
moderate tone.
" Duty, John! don't use that word! You know it isn't a duty—it
can't be a duty! If folks want to keep their slaves from running away,
let 'em treat 'em well—that's my doctrine. If I had"slaves (as I hope I
never -shall have), I'd risk their wanting to run away from me, or you
either, John. I toll you folks don't run away when they are happy; and
when they do run, jpoor creatures! they suffer enough with euid and
hunger, and fear, without everybody's turning against them; and, law
or no law, I never will, so help me God!"
Mary, Mary, my dear, let me reason with you."
"I hate reasoning, John—especially reasoning on such subjects.
There s a way you political folks have of coming round and round a
plain right thing; and you don't believe in it yourselves, when it comes
to practice. I know you well enough, Jobn. You don't believe it's
fight any more than I do; and you wouldn't do it any sooner than I"
At this critical iuncture, old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-work, put
his head in at the door, and wisned "missis would come into the
kitchen and our senator, tolerably relieved, looked after his little wife
witb a whimsical mixture of amusement and vexation, and, seating him¬
self in the arm-chair, began to read the papers.
After a moment, his wife's voice was heard at the door, in a quick, ear.
nest tone—" John, Jobn, I do wish you'd come here a moment,"
UffB AMONG THE LOW1T. 55
He laid down his paper and went into th8 kitchen, and started, quite
Amazed at the sight that presented itself:—»A young and slender woman,
with garments torn and frozen, with one shoe gone, and the stocking
torn away from the cut and bleeding foot, was laid back in a deadly
swoon upon two chairs. There was the impress of the desr;sed race on
her face, yet none could help feeling its mournful and pathetic beauty,
while its stony sharpness, its cold, fixed, deathly aspect, struck a solemn
chill over him. Ho drew his breath short, and stood in silence. His
wife, and their only coloured domestic, old Aunt Dinah, were busily
engaged in restorative measures; while old Cudjoe had got the boy on
his knee, and was busy pulling off his shoes and stockings, and chafing
his little cold feet.
" Sure, now, if she ain't a sight to behold," said old Dinah, com¬
passionately ; " 'pears like 'twas the heat that made her faint. She was
tol'able peart when she cum in, and asked if she couldn't warm herself
here a spell; and I was just a-askin' her where she cum from, and she
fainted right down. Never done much hard work, guess, by the looks,
of her hands."
" Poor creature!" said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as the woman
plowly unclosed her large dark eyes, and looked vacantly at her. Sud¬
denly an expression of agony crossed her face, and she sprang up, saying,
" Oh, my Harry! Have they got him ? "
The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe's knee, and, running to lier
side, put up his arms. " Oh, he's here—he's here ! " she exclaimed.
" O, ma'am," said she, wildly, to Mrs. Bird; " do protect us! don't let
them get him I"
" Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman," said Mrs. Bird, encou¬
ragingly. " You are safe; don't be afraid."
' God bless you," said the woman, covering her face and sobbing;
while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get into her lap.
"With many gentle and womanly offices, which none knew better how
to render than Mrs. Bird, the poor woman was in time rendered more
calm. A temporary bed was provided for her on the settle, near the fire;
and, after a short time, she fell into a heavy slumber, with the child, who
seemed no less weary, soundly sleeping on her arm; for the mother re¬
sisted, with nervous anxiety, the kindest attempts to take him from her;
and even in sleep her arm encircled him with an unrelaxing clasp, as i''
she could not even then be beguiled of her vigilant hold.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlour, where, strange as it
may appear, no reference was made on either side to the preceding con¬
versation ; but Mrs. Iiirj busied herself with her knitting-work, and Mr.
Bird pretended to be reading the jpaper._
" I wonder who and what she is," said Mr. Bird, at last, as he laid it
down.
" Y/heii she wakes up and feels a little rested, we will see," said Mrs.
Bird. ... , .
" I say, wife," said Mr. Bird, after musing m silence over his news¬
paper.
" Well, dear!" .
" She couldn't wear one of your gowns, could she, by any letting down,
or such matter ? She seems to be rather larger th&n you are."
A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird's face as saa
answered, " We'll see."
Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out—
" I say, wife!"
45 Well—what now P "
66 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
" Why, there's that old bombazine cloak that you keep on purpose to
put over me when I take my afternoon's nap; you might as well give
her that—she needs clothes." , „ . j
At this instant Dinah looked in to say that the woman was awake, ana
wanted to see missis. „ „ , t
Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the two eiaest
boys, the smaller fry having by this time been safely disposed of m bed.
The woman was now sitting up on the settle by the fire, one was
looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm, heart-broken expression,
very different from her former agitated wildness.
"Did you want mo?" said Mra_ Bird, in gentle tones. I nope you
feel better now, poor woman !"
A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer; but she liueu her
lark eyes, and fixed them on her with such a forlorn and imploring eg¬
ression, that the tears came into the little woman's eyes.
" You needn't be afraid of anything; we are friends here, poor woman!
Fell me where you came from, and what you want," said she.
" I came from Kentucky," said the woman.
" When ?" said Mr. Bird, taking up the interrogatory.
" To-night."
" How did you come ?"
" I crossed on the ice."
" Crossed on the ice ?" said every one present.
"Yes," said the woman, slowly, "I did. God helping me, I crossed
on the ice; for they were behind me—right behind—and there was no
other way !"
" Law, missis," said Cudjoe, " the ice is all in broken-up blocks, a
swinging and a tettering up and down in the water!"
" I know it was—1 know it!" said she, wildly; " but I did it! I
wouldn't have thought I could—I didn't think I should get over, but I
didn't care! . I could but die, if I didn't. The Lord helped me; nobody
k nows how much the Lord can help 'em, till they try," said the woman
vvith a flashing eye.
" Were you a slave P" said Mr. Bird.
" Yes, sir; I belonged to a man in Kentucky."
" Was he unkind to you ?"
" No, sir; he was a good master."
" And was your mistress unkind to you ?"
"No, sir—no! my mistress was always good to me."
" What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and run away,
and go through such dangers ?"
The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird, with a keen, scrutinizing glance,
and it did not escape her that she was dressed in deep mourning.
Ma'am," she said, suddenly, " have you ever lost a child ?"
lhe question was unexpected, and it was a thrust on a new wound •
for it was only a month since a darling child of the family had been laid
in the grave. u
Mr. Bird turned round and walked to the window, and Mrs Bird
burst into tears; but, recovering her voice, she said—
a mu y do you -?sk thafc ? 1 have lost a little one."
i v, Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after anot.W—
lclt em buried there when I came away; and I Lad only this one left
J never slept a night without him; he was all I had. hI was my Com¬
fort and pride, day and night; and,ma'am, they were goinJto toke hSi
f,r°H TT30 ^ hr^SSii h m d0™ south,ma'am,Dto goallalo™
- a bain that had never been aw ay from his mother in his life ! I couldn't
LIFE AMONG THE IOWXY, 67
stand it, ma'am. I knew I never should be good for anything if they
did; and when I knew the papers were signed, and he was sold, I took
him and came of!" in the night; and they chased me—the man that
bought him, and some of mas'r's folks—and they were coming down
right behind me, and I heard 'em. I jumped right on to the ice, and
how I got across I don't know; but first I knew, a man was helping
me up the bank."
The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to a place where
tears are dry; but every one around her was, in some way characteristic)
of themselves, showing signs of hearty sympathy.
The two little boys, after a desperate rummaging in their pockets, in
search of those pocket-handkerchiefs which mothers know are never to
be found there, had thrown themselves disconsolately into the skirts of
their mothers gown, where they were sobbing and wiping their eyes and
noses, to their heart's content: Mrs. Bird had her face fairly hidden in
her pocket-handkerchief; and old Dinah, with tears streaming down
her black, honest face, was ejaculating, " Lord have mercy on us !" with
all the fervour of a camp-meeting; while old Cudjoe, rubbing his eyes
very hard with his cuffs, and making a most uncommon variety of wry
faces, occasionally responded in the same key, with great fervour. Our
senator was a statesman, and of course could not be expected to cry,
like other mortals; and so he turned his back to the company, and
looked out of the window, and seemed particularly busy in clearing his
throat, and wiping his spectacle-glasses, occasionally blowing his nose in
a manner that was calculated to excite suspicion, had any one been in a
state to observe critically.
" How came you to tell me you had a kind master ? " he suddenly ex¬
claimed, gulping down very resolutely some kind of rising in his throat,
and turning suddenly round upon the woman.
"Because he was a kind master,—I'll say that of him, any way;
and my mistress was kind; but they couldn't help themselves. They
were owing money; and there was some way, I can't tell how, that a
man had a hold on them, and they were obliged to give him his will.
I listened, and heard him telling mistress that, and she begging and
pleading for me; and he told her he couMn't help himself, and that the
papers were all drawn; and then it was I took him and left my homo,
and came away. I knew 'twas no use of my trying to live, if they did
it; for't 'pears like this child is all I have."
" Have you no husband ?"
"Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is real hard to
him, and won't let him come to see me hardly ever; and he's grown
harder and harder upon us, and he threatens to sell him down south.
It's like I'll never see him again !"
The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these words might
have lea a superficial observer to think that she was entirely apathetic;
but there was a calm? settled depth of anguish in her large, dark eye,
that spoke of something far otherwise.
"And where do you mean to go, my poor woman P" said Mrs. Bird.
" To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very far off, is
Canada?" said she, looking up, with a simple, confiding air, to Mrs.
Bird's face.
" Poor thing !" said Mrs. Bird, involuntarily.
" Is't a very great way off, think?" said the woman, earnestly.
" M uch further than you think, poor child!" said Mrs. Bird; " but
we will try to think what can be done for you. Here, Dinah, make her
up a bed in your own ruom, close by the kitchen, and I'll think what to
1)8 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
do for her in the morning. Meanwhile, never fear, poor woman. Pu*
your trust in God; he will protect you.
Mrs. Bird and her husband re-entered the parlour. She sat down m
her little rocking-chair before the fire, swaying thoughtfully to and iro.
Mr. Bird strode up and down the room, grumbling to himself, tisn.
pshaw! confounded awkward business! At length, striding up to his
wif© lio said
" i say, wife, she'll have to get away from here, this very night. That
fellow will be down on the scent bright and early to-morrow morning.
If 'twas only the woman, she could lie quiet till it was over; but that
little chap can't be kept still by a troop of horse and foot, I'll warrant
me; he'll bring it all out, popping his head out of some window or
door. A pretty kettle of fish it would be for me, teo, to be caught
with them both here, just now! No; they'll nave to be got oS
to-night."
" To-night! How is it possible ?—where to?"
"Well, I know pretty well where to," said the senator, beginning to
put on his boots, with a reflective air; and stopping when his leg was
half in, he embraced his knee with both hands, and seemed to go off in
deep meditation.
"It's a confounded awkward, ugly business," said he, rt lrst, begin¬
ning to tug at his boot-straps again, "and that's a fact!" After one
boot was fairly on, the senator sat with the other in his hand, profoundly
studying the figure of the carpet. " It will have to be done, though,
for aught I see —hang it all!" and he drew the'other boot anxiously
on, and looked out of the window.
Now, little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman—a woman who never in
her life said, "I told you so! " and, on the present occasion, though
pretty well aware of the shape her husband's meditations were taking,
she very prudently forbore to meddle with them, only sat very quietly
in her chair and looked quite readyto hear her liege lord's intentions,
when he should think proper to utter them.
" You see," he said, " there's my old client, Yan Trompe, has come
over from Kentucky, and set all his slaves free; and he has bought a
place seven miles up the creek, hero, back in the woods, where nobody
goes, unless they go on purpose; and it's a place that isn't found in a
hurry. There she'd be safe enough; but the plague of the thing is,
nobody could drive a carriage there to-night but me."
" Why not ? Cudjoo is an excellent driver."
" Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be crossed twice; and the
second crossing is quite dangerous, unless one knows it, as I do. I have
crossed it a hundred times on horseback, and know exactly the turns
to take. And so, you sec, there's no help for it. Cudjoe must put in
the horses, as quietly as may be, about twelve o'clock, and I'll take her
over; and then, to give colour to the matter, he must carry me on to the
next tavern, to take the stage for Columbus, that comes by about three
or four, and so it will look as if I had had the carriage only for that. I
shall get into business bright and early in the morning. But I'm
thinking I shall feel rather cheap there, after all that's been said and
done; but, hang it, I c.ihelp ;t."
" \ our heart is better thsu y< »ir head, in this case, John," said the
wife, laying her little white hand on his. " Could I ever have loved
you, nad I not known you better than you know yourself?" And the
little woman looked so handsome, with the tears sparkling in her eyes,
that the senator thought he must be a decidedly clever fellow to get such
a pretty creature into such a passionate admiration of him; and so
LIFE AMONG THB IGWLY. gg
wiiat could he do but walk off soberly, to see about the carnage ? At the
door, however, he stopped a moment, and then coming back, he said,
mth some hesitation—
" Mary, I don't know how you'd feel about it, but there's the drawei
Sill of things—of—of—poor little Henry's." So saying, he turned
quickly on his heel, and shut the door after him.
His wife opened the little bedroom door adjoining her room,' and,
taking the candle, set it down on the top of a bureau there; then from
a small recess she took a key, and put it thoughtfully in the lock of a
drawer, and made a sudden pause, while two boys, who, boy-like, had
followed close on her heels, stood looking, with silent, significant glances
at their mother. And oh!—mother that reads this—has there never
been in your house a drawer, or a closet, the opening of which has been
to you like the opening again of a little grave ? Ah! happy mother
that you are, if it has not been so.
Sirs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. There were little coats of many
a form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows of small stockings; and
even a pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at the toes, were peeping
from the folds of a paper. There was a toy „orse and waggon, a top, a
ball—memorials gathered with many a tear and many a heart-break !
She sat down by the drawer, and, leaning her head on her hands
over it, wept till the tears fell through her fingers into the drawer;
then suddenly raising her head, she began, with nervous haste, select¬
ing the plainest and most substantial articles, and gathering them into
a bundle.
" Mamma," said one of the boys, gently touching her arm, "are you
going to give away those things ?"
" My dear boys," she said, softly and earnestly, " if our dear, loving
little Henry looks down from heaven, he would be glad to have us do
this. I could not find it in my heart to give them away to any common
Serson—to anybody that was happy; but I give them to a mother more
eart-broken and sorrowful than i am; and I hope God will send his
blessings with them!"
There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring up
into joys for others; whose earthly hopes laid in the grave with many
tears, are the seed from which spring healing flowers and balm for the
desolate and the distressed. Among such was the delicate woman who
sits there by the lamp, dropping slow tears, while she prepares the me¬
morials of her own lost one for the outcast wanderer.
After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and, taking from thence
a plain? serviceable dress or two, she sat down busily to her work-table,
and, with needle, scissors, and thimble, at hand, quietly commenced the
. "letting down" process which her husband had recommended,and con¬
tinued busily at it till the old clock in the corner struck twelve, and she
b~wd the low rattling of wheels at the door.
'' Mary," said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in his
Iimd, " you must wake her up now; we must be off."
Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had collected in £„
small plain trunk, and locking it, desired her husband to see it in the
carriage, and then proceeded to call the woman. Soon, arrayed in a
cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that had belonged to her benefactress, she
appeared at the door with her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her
into the carriag3, and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carnage-
steps. Eliza leaned out of the carriage, and put out her hand, a hand
as soft and beautiful as was given in return. She fixed her large, dark
*yes, full ol earnest meaning, on Mrs. "Bird's face, and seemed goiug to
CO UNCLE ATOM'S CABIN, OH
speai. Her lips moved, slie tried once or twice, but there was no sound,
and pointing upward, with a look never to be forgotten, she fell back m
the seat, and covered her face. The door was shut, and the carriage
drove on. ,
"What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, that had been all the
week before spurring up the legislature of his native State to pass more
stringent resolutions against escaping fugitives, their harbourers and
abettors!
Our good senator in his native State had not been exceeded by
any of liis brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquence which
Iri-n won for them immortal renown! How sublimely he had sat with
his hands in his pockets, and scouted all sentimental weakness of those
who would put the welfare of a few miserable fugitives before great
state interests!
He was as bold as a lion about it, and "mightily convinced" not only
himself, but everybody that heard him ; but then his idea of a fugitive
was only an idea of the letters that spell the word; or, at the most, the
iiii- ge of a little newspaper picture of a man with a stick and bundle,
wit a " Ran away from the subscriber" under it. The magic of the real
presence of distress, the imploring human eye, the frail, trembling
human hand, the despairing appeal of helpless agony, these he had never
tried. He had never thought that a fugitive might be a hapless mother,
a defenceless child, like that one which was now wearing his lost boy's
little well-known cap; and so, as our poor senator was not stone or
steel, as he was a man, and a downright noble-hearted one, too, he
was, as everybody must see, in a sad case for his patriotism. And you
need not exult over him, good brother of the Southern States; for we
have some inklings that many of you, under similar circumstances,
would not do much better. We have reason to know, in Kentucky, as
in Mississippi, are noble and generous hearts, to whom never was a tale
of suffering told in vain. Ah, good brother! is it fair for you to expect
of us services which your own brave, honourable heart would not allow
you to render, were you in our place ?
Be that as it may, if our good senator was a political sinner, he was in
a fair way to expiate it by his night's penance. There had been a long
continuous period of rainy weather, and the soft, rich earth of Ohio, as
every one knows, is admirably suited to the manufacture of mud, and
the road was an Ohio railroad, of the good old times.
"And pray what sort of a road may that be ?" says some eastern tra¬
veller, who has been accustomed to connect no ideas with a railroad but
those of smoothness or speed.
Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted regions of the
west, where the mud is of unfathomable and sublime depth, roads are
made of round rough logs, arranged transversely side by side, and coaled
over in their pristine freshness with earth, turf, and whatsoever may
come to hand, and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road, and straight*
way essayeth to ride thereupon. In process of time the rains wash off
all the turf and grass aforesaid, move the logs hither and thither, in pic¬
turesque positions, up, downj and crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts
of black mud intervening.
Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling along, making
moral reflections as continuously as under the circumstances could be
expected, the carriage proceeding along much as follows: bump! bump!
bump! slush! down in the mud!—the senator, woman, and child re¬
versing their positions so suddenly as to come, without any very accurate
sdjustment, against the windows oi the down-hill side. Carriage sticks
II*B AMONG THE LOWLY. 61
fast, while Cudjoe on the outside is heard making a great muster among
the horses. After various ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as the
senator is losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a
bounce, two front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator
woman, and child all tumble promiscuously on to the front seat: sena¬
tor's hat is jammed over his eyes and nose quite unceremoniously, and
he considers himself fairly extinguished; child cries, and Cudjoe on the
outside delivers animated addresses to the horses, who are kicking, and
floundering, and straining under repeated cracks of the whip. Carriage
springs up with another bounce—down go the hind wheels—senator,
woman, and child fly over on to the back seat, his elbows encountering
her bonnet, and both her feet being jammed into his hat, which flies oil
in the concussion. After a few moments the " slough" is passed, and
the horses stop, panting; the senator finds his hat, the woman straight¬
ens her bonnet and hushes her child, and they brace themselves firmly
for what is yet to come.
For a while only the continuous bump! bump! intermingled,just
by way of variety, with divers side plunges and compound shakes; and
they begin to flatter themselves that they are not so badly oif, alter all.
At last, with a square plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then
down into their seats with incredible quickness, the carriage stops, and,
after much outside commotion, Cudjoe appears at the door.
" Please, sir, it's powerful bad spot this yer. I don't know how we's
to get clar out. I'm a thin kin' we'll have to be a gettin' rails."
The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm
foothold. Down goes one foot an immeasurable depth; he tries to pull
it up, loses .his balance, and tumbles over into the mud, and is fished
out, in a very despairing condition, by Cudjoe.
But we forbear, out of sympathy to our reader's bones. Western
travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in the interesting pro¬
cess of pulling down rail fences to pry their carriages out of mud-holes,
will have a respectful and mournful sympathy with our unfortunate
hero. We beg them to drop a silent tear, and pass on.
It was full late in the night when the carriage emerged, dripping and
bespattered, out of the creek, and stood at the door of a large farmhouse.
It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the inmates; but at
last the respectable proprietor appeared, and undid the door. He was a
great, tall, bristling Orson of a fellow, full six feet and some inches in
his stockings, and arrayed in a red flannel hunting-shirt. A very heavy
mat of sandy hair, in a decidedly tousled condition, and a beard of some
days' growth, gave the worthy man an appearance, to say the least, not
particularly prepossessing. He stood for a few minutes holding the
candle aloft and blinking on our travellers with a dismal and mystified
expression that was truly ludicrous. It cost some effort of our senator
to induce him to comprehend the case fully; and while he is doing his
best at that, we shall give him a little introduction to our readers.
Honest old John Van Trompe was once quite a considerable land¬
holder and slave-owner in the State of Kentucky. Having " nothing of
the bear about him but the skn," and being gifted by nature with a
great, honest, just heart, quite oqual to his gigantic frame, he had been
for some years witnessing wit^ repressed uneasiness the workings of a
system equally bad for oppressor and oppressed. At last, one day John's
{?reat heart had swelled altogether too big to wear his bonds any longer,
bo he just took his poclceVbook out of his desk, and went over into
Ohio, and bought a quarter of a township of good rich land; made out
free papers for all his xwople, men. women, and children; packed tneai
63 tTNCHC TOM'8 CABIN, OB
up in waggons, and sent them off to settle down ; and then honest Jphn
turned his face up the creek, and sat quietly down on a snug, retired
farm, to enjoy his conscience and his reflections.
"Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and child iroxn
slave-catchers ?" said the senator, explicitly. ,
" I rather think I am," said honest John, with some considerable
emphasis.
I thought so," said the senator. . . , ,
" If there's anybody comes," said the good man, stretching nis tall
muscular form upward," why here I'm ready for him; and I ve got seven
sons, each six foot high, and they'll be ready for 'em. Give our respects
to 'em," said John; tell 'em it's no matter how soon they call, make no
kinder difference to us" said John, running his fingers through the shock
of hair that thatched his head, and bursting out into a great laugh.
Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up to the door,
with her child lying, in a heavy sleep, on her arm. The rough man held
the candle to her face, and, uttering_ a kind of compassionate grunt,
opened the door of a small bedroom adjoining to the large kitchen here
they were standing, and motioned her to go in. He took down a candle,
and lighting it, set it upon the table, and then addressed himself to
Eliza.
" Now, I say, gal, you needn't be a bit afeard, let who will come here.
I'm up to all that sort o' thing," said he, pointing to two or three goodly
rifles over the mantelpiece; "and most people tluiu know me know lhat
'twouldn't be healthy to try to get anybody out o' my house when I'm
agin it. So now you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as if yer mother was
a rockin' ye," said he, as he shut the door.
" Why, this is an uncommon handsome un," he said to the senator.
" Ah, well; handsome uns has the greatest cause to run sometimes; if
they has any kind o' feeling, such as decent women should. I know all
about that."
The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Eliza's history.
" O ! ou ! aw! now, I want to know !" said the good man, pitifully
"sho! now, sho! That's natur' now, poorcrittur! hunted down, now,
like a deer—hunted down jest for havin' natural feelins, and doin' what
no kind o' mother could help a doin'! I tell ye what, the?e yer things
make me come the nighest to swearin', now, o' most anything" said
honest John, as he wiped his eyes with the back of a great, freckled, yel¬
low b^nd. " I tell yer what, stranger, it was years and years before I'd
jine tue church, 'cause the ministers round in our parts u>ed to preach
that the Bible went in for these ere cuttings up; and I oou Idn't be up to
'em with their Greek and Hebrew, and so I tool: up agin 'cm, Bible and
all. I never jined the church till I found a minister that n as up to'em
all in Greek and all that, and he said ri^ht the contrary; and Lhen I took
right hold, and jined the church—I did now, fact." said John who had
been all this time uncorking some very frisky bottled cider, which at this
juncture he presented.
« " T?'n be,t,ter Jest Put UP here, now, till daylight," said he, heartilv
time" UP woman, and have a bed got ready for you in no
" Thank you, my good friend," said the senator, "I must bo a!on" to
take the night stage for Columbus." c'
"Ah, well, then, if you must, I'll go a piece with you, and show vou
a cross road tha,t will take you there better than the road you came on
That road's mighty bad."
John equipped himself, and, with a lantern in hand, was soon seen
xife amoto the ZOWLT. $3
guiding tho benptor's carriage towards a road that ran down in a hollow
at the buck ot his dwelling. When they parted, the senator put into
his hind a ten-dollar bill.
" It's for her/' he said, briefly.
"Ay, ay," said John, with equal conciseness.
They shook hands and parted.
CHAPTER X
the peopebty 18 carried off.
The February morning looked gray and drizzling through the win¬
dow of Uncle Tom's ci>,bin. It looked on downcast faces, the "mages of
mournful hearts. The little fable stood out before the lire, covered with
an ironing-cloth ; a <)oarse but clean shirt or two, fresh from the iron,
hung on the back of a chair by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had another
spread out before her on tho table. Carefully she rubbed and ironed
every fold and every hem, with the most scrupulous exactness, every now
and then raising her hand to her face to wipe off the tears that were
coursing down her cheeks.
Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and his head lean¬
ing upn.i his hand ; but neither spoke. It was yet early, and the chil¬
dren lay all asleep together in their little rude trundle-bed.
Torn, who had to the full tho gentle, domestic heart, which, woe for
them! has been a peculiar characteristic of his unhappy race, got up
and walked silently to look at his children.
" It's the last time," he said.
AuntChloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and over on the
coarse shirt, already as smooth as hands could make it; and finally set¬
ting her iron suddenly down with a despairing plunge, she sat down to
the table, and " lifted up her voice and wept."
" S'pose we must be resigned; but O Lord! how ken I ? If I know'd
anything whar you's goin', or how they'd sarve you! Missis says she'll
try and 'deem ye, in a year or two; but Lor ! nobody never' comes up
that goes down thar! They kills 'em! I've hearn 'em tell how dey
works 'em up on. dem ar plantations."
" There'll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is here."
"Well," said Aunt Chloe, "s'pose dere will; but de Lord lets drefful
things happen, sometimes. I don't seem to get no comfort dat way."
"I'm in the Lord's hands," said Tom; nothin' can go no f'urder
than he lets it; and tliar's one thing I can thpnk him for. It's me
that's sold and going down, and not you nur the chil'en. Here you're
safe; what comes will come only on me; and the Lord, he'll help me—
I know he will."
Ah, brave, manly heart, smothering thine own sorrow, to comfort thy
beloved ones! Tom spoke with a thick utterance, and with a bitter
choking in his throat—but he spoke brave and strong.
"Let's think on our marries!" he added, tremulously, as if he was
quite sure he needed to think on them very hard indeed.
"Marries !" said Aunt Chloe, " don't see no marcy in't! tan't right
tan't right it should be so ! Mas'r never ought ter left it so that n
could be took for his <hbts. Ye've arnt him all he gets for ye, twu*
over. He owed ye yer freedom, and ought ter gin't to yer years ago,
Mebbe he cant't help himself now, but I feel it's wrong. Nothma
64 uncle Tom's cabin, ob
beat that ar out o» me. Sich a faithful crittur as ye've been and ^lers
sot his business 'fore yer own every way, and reckoned on him
than yer own wife and chil'en ! Them as sells heait,s love and heart
blood, to get out thar scrapes, de Lord 11 be up 1i0 h ;est the
" Chloe ! now, if ye love me, ye won t ta k SO' when pCThaps^^est in
last time we'll ever have together! And 111 tell ye,Ajloe, it ,oesa,m
me to hear one word agin mas r. Wan t he put m y , snected
it's nature I should think a heap of him. . And he couldn t 1spected
to think so much of poorTom. Mas'rsis used t° havm all Uic.ejer
things done for 'em, and nat Uy they don t think so much on ^ iey
can't be spected to, no way. Set him 'longside of other mas rs who s
had the treatment and the livin' I've had ? And he never would have
let this yer come on me if lie could have seed it aforehana. I know ne
" Wal, any way, thar's wrong about it somewhar," said Aunt Chloe,
in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant trait—" I can't
jest make out whar't is, but thar's wrong somewhar, I'm clar o' that."
"Yer ou^ht ter look up to the Lord above; he's above all—thar don't
a sparrow tail without him."
It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter," said Aunt Chloe.
" But dar's no use talkin'; I'll jes wet up de corn-cake, and get ye one
good breakfast, 'cause nobody knows when you'll get another."
In order to appreciate the sufferings ol the negroes sold south, it must
be remembered that all the instinctive affections of that race are pecu¬
liarly strong. Their local attachments are very abiding. They are not
naturally daring and enterprising, but home-loving and affectionate.
Add to this all the terrors with which ignorance invests the unknown,
and add to this, again, that selling to the south is set before the nesro
from childhood as the last severity of punishment. The threat that
terrifies more than whipping or torture of any kind is the threat of
being sent down river. We have ourselves heard this feeling expressed
by them, and seen the unaffected horror with which they will sit in their
gossiping hours, and tell frightful stories of that" down river," which to
them is
" That undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns."
A missionary among the fugitives in Canada told us that many of the
fugitives confessed themselves to have escaped from comparatively kind
masters, and that they were induced to brave the perils of escape, in
almost every case, by the desperate horror with which they regarded
being sold south—a doom which was hanging either over themselves or
their husbands, their wives or children. This nerves the African, natu¬
rally patient, timid, and unenterprising, with heroic courage, and leads
him to suffer hunger, cold, pain, the perils of the wilderness, and the
more dread penalties of recapture.
The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs Shelbv
had excused Aunt Chloe's attendance at the great house that morning
The poor soul had expended all her little energies on this farewell feast
—had knled and dressed her choicest chicken, and prepared her corn-
cake with scrupulous exactness, just to her husband's taste, and brought
out certain mysterious jars on the mantel-piece, some preserves thai
were never produced except on extreme occasions
vfr'f?»te/^Said Mo.s.e> triumphantly, "han't'we got a buster of a
br»akM;! at the same tune catching at a fragment of the chicken.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 6&
Aunt Chloe gave him a suddon box on the ear. " Thar now! crowing
over the last breal:fast yer poor daddy's gwine to have at home!"
' Oh, Chloe," said Tom, gently.
u "Will, I can't helpit," said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face in her apron,
I s so tossed about, it makes me act ugly."
The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father and then al
their mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes, began an impe¬
rious, commanding cry.
" Thar !" said Aunt Chloe, wiping her eyes and taking up the baby;
now I's done, I hope—now do eat something. This yer's my nicest
chicken. Thar, boys, ye shall have some, poor critturs! Yer mammy's
been cross to yer."
The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with great zeal
for the eatables; and it was well they did so, as otherwise there would
have been vory little performed to any purpose by the party.
" Now," said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, " I must
put up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he'll take'em all away. I know
thar ways—mean as dirt, they is! Wal, now, yer flannels for rhumatis
is in this corner; so be earful, 'cause there won't nobody make ye
no more. Then here's yer old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed
off these yer stockings last night, and put de ball in 'em to mend with.
But, Lor! who'll ever mend for ye P" and Aunt Chloe, again over¬
come, laid her head on the box side, and sobbed. " To think on't! no
crittur to do for ye, sick or well! I don't railly think I ought ter be
good now!"
The boys having eaten everything there was on the breakfast-table,
began now to take some thought of the case; and seeing their mother
crying, and their father looking very sad, began to whimper and put
their hands to their eyes. Uncle Tom had the baby on his knee,
and was letting her enjoy herself, to the utmost extent, scratching
his face and pulling his hair, and occasionally breaking out into
clamorous explosions of delight, evidently arising out of her own -in¬
ternal reflections.
" Ay, crow away, poor crittur!" said Aunt Chloe; " ye'll have to
come to it, too! ye'll live to see yer husband sold, or mebbe be sold
yerself; and these yerboys, they's to be sold, I s'pose, too, jest like as
not, when dey gets good for somethin'; an't no use in niggers havin'
nothin'!"
Here one of the boys called out, " Thar's missis a-comin' in!"
" She can't do no good: what's she coming for ?" said Aunt Chloe.
Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in-a manner
decidedly gruff and crusty. She did not seem to notice either the action
or the manner. She looked pale and anxious.
" Tom," she said, " I come to—" and stopping suddenly, and regard¬
ing the silent group, she sat down in the cnair, and, covering her face
with her handkerchief, began to sob.
" Lor, now, missis, don't—don't!" said Aunt Chloe. bursting out in
licr turn; and for a few moments they all wept in company. And in
those tears they all shed together, the high and the lowly, melted away
all the heart-burnings and anger of the oppressed. Oh, ye who visit the
distressed, do ye know that everything your money can buy? given
with a cold, averted face, is not worth one honest tear shed m real
sympathy ? „ .
" My good fellow," said Mrs. Shelby, " I can't give vou anything to
(Jo you any good. If I give you money, it will only be taken from you.
1 fceil you solemn!/, and before God, that I will keep trace or you,
63 UNCLE TOM'8 CAElJrf, OB
and bring you back as soon as I can command the monvy; and, till then!
trust in God!"' „ , , „n
Here the boys called out that Mas'r Haley was eoramg^ndthenan
unceremonious kick pushed open the door. Haley st°0^ \n leIf,
ill humour, having ridden hard the night before, and be.ng not at
pacified by his ill success in recapturing his prey. ^ , _ „, • ,
" Come." said he, " ye nigger, ye'r ready i Servant, ma am ; said he,
takin a off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby. . . , m
Aunt Chloe shut and corded the box, and, getting up, looked gruffly
on the trader, her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks 01 nre.
Tom rose up meekly, to follow his new master, and raised up nis
heavy box on his shoulder. His wife took the baby in her arms to
go with him to the waggon, and the children, still crying, trailed ou
Mrs." Shelby, walking up to the trader, detained him for a few mo¬
ments, talking with him in an earnest manner; and while she was thus
talking, the whole family party proceeded to a waggon, that stood ready
harnessed at the door. A crowd of all the old and young hands on the
place stood gathered around it, to bid farewell to their old associate. Tom
had been looked up to, both as a head servant and a Christian teacher,
by all the place, and there was much honest sympathy and grief about
him, particularly among the women.
" Why, Chloe, you bar it better'n we do!" said one of the women, who
had been weeping freely, noticing the gloomy calmness with which Aunt
Chloe stood by the waggon.
" I's done my tears !*"' said she, looking grimly at the trader, who was
coming up. " I does not feel to cry 'fore dat ar old limb, no how !"
" Get in !" said Haley to Tom, as he strode through the crowd of
servants, who looked at him with lowering brows.
Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the waggon-seat a
heavy pair of shackles, made them fast around each ankle.
A smothered groan of indignation ran through the whole circle, and
Mrs. Shelby spoke from the verandah—
" Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely unnecessary "
" Don't know, ma'am; I've lost one five hundred dollars from this yer
place, and I can't afford to run no more risks."
" What else could she spect on him ?" said Aunt Chloe, indignantly ;
while the two boys, who now seemed to comprehend at once their
father's destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing and groaning vehemently.
" I'm sorry," said Tom, " that Mas'r George happened to be away."
George had gone to spend two or three days with a companion
on a neighbouring estate, and having departed early in the morning
before Tom's misfortune had been made public, had left without hear,
ing of it.
' Give my love to Mas'r George," he said, earnestly.
Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful look, fixed
fco the last on the old place, Tom was whirled away.
Mr. Shelby at this time \yas not at home. He had sold Tom under
the spur of *a driving necessity, to get out of the power of a man he
dreaded, and his first feeling, after the consummation of the bargain
had been that of relief. But his wife's expostulations awoke his half-
siumhermg regrets ; and Tom's disinterestedness increased the unplea¬
santness of his feelings. It was in vain that he said to himself that he
had a right to do it, that everybody did it, and that some did it with¬
out even the excuse of necessity; he could not satisfy his own feelings •
<yid that he might not witness the unpleasant scenes of the consurtmm-'
LIFE AMONG THH LOWIT. 67
tion, he had gone on a short business tour up the country, hoping that
all would be over before he returned.
Tom arid Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling past every
old familiar spot, until the bounds of the estato were fairly passed, and
they found themselves out on the open pike. After they had ridden
about a mile, Haley suddenly drew up at the door of a blacksmith's shop,
when, taking out with him a pair of handcuffs, he stepped into the shop,
to have a little alteration in them.
" These ye-r's a little too small for his build," said Haley, showing the
fetters, ana pointing out to Tom.
"Lor ! now, if thar an't Shelby's Tom. He han't sold him now?"
said the smith.
" Yes, he has," said Haley.
"Now, ye don't I Well, reely,' said the smith, " who'd a thought it!
Why, ye needn't go to fetterin him up this yer way. He's the faith-
fullest, best cnttur—"
" Yes, yes," said Haley; "but your good fellows are just the critturs
to want ter run off. Them stupid ones, as doesn't care whar they go,
and shifless, drunken ones, as don't care for nothin', they'll stick by, and
like as not be rather pleased to be toted round; but these yer prime
fellows, they hates it like sin. N o way but to fetter 'em; got legs—
they'll use 'em, no mistake."
" Well," said the smith, feeling among his tools," them plantations
down thar, stranger, an't jest the place a Kentuclc nigger wants to go to;
they dies thar tol'able fast, don't they ?"
" Wal, yes, tol'able fast ther dying is; what with the climating and
one thing and another, they dies so as to keep the market up pretty
brisk," said Haley.
" Wal, now, a feller can't help thinkin' it's a mighty pity to have a nice,
quiet, likely fellow, as good un as Tom is, go down to be fairly ground up
on one of them ar sugar plantations."
" Wal, he's got a fa'r chance. T. promised to do well by him. I'll get
him in house-servant in some good old family, and then if he stands the
fever and 'climating, he'll have a berth good as any nigger ought ter
ask for."
" He leaves his wife and chil'en up here, s'pose ? "
" Yes; but he'll get another thar. Lord, thar's women enough every-
whar," said Haley.
Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the shop while
this conversation was going on. Suddenly he heard the quick, short
click of a horse's hoof behind him; and before he could fairly awake
from his surprise, young Master George sprang into the waggon, threw
his arms tumultuously round his neck, and was sobbing and scoldin?
with energy.
" I declare, it's' real mean! I don't care what they say, any of 'em i
It's a nasty, mean shame! If I was a man, they shouldn't do it—thes
should not, so I" said George, with a kind of subdued howl.
" O Mas'r George! this does me good!" said Tom. " I couldn't bar
to go off without seem' ye ! It does me real good, ye can't tell!" Hen
Tom made some movement of his feet, and George's eyes fell on tb
fetters.
" What a shame!" he exclaimed, lifting his hands. " I'll knock that
old fellow down—I will!"
"No you won't, Mas'r George; and you must not talk so loud. It
won't help me any, to anger him."
a Weil. I won't, then, for your sake; but only to think of itr—isn t it
F 2
63 CNCLE TOll'S CABIN, OB
a shame? They never sent for me, nor se.nt me any VpiTvou I
hadn't been for Tom Lincoln, I shouldn t have heard it. I tell you,
blew'em up well, all of'em, at home !''
" That ar wasn't right, I'm fear d, Mas r Oeorge. , mnTn » sa^
a I've brought if oumy dollar! n ;n +7-1»
" Oh! I couldn't think o' takin' on't, Mas r George, no ways in tne
world!" said Tom, quite moved. , T .11 A11T1f
"But you shall take it!" said George. Look here; I told Aunt
Chloe I'd do it, and she advised me just to make a hole m it, and put a
string through, so you could hang it round your neck, and keep iLt °ut of
sight, else this mean scamp would take it away. I tell ye, lom, I Want
to blow him up! it would do me good!"
" No, don't, Mas'r George, for it won't do me any good.
"Well, 1 won't, for your sake," said George, busily tying his dollar
round Tom's neck; " but there, now, button your coat tight over it, anl
keep it, and remember, every time you see it, that I'll come down after
you, and bring you back. Aunt Chloe and I have been talking about it.
I told her not to fear; I'll see to it, and I'll tease father's life out, if he
don't do it."
" O Mas'r George, ye mustn't talk so 'bout yer father!"
"Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad."
"And now, Mas'r George," said Tom, "ye must be a good boy;
'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep close to yer mother.
Don't be gettin' into any of them foolish ways boys has of get tin' too big
to mind their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas'r George, the Lord gives good
many things twice over; but he don't give ye a mother but once. Ye'il
never see sich another woman, Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hundred
years old. So, now, you hold on to her, and grow up, and be a comfort
to her, thar's my own good boy—you will now, won't ye ?"
" Yes, I will, Uncle Tom," said George, seriously.
"And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young boys, when
they comes to your age, is wilful, sometimes—it's natur they should be.
But real gentlemen, such as I hopes you'll be, never lets fall no words
that isn't 'spectful to thar parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George ?:'
" No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good advice."
"1's older, ye know," said Tom, stroking the boy's fine curly head
with his large, strong hand, but speaking in a voice as tender as a
woman's, " and I sees all that's bound up in you. O Mas'r George, you
has everything—larnin', privileges, readin', writin'—and you'll grow up
to be a great, learned, good man, and all the people on the place and your
mother and father '11 be so proud on ye! Be a good mas'r. like yer
father; and be a Christian like yer mother. 'Member yer Creator in
ihe days o' yer youth, Mas'r George."
" I'll be real good. Uncle Tom, I tell you," said George. " I'm going
to be a Jvrst rater; and don't you be discouraged. I'll have you back
to the place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe this morning, I'll build your
house all over, and you shall have a room for a parlour with a carpet on
it, when I'm a man. Oh, you'll have good times yet!"
Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his hands.
" Look here, now, Mister," said George, with an air of great superiority
as he got out, I shall let father and mother know how you treat Uncle
Tom!
" You're welco.ne," said the trader.
" I should think you'd be ashamed to ppend all your tife buying men
inro AMONG she tOWLY. 69
fend women, and chaining them, like cattle! I should think you'd feel
mean!" said George.
" So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women, I'm aa
good as they is," said Haley; " tan't any meaner selliu' on 'em, tlian't is
buyin I"
'' never do either, when I'm a man," said George. " I'm ashamed
this day, that I'm a Kentuckian. I always was proud of it beforeand
George sat very straight on his horse, and looked round with an air as
if he expected the State would be impressed with his opinion.
" Well, good-bye, Uncle Tom; keep a stiff upper lip," said George.
' Good-bye, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly and admiringly
at him. " God Almiglitly bless you! Ah! Kentucky han't got many)
like you !" he said, in the fulness of his heart, as the frank, boyish face
was lost to his view. Away he went, and Tom looked, till the clatter
of his horse's heels died away, the last sound or sight of his home. But
over his heart there seemed to be a warm spot, where those young hands
had placed that precious dollar. Tom put up his hand, and held it close
to his heart.
" Now, I tell ye what, Tom," said Haley, as he came up to the waggon
and threw in the handcuffs, " I mean to start fa'r with ye, as I gen ally
do with my niggers; and I'll tell ye now, to begin with, you treat ma
fa'r, and I'll treat you fa'r; I an't never hard on my niggers. Calculates
to do the best for 'em I can. Now, ye see, you'd better jest settle down
comfortable, and not be tryin' no tricks; because nigger's tricks of all
sorts I'm up. to, and its no use. If niggers is quiet, and don't try t,o get
off, they has good times with me; and if they don't, why, it's thar fault,
and not mine."
Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions of running off.
In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a superfluous one to a man witli
a great pair of iron fetters on his feet. But Mr. Haley had got in the
habit of commencing his relations with his stock with little exhortations
of this nature, calculated, as he deemed, to inspire cheerfulness and con¬
fidence, and prevent the necessity of any unpleasant scenes.
And here, for the present, we take our leave of Tom, to pursue the
fortunes of other characters in our story.
CHAPTEE XI.
IJf WHICH PROPERTY GETS INTO AN IMPEOPEB STATE OP MIND.
It was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveller alighted at the door
of a small country hotel, in the village of N , in Kentucky. In the
bar-room he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company, whom
stress of weather had driven to harbour, and the place presented the
usual scenery of such re-unions. Great, tall, raw-boned Kentuckians,
attired in hunting-shirts, and trailing their loose joints over a vast
extent of territory, with the easy lounge peculiar to the race—rifles
stacked away in the corner, shot-jpouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs, and
little negroes, all rolled together m the corners—were the characteristic
features in the picture. At each end of the fire-place sat a long-legged
gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his hat on his head, and the heela
of his muddy boots reposing sublimely on the mantel-piece—a posi tion,
we will inform ®ur readers, decidedly favourable to the turn of reflection
?0 UNCLE TOll'S CABIN, OS
incident to western taverns, wliere travellers exhibit a decidedpreference
for this particular mode of elevating their understandings.
M
was i_
"hock U1 mur UU IUS uiiiiu, auu a giwu k"" """ "Iu;„ ,.l,n^o/.+ oris+in
In fact, everybody in the room bore on his+ i
imblem of man's sovereignty; whether it were felt hat, puim-leai,greasy
baaver, or fine new chapeau, there it reposed with true republican 1
Dendence. In truth, it appeared to be the characteristic mark ci every
individual. Some wore them tipped rakishly on one side—these were
your men of humour, jolly, free-and-easy dogs; some l-.id them jammed
independently down over their noses—these were your hard characters,
thorough men, who, when they wore their hats, wanied to wear them,
and to wear them just as they had a mind to; there v. ere those who had
them set far over back—wide-awake men, who wanted a clear prospect;
while careless men, who did not know or care how their hats sat, had
them shaking about in all directions. The various hats, in fact, were
quite a Shakspearian study.
Divers negroes, in very free and easy pantaloons, and wiLh no redun¬
dancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither and thither, without
bringing to pass any very particular results, except exT messing a generic
willingness to turn over everything in creation generally for the benefit
of mas'r and his guests. Add to this picture a jolly, crackling, rollicking
fire, going rejoicingly up a great wide chimney—the outer door and every
window being set wide open, and the calico windo.v-curtain flopping and
snapping in a good stiff breeze of damp raw air—and you have an idea of
the jollities of a Kentucky tavern.
■ Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustration of the doc¬
trine of transmitted instincts and peculiarities. His fathers were mighty
hunters—men who lived in the wood.', and slept under the free, open
heavens, with the stars to hold their candles : and their descendant to
this day always acts as if the house v»eru his camp—wears his hat at ali
hours, tumbles himself about, and puts his heels on the tops of chairs
or mantel-pieces, just as his father rolled on the green sward, and put
his upon trees ana logs—keeps all the windows and doors open, winter
and summer, that he may get air enough for his great lungs—calls every¬
body "stranger," with nonchalante bonhomie, and is altogether the
frankest, easiest, most jovial creature living.
Into such an assembly of the free-and-easy our traveller entered. He
was a short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with a round, goed-natured
countenance, and something rather fussy and particular in his appear¬
ance. Ke was very careful of his valise and umbrella, bringing them ia.
with his own hands and resisting, pertinaciously, all offers from the
various servants to relieve him of them. He looked round the bar-room
with rather an anxious air, and, retreating with his valuables to the
warmest corner, disposed them under his chair, sat down, and looked
rather apprehensively up at the worthy whose heels illustrated the end
of the mantel-piece, who was spitting trom right to left, with a courage
and energy rather alarming to gentiemen of weak nerves, and particular
habits.
" I say, stranger, how are ye ?" said the aforesaid gentleman, firing
an honorary salute of tobacco-juice in the direction of the new arrival.
" Well, 1 reckon," was the reply of the other, as he dodged, with some
alarm, the threatening honour.
" Any news ?" said the respondent, taking out a strip of tobacco and
a large hunting-knife from his Docket.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 7i
•"Not that I know of," said the man.
" Chaw ?" said the first speaker, handing the old gentleman a bit of
his tobacco, with a decidedly brotherly air.
« r\0' ye > don't agree with me," said the little man, edging off.
_ Don't, eh ?" said the other, easily, and stowing away the morsel in
his own mouth, in order to keep up the supply of tobacco-juice, for the
general benefit of society.
The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start whenever his long-
sided brother fired in his direction ; and this being observed by his com¬
panion, he very .good-naturedly turned his artillery to another quarter,
and proceeded to storm one of the fire-irons with a degree of military
talent fully sufficient to take a city.
" What's that ?" said the old gentleman, observing some of the com¬
pany formed in a group around a large handbill.
" Nigger advertised!" said one of the company, briefly.
Mr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman's name, rose up, and after
carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella, proceeded deliberately to
take out his spectacles and fix them on his nose; and, this operation
being performed, read as follows :—
" Ran away from tLe subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said
George six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is very
intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write; will probably try to
Eass for a white man; is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders; has
een branded in his right hand with the letter Ho
" I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the same sum for
satisfactory proof that he has been killed."
The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to end, in a low
voice, as if he were studying it.
The long-legged veteran, who had been besieging the fire-iron, as
before related, now took down his cumbrous length, and rearing aloft his
tall form, walked up to the advertisement, and very deliberately spit a
full discharge of tobacco-juice on it.
" There's my mind upon that!" said he, briefly, and sat down again.
" Why, now, stranger, what's that for ?" said mine host.
" I'd do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he was hers,"
said the long man, coolly resuming his old employment of cutting
tobacco. " Any man that owns a boy like that, ana can't find any better
way o' treating on him, deserves to lose him. Such papers as these is a
shame to Kentucky; that's my mind right out, if anybody wants to
fcnow."
" Well, now, that's a fact," said mine host, as he made an entry in
his book.
" I've got a gang of boys, sir," said the long man, resuming his attack
on the fire-irons, and I jest tells 'em—' Boys,' says I, ' run now ! dig !
put! jest when ye want to! I never shall come to look after you !'
That's the way I keep mine. Let 'em know they are free to run any
time, and it jest breaks up their wanting to. More 'n all, I've got free
papers for 'em all recorded, in case I gets keeled up any 'o these times,
and they knows it; and I tell ye, stranger, there an't a fellow in our
parts gets more out of his niggers than I do, Why, my boys have been
to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars' worth of colts, and brought me
back the money, all straight, time and agin. It stands to reason the.v
should. Treat 'em like dogs, and you'll have dogs' works and dogs'
actions. Treat 'em like men, and you'll have men's works." And tbo
honest drover, in his warmth, endorsed this moral sentiment by firing a
perfect feu dejoie at the fireplace.
J2 TTtfCLE TOM'S CABIN, OS
151 think yctrre altogether right, friend," said ^Ir. V»
tills boy descried here is a fine fellow no mistake , i'
worked for mo some halt-dozen years in my bfS^S-[actory, and.hojw
for thfileamrSrof hemp-^r^ g°ne into use in
W "These yer knowin' boys is alters aggravatin' and sarcy>"
coarse-looking fellow, from the other side of the room; thas hy
they gets cut up and marked so. If they behaved themselves, they
" That is to say, the Lord made 'em men, and it's a hard squeeze
petting 'em down 'into beasts," said the drover, drily.
" " Bright niggers isn't no kind of'vantage to their masters," continued
the other, well intrenched in a coarse, unconscious obtuseness, from the
contempt of his opponent. " "What's the use o' talents and them things,
if you can't get the use on 'em yourself? Why, all the use they make
on't is to get round you. I've had one or two of these fellers, and I
jest sold 'em down river. I knew I'd got to lose 'em, first or last, if I
didn't."
" Better send up to the Lord, to make you a set, and leave out their
souls entirely," said the drover.
Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of a small
one-horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appearance, and a well-
dressed, gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with a coloured servant
driving.
The whole party examined the new comer with the interest with
which a set of loafers in a rainy day usually examine every new comer.
He was very talL with a dark, Spanish complexion, fine, expressive black
eyes, and close curling hair, also of a glossy blackness. His well-formed
aquiline nose, straight thin lips, and the admirable contour of his finely-
formed limbs, impressed the whole company instantly with the idea of
something uncommon. He walked easily in among the company, and
with a nod indicated to his waiter where to place his trunk, bowed to the
company, and, with his hat in his hand, walked leisurely up to the
bar, ana gave in his name as Henry Butler, Oaklands, Shelby county.
Turning, with an indifferent air, he sauntered up to the advertisement
and read it over.
" Jim," he said to his man, " seems to me we met a boy something
'tike this, up at Bernan's, didn't we ?"
" Yes, mas'r," said Jim, " only I an't sure about the hand."
" Well, I didn't look, of course," said the stranger, with a careless
yawn. Then, walking up to the landlord, he desired him to furnish him
with a private apartment, as he had some writing to do immediately.
The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about seven negroes,
old and young, male and female, little and big, were soon whizzing about,
like a covey of partridges, bustling, hurrying, treading on each other's
toes, and tumbling over each other, in their zeal to got mas'r's room
ready, while he seated liimsell easily on a chair in the middle of the
roqm, and entered into conversation with the man who sat next to him.
The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance of the
stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and uneasy curiosity.
He seemed to himself to have met and been acquainted with some-
USE A1I0KG THE LoW&Y. 73
where, but he could not recollect. Every few moments, when the man
spoke, or moved, or smiled, he would start and fix his eyes on him, and
then suddenly withdraw them, as the bright, dark eyes met his with
such unconcerned coolness. At last, a sudden recollection seemed to
flash upon him, for he stared at the stranger with such an air of blank
amazement and alarm, that he walked up to him.
" Mr. Wilson, I think," said he, in a tone of recognition, and extend¬
ing his hand. " I beg your pardon, I didn't recollect you before. I see
you remember me—Mr. Butler, of Oaklands, Shelby county."
" Ye—yes—yes, sir," said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking in a
dream.
Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that masYs room was
ready.
" Jim, see to the trunks," said the gentleman, negligently; then ad¬
dressing himself to Mr. "Wilson, he added—" I should like to have a
few moments' conversation with you on business, in my room, if you
please."
Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep; and they
proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new-made fire was crackling,
and various servants flying about, putting finishing touches to the ar¬
rangements.
When all was done, and the sorvants departed, the young man deli¬
berately locked the door, and putting the key in his pocket, faced
about, and folding his arms on his Bosom, looked Mr. Wilson full in the
face.
" George!" said Mr. Wilson.
" Yes, George," said the young man.
" I couldn't have thought it!"
" I am pretty well disguised, I fancy," said the young man, with a
mile. " A little walnut bark has made my yellow skin a genteel brown,
nd I've dyed my hair black; so you see I don't answer to the advertise¬
ment at all."
" O, George, but this is a dangerous game you are playing. I could
cot have advised you to it."
" I can do it on my own responsibility," said George, with the same
proud smile.
We remark, en passant, that George was, by his father's side, of
white descent. His mother was one of those unfortunates of her race
marked out by personal beauty to be the slave of the passions of her
possessor, and the mother of children who may never know a father.
From one of the proudest families in Kentucky he had inherited a set
of fine European features, and a high indomitable spirit. From his
mother he had received only a slight mulatto tinge, amply compensated
by its accompanying rich, dark eye. A slight change in the tint of the
skin and the colour of his hair had metamorphosed him into the Spa¬
nish-looking fellow he then appeared; and as gracefulness of movement
and gentlemanly manners had always been perfectly natural to him, he
f-jund no difficulty in playing the bold part he had adopted—that of a
gentleman travelling with his domestic.
Mr. Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety and cautious olu
gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing, as John Bunyan
hath it, "much tumbled up and down in his mind," and d\/ided be¬
tween his wish to help George, and a certain confused notion of main¬
taining law and order; so, as he shambled about, he delivered himself as
follows:— , » . •,
* Well, George, I s'pose you're running away—leaving your lawful
7i tnci.fi Tom's cabin, ob
master George—(I don't wonder at it)—at the same time I am sorr£^
George—yes, decidedly—I think I must say that, George—it s my duty
to tell you so." , ,
" Why are you sorry, sir ?" said George, calmly. _ ... , ,,
" Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself 111 opposition to tne
laws of your country." ... . .
" My country!" said George, with a strong and bitter emphasis:
" what country have I but the grave—and I wish to God taat I was laid
t/tl GT6 ^"
" Why, George—no, no—it won't do; this way of talking is wicked—
unscriptural. George, you've got a hard master- in fact, he is—well,
ho conducts himself reprehensibly—I can't pretend to deienu lum. iiut
you know how the angel commanded Hagar to return to her mistress,
and submit herself under her hand; and the apostle sent back Oncsimus
" Don't quote Bible at me that way, Mr. Wilson," said George, with a
flashing eye, " don't; for my wife is a Christian, and I mean to be, if
ever I get to where I can; but to quote Bible to a fellow in my circum¬
stances is enough to make him give it up altogether. I appeal to God
Almighty; I am willing to go with the case to Rim, and ask Him if I do
wrong to seek my freedom."
" These feelings are quite natural, George," said the good-natured
man, blowing his nose. " Yes, they're natural; but it is my duty not
to encourage 'em in you. Yes, my boy, I'm sorry for you now ; it's a
. bad case—very bad; but the apostle says, ' Let every one abide in the
condition in which he is called.' We must all submit to the indications
of Providence, George—don't you see ? "
George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded tightly over
his broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his hps.
" I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and take you
a prisoner away from your wife and children, and want to keep you all
your life hoeing corn for them, if you'd think it your duty to abide in
the condition in which you were called! I rather think that you'd
think the first stray horse you could find an indication of Providence
—shouldn't you ?"
The little old gentleman stared with both eyes at this illustration of
the case; but, though not much of a reasoner, he had the sense in which
sotne logicians on this particular subject do not excel—that of saying
nothing, where nothing could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking
his umbrella, and folding and patting down all the creases in it, he pro¬
ceeded on with his exhortations in a general way.
" You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood your friend;
and whatever I've said, I've said foryour good. Now, here, it seems to
me, you're running an awful risk. You can't hope to carry it out. If
you're taken, it will be worse with you than ever; they'll only abuse
you, and half kill you, and sell you down river."
" Mr. Wilson, I know all this," said George. " I do run a risk,
bat—" he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pistols and a bowie-
knife. "There!" he said, "I'm ready for'em! Down south I never
will go. No ! if it comes to that, I can earn myself at least six feet of
free soil—the first and last I shall ever own in Kentucky !"
" Why, George, this state of mind is awful! it's getting really des¬
perate, George! I'm concerned. Going to break the laws of your
country!"
My country again ! Mr. Wilson, you have a country; but what
country have I, or any one like me, born of slave mothers ? What lawi
JLIM3 AMONG THE iowt?. fg
&f® there for us ? We don't make them—we don't consent to them—
we have nothing to do with them; all they do for us is to crush us, and
keep us down. Haven't I heard your Fourth-of-July speeches ? Don't
you tell us all, once a year, that governments derive their just power
from the consent of the governed ? Can't a fellow think that hears such
things ? Can't he put this and that together, and see what it comes to ?"
Mr. Wilson's mind was one of those that may not unaptly be repre¬
sented by a bale of cotton—downy, soft, benevolently fuzzy and con¬
fused. He really pitied George with all his heart, and had a sort of dim
and cloudy perception of the style of feeling that agitated him; but he
deemed it his [duty to go on talking good to him, with infinite pert i¬
nacity.
" George, this is bad. I must tell you, you know, as a friend, you'd
better not be meddling with such notions; they are bad, George, very
bad, for boys in your condition—veryand Mr. Wilson sat down to a
table, and began nervously chewing the handle of his umbrella.
" See here, now, Mr. Wilson," said George, coming up and sitting
himself determinated down in front of him; " look at me, now. Don't
I sit before you, every way, just as much a man as you are ? Look at
my face—look at my hands—look at my body," and the young man
drew himself up proudly. " Why am I not a man, as much as anybody?
Well, Mr. Wilson, hear what I can tell you. I had a father—one of your
Kentucky gentlemen—who didn't think enough of me to keep me from
being sold with his dogs and horses, to satisfy the estate, when he died.
I saw my mother put up at sheriffs sale, with her seven ohildren. They
were sold before her eyes, one by one, all to different masters ; and I was
the youngest. She came and kneeled down before old mas'r, and begged
him to buy her with me, that she might have at least one child with her;
and he kicked her away with his heavy boot. I saw him do it; and the
last that I heard was her moans and screams, when I was tied to his
horse's neck, to be carried off to his place."
"Well, then?"
" My master traded with one of the men, and bought my oldest sister.
She was a pious, good girl—a member of the Baptist church—and as
handsome as my poor mother had been. She was well brought up, and
had good manners. At first, I was glad she was bought, for I had one
friend near me. I was soon sorry for it. Sir, I have stood at the door
and heard her whipped, when it seemed as if every blow cut into my
naked heart, and I couldn't do anything to help her; and she was
whipped, sir, for wanting to live a decent Christian life, such as your
laws give no slave girl a right to live \ and at last I saw her chained with
a trader's gang, to be sent to market in Orleans—sent there for nothing
else but that—and that's the last I know of her. Well, I grew up—
long years aud years—no father, no mother, no sister, not a living soul
that cared for me more than a dog; nothing but whipping, scolding,
starving. Why, sir, I've been so hungry that I have been glad to take
the bones they threw to their dogs; and yet, when I was a'little fellow,
and lay awake whole nights and cried, it wasn't the hunger, it w'agn't
the whipping, I cried for. No, sir, it was for my mother and my sisters
—it was because I hadn't a friend to love me on earth. I never knew
what peace or comfort was. 1 never had a kind word spoken to me till
I came to work in your factory. Mr. Wilson, you treated me well; you
encouraged me to do well, and to learn to read and write, and to try to
make something of myself; and God knows how grateful I am for it.
Then, sir, I found my wife; you've seen her,—ycu know how beautiful
6he is. When I found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely
76 tNCLB TOM'S CABIN, OB
could believe I was alive, I was so happy; and, sir, she is as S^odas she
is beautiful. But now what ? Why, now comes my master, takes e
right away from my work, and my friends, and all I like, and giin<^
down into the very dirt! And why ? Because, he says, I forg
was: he says, to teach me that I am only a nigger ! After all,:and last
of all, he conies between me and my wife, and says 1 shall give iier up,
and live with another woman. And all this your laws give him po er
to do, in spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it. There isn t
one of all these things, that have broken the hearts of my mother and
my sister, and my wife and myself, but your laws allow, and give eveiy
man power to do, in Kentucky, and none can say to^ him nay . you
call these the laws of my country? Sir, I haven't any country, any
more than I have any father. But I'm going to have one. I don t want
anything of your country, except to be let alone—to go peaceably out of
it; and when I get to Canada, where the laws will own me and protect
trie, that shall be my country, and its laws I will obey. Eut if any man
tries to stop me, let him take care, for I am desperate. Ill fi^ht for my
liberty to the last breath I breathe. You say your fathers did it; if it
was right for thom, it is right for me!"
This speech, delivered partly while sitting at the table, and partly
walking up and down the room—delivered with tears, and flashing eyes,
and despairing gestures—was altogether too much for the good-naturea
old body to whom it was addressed, who had pulled out a great yellow
silk pocket-handkerchief, and was mopping up his face with great
energy.
" Blast 'em all!" he suddenly broke out. " Haven't I always said so
—the infernal old cusses ? I hope I an't swearing now. Well! go ahead,
George, go ahead; but, be careful, my boy; don't shoot anybody, George,
unless—well—you'd better not shoot, I reckon; at least, I wouldn't hit
anybody, you know. Where is your wife, George?" he added, as he
nervously rose, and began walking the room.
" Gone, sir—gone, with her child in her arms, the Lord only knows
where. Gone after the north star; and when we ever meet, or whether
we meet at all in this world, no creature can tell."
" Is it possible! astonishing! from such a kind family ?"
" Kind families get in debt, and the laws of our country allow them
to sell the child out of its mother's bosom to pay its master's debts,"
said George, bitterly.
"Well, well," said the honest old man, fumbling in his pocket. "I
s'pose, perhaps, I an't following my judgment—hang it, I vxmt follow
my judgment!" he added, suddenly; " so here, Georgeand taking out
a roll of bills from his pocket-book, he offered them to George.
"No, my kind, good sir I" said George, " you've done a great deal for
me, and this might get you into trouble. I have money enough, I hope,
to take me as far as I need it."
"No; but you must, George. Money is a great help everywhere,
can't have too much, if you get it honestly. Take it—do take it, now—
do, my boy!"
" On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time, I will,"
said George, taking up the money.
"And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this wayP—
not long or far, I hope. It's well carried on, but too bold. And this
black fellow, who is he )"
" A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year ago. He heard,
after he got there, that his master was so angry at Him for going oa
LIFE AMONG THIS LOWLY. 77
that he shipped his poor old mother; and he has come all the way back
to comfort her, and get a chance to get her away."
" Has he got her ?"
" Not yet; he has been hanging about the place, and found no chance
yet. Mcaimhi e, he is go in?; with me as far as Ohio, to put me among
friends that helped him, and then he will come back after her."
" Dangerous, very dangerous !" said the old man.
George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully.
The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sort of inno¬
cent wonder.
" George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up
your head, and speak and move like another man," said Mr. Wilson.
" };ocause I'm a free man!" said George, proudly. "Yes, sir; I've
said Mas'r for the last time to any man. I'm free ! "
" Take care! You are not sure—you may be taken."
" All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that, Mr.
Wilson," said George.
"I'm perfectly dumb-foundered with your boldness!" said Mr.Wil-
eon, " to come right here to the nearest tavern !"
" Mr. "Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near, that they will
never think of it; they will look for me on ahead, and you yourself
wouldn't know me. J "ini's master don't live in this county; he isn't
known in these parts. Besides, he is given up; nobody is looking after
him, and nobody will take me up from the advertisement, I think."
" But the mark in your hand ? "
George drew off his glove, and showed a newly-healed scar in his hand.
"That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris's regard," he said, scornfully.
" A fortnight ago, he took it into his head to give it to me, because he
said he believed I should try to get away one of these days. Looks in¬
teresting, doesn't it?" he said, drawing his glove on again.
" I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it—your con¬
dition and your risks!" said Mr. Wilson.
" Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson; at present, it's
about up to the boiling point," said George.
" Well, my good sir," continued George, after a few moments' silence,
"I saw you knew me; I thought I'd just have this talk with you, lest
your surprised looks should bring me out. I leave early to-morrow
morning, before daylight; by to-morrow night I hope to sleep safe in
Ohio. I shall travel by daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the dinner-
tables with the lords of the land. So, good bye, sir; iJ you hear that
Piii taken, you may know that I'm dead!"
George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of a
prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily, and after a little
shower of caution, he took his umbrella, and fumbled his way out of
the room.
George stood thoughtfully looking at the door as the old man closed
it. A thought seemed to flash across his mind. He hastily stepped to
it, and opening it, said—
" Mr. Wilson, one word more." _
The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, locked the
door, and. then stood for a few moments looking on the floor irresolutely.
At last, raising his head with a sudden effort— _
" j\^r. Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian in your treatment
of me—I want to ask one last deed of Christian kindness of yon."
"Well, George."
78
) UNCLE TOM'3 OASIS', OB
/'Well, sir, what you said was true. lam running, a
to Canada, to go there. No matter
how much she loves her home; beg her not to go back—for slavery
always ends in misery. Tell her to bring up our boy a free man, and
then be won't suffer as I have. Tell her this, Mr. Wilson, will you ?"
" Yes, George, I'll tell her; but I trust you won't die, take heart,
you're a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I wish in my heart
you were safe through though—that's what I do."
" Is there a God to trust in ? " said George, in such a tone of b^ter
despair as arrested the old gentleman's words. "Oh, I've seen things
all my life that have made me feel that there can't be a Gfd. Tet,
Christians don't know how these things look to us. There's a God for
you, but is there any for us ?"
" Oh, now, don't—don't, my boy!" said the old man, almost sobbing
as he spoke; " don't feel so. There is—there is; clouds and darkness
are round about him, but righteousness and judgment are the habitation
of his throne. There's a God, George, believe it; trust in Him, and. I'm
sure He'll help you. Everything will be set right—if not in this life,
in anot-her."
The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man invested him
with a temporary dignity aud authority as he spoke. George stopped
his distracted walk up and down the room, stood thoughtfully a moment,
and then said, quietly—
" Thank you for saying that, my good friend. I'll think of thai?
Ms. Haley and Tom jogged onward in their waggon, each, for a tirr.9,
absorbed in his own reflections. Now, the reflections of two men sitting
side by side are a curious thing—seated on the same seat, having th9
same eyes, ears, hands, and organs, of all sorts, and having pass before
their eyes the same objects: it is wonderful what a variety we shall find
in these same reflections !
As, for example, Mr. Haley: he thought first of Tom's length, and
breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he was kept fat and
in good case till he got him into market. He thought of how he should
make out his gang; he thought of the respective market value of certain
supposititious men and women and children who were to compose it, and
other kindred topics of the business ; then he thought of himself,' and
how humane he was, that whereas other men chained their " niggers "
hand and foot both, he only put fetters on the feet, and left Tom the usa
of his hands, as long as he behaved well; and he sighed to think how
CHAPTEK XII.
SELECT INCIDENT OF LAWFTJX TRADE.
IIFE AMONG THE IOWLT. Jg
ungrateful human nature was, so that there was even room to doubt
whether Tom appreciated his mercies. He had been taken in so by
niggers" whom he had favoured; but still he was astonished to consider
how good-natured he yet remained!
As to Tom, he was thinking over some words of an unfashionable old
which kept running through his head, again and again, as follows :
We have here no continuing city, but we seek one to come; wherefore
God himself is not ashamed to be called our God; for he hath prepared
for us a city." These words of an ancient volume, got up principally by
"ignorant and unlearned men " have, through all time, kept up, somehow,
a strange sort of power over the minds of poor, simple fellows, like Tom.
They stir up the soul from its depths, and rouse, as with trumpet call,
courage, energy, and enthusiasm, where before was only the blackness of
despair.
Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, and began '
looking over their advertisements, with absorbed interest. He was not
a remarkably fluent reader, and was in the habit of reading in a sort of
recitative, half-aloud, by way of calling in his ears to verify the deduc¬
tions of his eyes. In this tone he slowly recited the following para¬
graph :—
" Executor's Sale.—Negroes !—Agreeably to order of court, will be sold, on
Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-house door, in the town of Washington,
Kentucky, the following negroes:—Hagar, aged 60; John, aged 30 5 Ben, aged 21 j
Saul, aged 25 ; Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirs of
the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq.
"SAMtrEL Morris, 1 Executcra„
"Thomas Flint, / <*»"'«•
" This yer I must look at," said he to Tom, for want of somebody else
to talk to. "Ye see, I am going to get up a prime gang to take down with
ye, Tom; it'll make it sociable and pleasant like—good company will, ye
know. We must drive right to Washington first and foremost, and then
I'll clap you into jail while I does the business."
Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly; simply wonder¬
ing, in his own heart, how many of these doomed men had wives and
children, and whether they would feel as he did about leaving them. It
is to be confessed, too, that the naive, off-hand information that he was
to be thrown into jail, by no means produced an agreeable impression on
a poor fellow who had always prided himself on a strictly honest and
upright course of life. Yes, Tom, we must confess, was rather proud of
his honesty, poor fellow—not having very much else to be proud of; if
he had belonged to some of the higher walks of society, he, perhaps,
would never have been reduced to such straits. However, the day wore
or, and the evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated in
W ashington—the one in a tavern, the other in a jail.
About eleven o'clock the next day a mixed throng was gathered
around the court-house steps—smoking, chewing, spitting, swearing, and
conversing, according to their respective tastes and turns, waiting^ for
the auction to commence. The men and women to be sold sat La a
group apart, talking in a low tone to each other. The woman who had
been advertised by the name of Hagar was a regular African in feature
and ligure. She might have been sixty, but was older than that by hard
work md disease, was partially blind, and somewhat crippled with rheu¬
matism By her side ttood her only remaining son, Albert, a bright-
looking'little fellow of fourteen years. The boy was the only survivor of
a Urge family, who had been successively sold away from her to a
80
UKCLB TOM'S CABIN, 02
x/tjy neeuu u wu m*? wuiu-vaw ~~~J « ^
hands. " I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour—I in wuth a buying, 111
do come cheap; tell em aat ar—you tell 'em," she added, earnestly.
Haley here forced his way into the group, walked up to the old man,
pulled his mouth open, and looked in, felt ol his teeth, made him stand
and straighten himself, bend his back, and perform various evolutions,
to show his muscles; and then passed on to the next, and put kim
throuch the same trial. Walking up last to the boy, he felt of his arms,
straightened his hands, and looked at his fingers, and made him jump,
to show his agility.
"He an't gwine to be sold widout me!" said the old woman, with
passionate eagerness; " he and I goes in a lot together; I's rail strong
yet, mas'r, and can do heaps o' work—heaps on it, mas'r."
" On plantation ?" said Haley, with a contemptuous glance. " Likely
story!" and as if satisfied with his examination, he walked out and
looked, and stood with his hands in his pockets, his cigar in his mouth,
and his hat cocked on one side, ready for action.
" What think of 'em ?" said a man who had been following Haley's
examination, as if to make up his own mind lrom it.
" Wal" said Haley, spitting," I shall put in, I think, for the youngerly
ones and the boy."
" They want to sell the boy and the old woman together," said the
man.
"Find it a tight pull; why, she's an old rack o' bones—not worth
her salt."
"You wouldn't, then ?" said the man.
" Anybody'd be a fool't would. She's half blind, crooked with rheu-
matis, and foolish to boot."
" Some buys up these yer old critturs, and ses there's a sight more wear
in 'em than a body'd think," said the man, reflectively.
"No go,'t all," said Haley: " wouldn't take her for a present—fact;
I've seen, now."
" Wal, 'tis kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her son—her heart
seems so sot on him; s'pose they fling her in cheap."
" Them that's got money to spend that ar way, it's all well enough. I
shall bid off on that ar boy for a plantation-hand; wouldn't be bothered
with her, no way—not if they'd give her to me," said Haley.
" She'll take on desp'tj" said the man.
"Nat'lly, she will," said the trader, coolly.
The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum in the audience;
and the auctioneer, a short bustling, important fellow, elbowed his way
into the crowd. The old woman drew in her breath, and caught in¬
stinctively at her son.
" Keep close to yer mammy, Albert—close—dey'U put us up toged-
der," she said.
Oh, mammy, I'm fear'd they won't," said the boy.
" Dey must, child; I can't live, no ways, if they don't," said the old
creature, vehemently.
The stentorian tones of the auctioneer, calling out to clear the way,
now announced that the sale was about to comtneno® /I
LIr B ASiONS T"—~ LOWLY. 81
cleared, and the bidding began. The different men on the list were soon
knocked off at prices which showed a pretty brisk demand in the market j
two of them fell to Haley.
" Come, now, young un," said the auctioneer, giving the boy a touch
with his hammer, " be up and show your springs, now."
"Put us two up togedder, togedaer—do please, mas'r," said the old
woman, holding fast to her boy.
" Be off," said the man, gruffly, pushing her hands away; " you come
last. Now, darkey, spring;" and, with the word, he pushed the boy
toward the block, while a deep, heavy groan rose behind him. The boy
paused, and looked back; but there was no time to stay, and dashing
the tears from his large, bright eyes, he was up in a moment.
Iiis fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face, raised an instant com¬
petition, and half a dozen bids simultaneously met the ear of the auc¬
tioneer. Anxious, half-frightened, he looked from side to side, as he
heard the clatter of contending bids—now here, now there—till the
hammer fell. Haley had got him. He was pushed from the block
towards his new master, but stopped one moment, and looked back,
when his poor old mother, trembling in every limb, held out her shaking
hands toward him.
" Euy me, too, mas'r; for de dear Lord's sake!—buy me—I shall die
if you don't!"
" You'll die if I do, that's the kink of it," said Haley. " No!" And
he turned on his heel.
The bidding for the poor old creature was summary. The man who
had addressed Haley, and who seemed not destitute of compassion,
bought her for a trifle, and the spectators began to disperse.
The poor victims of the sale, who had been brought up in one p^ce
together for years, gathered round the despairing old mother, whose
agony was pitiful to see.
" Couldn't dey leave me one ? Mas'r allers said I should have one—
he did," she repeated over and over, in heart-broken tones.
" Trust in the Lord, Aunt Hagar," said the oldest of the men, sor¬
rowfully.
"What good will it do ?" said she, sobbing passionately.
"Mother! mother! Don't don t!" said the boy. " They say you's
got a good master."
"I don't care—I don't care. O Albert! O my boy! you's my last
baby. Lord, how ken I ?"
" Come, take her off, can't some of ye ?" said Haley, drily. " Don't do
no good for her to go on that ar way."
The old men of the company, partly by persuasion, and partly by
force, loosed the poor creature's last despairing hold, and as they led her
off to her new master's waggon, strove to comfort her.
"Now!" said Haley, pushing his three purchases together, and pro¬
ducing a bundle of handcuffs, which he proceeded to put on their
wrists; and fastening each handcuff to a long chain, he drove them
before him to the gaol.
A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely deposited on one
of the Ohio boats. It was the commencement of his gang, to be aug¬
mented, as the boat moved on, by various other merchandise of the
same kind, whiclihe, or his agent, had stored for him in various points
along shore.
The La Belle Rlvihre, as brave and beautiful a boat as ever walked
the waters of her namesake river, was floating gaily down the stream,
under a brilliant sky, the stripes and stars of free America waving and
o '
63 UNCLE TOSS'S CABIN, OB
fluttering overhead; the guards crowded with well-dressed ladies and
gentlemen, walking and enjoying the delightful day. All was lull ot uie,
buoyant and rejoicing; all but Haley's gang, who were stored with otner
freight, on the lower deck, and, who, somehow, did not seem to appre¬
ciate their various privileges, as they sat in a knot, talking to eaon otner
in low tones. „ ,
" Boys," said Haley, coming up briskly, I hope you keep up good
heart and are cheerful. Now, no sulks, ye see; keep stiii upper lip,
boys; do well by me, and I'll do well by you."
The boys addressed responded the invariable Yes, mas r, for ages
the watchword of poor Africa; but it is to be owned they did_ not look
particularly cheerful. They had their various little prejudices m favour
of wives, mothers, sisters, and children seen for the last time; and though
' they that wasted them required of them mirth," it was not instantly
forthcoming.
" I've got a wife" spoke out the article enumerated as "John, aged
thirty," and he laid his chained hand on Tom's knee, "and she don't
know a word about this, poor girl!"
" Where does she live ?" said Tom.
" In a tavern a piece down here," said John; " I wish, now, I could
see her once more in this world," he added.
Poor John ! It was rather natural; and the tears that fell, as he spoke,
came as naturally as if he had been a white man. Tom drew a long
breath from a sore heart, and tried, in his poor way, to comfort him.
And overhead, in the cabin, sat fathers and mothers, husbands and
wives; and merry, dancing children moved round among them, like so
many little butterflies, and everything was going on quite easy and
comfortable.
" O mamma," said a boy, who had just come up from below, "there's
a negro trader on board, and he's brought four or five slaves down
there."
" Poor creatures!" said the mother, in a tone between grief and
indignation.
"What's that?" said another lady.
" Some poor slaves below," said the mother.
" And they've got chains on," said the boy.
" What a shame to our country that such sights are to be seen!" said
another lady.
" Oh, there's a great deal to be said on both sides of the subject,"
said a genteel woman, who sat at her state-room door, sewing, while her
little girl and boy were playing round her. " I've been south, and I
must say 1 think the negroes are better off than they would be to ba
free."
"In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant," said the
lady to whose remark she had answered. " The most dreadful part of
slavery, to my mind, is its outrages on the feelings and affections—the
separating of families, for example."
' That m a bad thing, certainly," said the other lady, holding up a
baby's dress she had just completed, and looking intently on its trim¬
mings ; " but then, I fancy, it don't occur often."
" Oh, it does," said the first lady, eagerly; " I've lived many years in
Kentucky and Virginia both, and I've seen enough to make one's heart
sick. Suppose, ma'am, your two children there should be taken from
you, and sold ?"
"We can't reason from our feelings to those of this class of persons,"
id the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her lap.
IIVB AMONG THE LOWL?. 83
" Inched, ma'am, you can know nothing of them, if you say so,"
answered the first lady, warmly. " I was born and brought up among
them. I know they do feel, just as keenly—even more so, perhaps—as
we do."
The lady said " Indeed!" yawned, and looked out of the cabin
window, and finally repeated, for a finale, the remark with which she
had begun—"After all, I think they are better off than they would be to
be free."
" It's undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the African race
should be servants—kept in a low condition," said a grave-looking
gentleman in black, a clergyman, seated by the cabin-door. "' Cursed
be Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be,' the Scripture says."
" I say, stranger, is that ar what that text means ? said a tall man.
standing by.
"Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutable reason,
to doom the race to bondage ages ago; and we must not set up our
opinion against that."
" Well, then, we'll all go ahead and buy up niggers," said the man,
" if that's the way of Providence—won't we, squire ?" said he, turning to
Haley, who had been standing, with his hands in his pockets, by the
stove, and intently listening to the conversation.
"Yes," continued the tall man; "we must all be resigned to the
decrees of Providence. Niggers must be sold, and trucked round, and
kept under; it's what they'smade for. 'Pears like this yer view's quite
refreshing; an't it, stranger ?" said he to Haley.
" I never thought on't," said Haley. " I couldn't have said as much,
myself; I han't no laming. 1 took up the trade just to make a living;
if 'taint right, I calculated to 'pent on't in time, ye know."
" And now you'll save yourself the trouble, won't ye ?" said the tall
man. " See what 'tis, now, to know Scripture. If ye'd only studied yer
Bible, like this yer good man, ye might have know'd it before, and saved
ye a heap o' trouble. Ye could jist have said,' Cussed be'—what's his
name ? and 'twould all have come right." And the stranger, who was
no other than the honest drover whom we introduced to our readers in
the Kentucky tavern, sat down, and began smoking, with a curious
smile on his long, dry face.
A tall, slender young man, with a face expressive of great feeling and
intelligence, here broke in, and repeated the words, " 'All things what¬
soever ye would that men should do unto you, ao ye even so unto
them.' I suppose," he added, " that is Scripture, as much as 'Cursed be
Canaan.'"
" Wal, it seems quite as plain a text, stranger," said John the drover,
"to poor fellows like us, now and Jolm smoked on like a volcano.
The young man paused, looked as if he was going to say more, when
suddenly the boat stopped, and the company made the usual steamboat
rush, to see where they were landing.
" Both them ar chaps parsons?" said John to one of the men, ss
they were going out.
The man nodded.
As the boat stopped, a black woman cams running wildly up tba
plank, darted into the crowd, flew up to where the slave gang sat, aud
threw her arms round that unfortunate piece of merchandise before
enumerated, "John, aged thirty," and with sobs and tears bemoaned
uim as her husband.
But what needs tell the story, told too oft—every day told—01 heart¬
strings rent and broken—the weak broken and torn for the profit an#
g 2
g,j tosI's cabin. OS
<jonvenience of the strong! It needs not to ba told: every da J'
it—telling it, too, in the ear of One who is not deaf, thouBh he be long
BllThe young man who had spoken for the cause of humanity and
God beE sfooTwith folded anLs, looking on this sceneHeg turned
and Haley was standing at his side. My fnend' ®^t®ade Uke
with thick utterance, "how can you, how dare you, carry on .a trade ute
this ? Look at those poor creatures ! Here I am rcjoiemg in my neart
that I am going home to my wife and child; and the same beU which is
a signal to carry me onward towards them will part this poor man ana
his wife for ever. Depend upon it, God will bring you into judgment
for this."
The trader turned away in silence. ,
" I say, now," said the drover, touching his elbow, there s differences
in parsons, an|t there ? ' Cursed be Canaan' don't seem to go down with
this 'un, does it ?"
Haley gave an uneasy growl.
"And that ar an't the worst on't," said John; " mabbe it won't go
down with the Lord, neither, when ye come to settle with Him, one o'
these days, as all on us must, I reckon."
Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat.
" If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next gangs," he thought,
" I reckon I'll stop off this yer; it's really getting dangerous." And he
took out his pocket-book, and began adding over his accounts, a process
which many gentlemen besides Mr. Haley have found a specific for an
uneasy conscience.
The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went on merrily
as before. Men talked, and loafed, and read, and smoked. Women sewed,
and children played, and the boat passed on her way.
One day, when she lay-to for a while at a small town in Kentucky,
Haley went up into the place on a little matter of business.
Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderate circuit, had
drawn near the side of the boat, and stood listlessly gazing over the
railings. After a time, he saw the trader returning, with an alert step,
in company with a coloured woman, bearing in her arms a young child.
She was dressed quite respectably, and a coloured man followed her,
bringing along a small trunk. The woman came cheerfully onward,
talking, as she came, with the man who bore her trunk, and so passed
up the plank into the boat. The bell rang, the steamer whizzed, the
engine groaned and coughed, and away swept the boat down the river.
The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of the lower
deck, and, sitting down, busied herself with chirruping to her baby.
Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then, coming up, seated
himself near her, and began saying something to her in an indifferent
undertone.
Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the woman's brow, and
that she answered rapidly, and with great vehemence.
"I don't believe it; I won't believe it!" he heard her say. "You're
'ist a foolin' with me."
" If you won't believe it, look here!" said the man, drawing out si
paper; " this yer's the bill of sale, and there's your master's nama to it;
and I paid down good solid cash for it, too, I can tell you—so, now I"
" I don't believe mas'r would cheat me so; it can't be true!" 6aid the
woman, with increasing agitation.
" You can ask auv of these men here that can read writing. Hew P
IiIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 86
he said, to a man that was passing by, " jist read this .(rer, won't you!
This yer gal won't believe me, when I tell her what 'tis!"
" Why, it's a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick," said the man,
"making over to you the girl Lucy and her child. It's all straight
enough, for aught I see."
The woman's passionate exclamations collected a crowd around her,
and the trader briefly explained to them the cause of the agitation.
" He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to hire out as
cook to the same tavern where my husband works: that's what
mas'r told me, his own self, and I can't believe he'd lie to me!" said the
woman.
" But he has sold you, my poor woman, there's no doubt about it,"
said a good-natured looking man, who had been examining the papers;
" he has done it, and no mistake."
" Then it's no account talking," said the woman, suddenly growing
quite calm; and, clasping her child tighter in her arms, she sat down
on her box, turned her back round, and gazed listlessly into the river.
" Going to take it easy, after all!" said the trader. "Gal's got grit, I
see."
The woman looked calm as the boat went on; and a beautiful, soft, sum¬
mer breeze passed, like a compassionate spirit, over her head—the gentle
breeze that never inquires whether the brow is dusky or fair that it fans.
And she saw sunshine sparkling on the water, in golden ripples, and
heafd gay voices, full of ease and pleasure, talking around her every¬
where ; but her heart lay as if a great stone had fallen on it. Her baby
raised himself up against her, and stroked her cheeks with his little
hands; and, springing up and down, crowing and chatting, seemed
determined to arouse her. She strained him suddenly and tightly in
her arms, and slowly one tear after another fell on his wondering, un.
conscious face; and gradually she seemed, and little by little, to grow
calmer, and busied herself with tending and nursing him.
The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large and strong of
his age, and very vigorous in his limbs. Never for a moment still, he
kept hia mother constantly busy in holding him, and guarding his
springing activity.
" That's a fine chap!" said a man, suddenly stopping opposite to him,
with his hands in his pockets. " How old is he
" Ten months and a half," said the mother.
The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of a stick of candy,
which he eagerly grabbed at, and very soon had it in a baby's general
depository, to wit, his mouth.
Rum fellow!" said the man. "Knows what's what!" and he
whistled and walked on. When he had got to the other side of the
boat, he came across Haley, who was smoking on top of a pile of
boxes.
The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying, as he
did so—
" Peeentish kind o' wench you've got round there, stranger."
" Why, I reckon she is tol'able fair," said Haley, blowing the smoke
out of his mouth.
" Taking her down south?" said the man.
Ilaley nodded, and smoked on.
" Plantation hand ? " said the man.
" Wal," 6aid Haley, "I'm filling out an order for a plantation, and 1
think I shall put her in. They telled me she was a good cook; and
they can use her for py set her at the cotton-picking, She's got
68 UNCLE TOM'S CABIiT, OB
the right fingers for tliat; I looked at 'em. Sell well, either way, an
Haley resumed his cigar. . „ .,
« They won't want the young un on a plantatwn s^id the man.
a I shall sell him, first chance I find," said Haley, lighting anotn6r
d«aS'pose you'd be selling him tol'able cheap » said the stranger, mount-
it\sf tliG Dile of boxes, stud sitting down comtortfl-uiy*
5 Son?t know'bout that," said Haley; " he's a pretty smart young 'un
—straight, fat, strong: flesh as hard as a brick.
" Very true; but then there's all the bother and expense of raisin.
"Nonsense," said Haley; "they is raised as easy as any land of
critter there is going; they an't a bit more trouble than pups, lhis yer
chap will be running all round in a month/'
" I've got a good place for raisin', and I thought of takm'm a little
more stock," said the man. " One cook lost a young 'un last week—got
drownded in the wash-tub, while she was a hangin' out clothes; ana I
reckon it would be well enough to set her to raisin' this yer."
Haley and the stranger smoked awhile in silence, neither seemed
willing to broach the test question of the interview. At last the man
resumed—
" You wouldn't think of wanting more than ten dollars for that ar
chap, seeing you must get him off yer hand, any how ? "
Haley shook his head, and spit impressively.
" That won't do, noways," he said; and began his smoking agaiaA
" Well, stranger, what will you take ? "
" Well, now," said Haley, I could, raise that ar chnp myself, or get
him raised; he's uncommon likely and healthy, and he'd fetch a hun¬
dred dollars six months hence; and in a year or two he'd bring two
hundred, if I had him in the right spot; so I shan't take a cent less nor
fifty for him now."
' O, stranger, that's ridiculous altogether," said the mail.
" Fact," said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head.
" I'll give thirty for him," said the stranger, " but not a cent more."
" Now, I'll tell ye what I'll do," said Haley, spitting again, with re¬
newed decision; " I'll split the difference, and say forty-five; and that's
the most I will do."
" Well, agreed," said the man, after an interval.
" Done!" said Haley. " Where do you land ? "
" At Louisville," said the man.
" Louisville F " said Haley. " Very fair; we get there about dusk.
Chap will be asleep—all fair—get him off quietly, and no screaming—
happens beautiful—I like to do everything quietly—I hates all kind
of agitation and fluster." And so, after a transfer of certain bills
had passed from the man's pocket-book to the trader's, he resumed his
cigar.
It was a bright, tranquil evening, when the boat stopped at the wharf
at Louisville. The woman had been sitting with her baby in her arms,
now wrapped in a heavy sleep. When she heard the name of the place
called out, she hastily laid the child down in a little cradle formed by
J be hollow among the boxes, first carefully spreading under it her cloak;
find then she sprung to the side of the boat, in hopes that, among the
various hotel-waiters that thronged the wharf, she might see her hus¬
band. In this hope she pressed forward to the front rails, and stretcn-
ing far over them, strained her eyes intently on the moving heads on the
shore^ and the crowd pressed in between her and the child.
" flow's your time," said Haley, taking the sleeping child up, and
tip® among tera to wet.
handing him to the stranger. " Don fc wake him up, and set him to
crying, now; it would mako a devil of a fuss with the gal." The man
took the bundle carefully, and was soon lost in the crowd that went up
the wharf.
"When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, had loosed from
the wharf, and was beginning: slowly to strain herself along, the woman
returned to her old seat. The trader was sitting there—the child was
gone!
" Why, why—where ? " she began, in bewildered surprise.
" Lucy," said the trader, " your child's gone; you may as well know
it first as last. You see, I know'd you couldn't take him down south;
and I got a chance to sell him to a first-rate family, that '11 raise him
better than you can."
The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian and political per¬
fection which has been recommended by some preachers and politicians
of the north latoly? in which he had completely overcome every humane
weakness and prejudice. His heart was exactly where yours, sir, and
mine could be brought, with proper effort and cultivation. The wild
look of anguish and utter despair that the woman cast on him might
have disturbed one less practised; but he was used to it. He had seen
that same look hundreds of times. You can get used to such things,
too, my friend; and it is the great object of recent efforts to make our
whole northern community used to them, for the glory of the Union.
So the trader only regarded the mortal anguish which he saw working
in those dark features, those clenched hands, and suffocated breathings,
as necessary incidents of the trade, and merely calculated whether she
was going to scream, and get up a commotion on the boat; for, like
other supporters oi our peculiar institutions, he decidedly disliked agi¬
tation.
But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed too straight and
direct through the heart for cry or tear.
Dizzily she sat down. Her slack hands fell lifeless by her side. Her
eyes looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. _ All the noise and
hum of the boat, the groaning of the machinery, mingled dreamily to
her bewildered ear; and the poor, dumb-stricken heart had neither cry
nor tear to show for its utter misery. She was quite calm.
The trader, who, considering his advantages, was almost as humane
as some of our politicians, seemed to feel called on to administer such
consolation as the case admitted of.
" I know this yer comes kinder hard, at first, Lucy," said he, " but
such a smart, sensible gal as you are, won't give way to it. You see it's
necessary, and can't be helped !"
" Oh, don't, mas'r, don't!" said the woman, with a voice like one that
is smothering.
" You're a smart wench, lucy," he persisted. " I mean to do well by
ye, and get ye a nice place down river; and you'll soon get another hus¬
band—such a likely gal as you—"
" Oh, mas'r, if you only won't talk to m" ao"i the woman, in a
voice of such quick and living anguish that the trader fell <;hat there was
something at present in the case beyond his style of operation. He got
up, and the womaD turned away, and buried her head in her cloak.
The trader walked up and down for a time, and occasionally stopped
and looked at her. ^
" Takes it hard, rather," he soliloquized, " but quiet, tho : let her swcf.t
a while; she'll come right, by and by !"
Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to teat, fisu ®
tTNCLE TOM'S CAM!?, 03,
thought better of it, and seen in it an every-day incident of a Javvfu-
trade; a trade which is the vital support of an institution which an
American divine* tells us has "no evils but such as are inseparable fro in
any other relations in social and domestic life. liut J or», as we see,
b^ins a poor, ignorant fellow, whose reading had been contineci entirely
to the New Testament, could not comfort and solace himself with views
like these. His very soul bled within him for what seemed to him the
tvrongs of the poor suffering thing that lay like a crushed weed on the
boxes; the feeling, living, bleeding, yet immortal thing, which American
state law coolly classes with the bundles, and bales, and boxes, amoug
which she is lying.
Tom drew near, and tried to say something; but she only groaned.
Honestly, and with tears running down his rwn cheeks, he spoke of a
heart of love in the skies, of a pitying Jesus, and an eternal home; but
the ear was deaf with anguish, and the palsied heart could not feel.
Night came on—night, calm, unmoved, a.id glorir,us, shining down
with her innumerable and solemn angel ej er, twinkling, beautiful, but
Bilent. There was no speech nor language uo pitying voice or helping
hand, from that distant sky. One after a'l other, the voices of business
or pleasure died away; all on the boat wc3 e sleeping, and the ripples at
the prow were plainly keard. Tom stretcaed himself out on a box, and
there, as he lay, he heard, ever and anon, a smothered sob or cry from
the prostrate creature—'' Oh, what shall I do ? O Lord! O good Lord,
do help me I" and so, ever and anon, until the murmur died away in
silence.
At midnight Tom waked with a sudden start. Something black
passed quickly by him to the side of the boat, and he heard a splash in
the water. No one else saw or heard anything. He raised his head—
the woman's place was vacant! He got up, and sought about him in
vain. The poor bleeding heart was still, at last, and the river rippled
and dimpled just as brightly as if it had not closed above it.
Patience ! patience! ye whose hearts swell indignant at wrongs like
these. Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of the oppressed, is for¬
gotten by the Man of Sorrows, the Lord of Glory. In his patient,
generous bosom he bears the anguish of a world. Bear thou, like him,
in patience, and labour in love; for, sure as he is God, " the year of his
redeemed shall come."
The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to see to his live
stock. It was now his turn to look about in perplexity.
" Where alive is that gal ?" he said to Tom.
Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel, did not feel
called on to state his observations and suspicions, but said he did not know.
" She surely couldn't have got off in the night at any of the landings,
for I was awake, and on the look-out, whenever the boat stopped. I
never trust these yer things to other folks."
This speech was addressed to Tom quite confidentially, as if it was
something that would be specially interesting to him. Tom made no
answer.
The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among boxes, bales,
and barreb, around the machinery, by the chimneys, in vain. '
* Dg. ibe. Parker, of PfcUade<viu&.
LIFE A5I0KG T3E tO^VL?. gD
"Now, I say, Tom, be fair about this yer," he said, wlion, after a
fruitless search, he came where Tom was standing. "You know some¬
thing about it, now. Don't tell me—I know you do. I saw the ira*
stretched out here about ten o'clock, and ag'in at twelve, and ag'in
between one and two: and then at four she was gone, and you was a
sleeping right there all the time. Now, you know something—you can't
help it."
Well, mas'r," said Tom, "towards morning something brushed by
me, and I kinder half woke; and then I hearn a great splash, and then
I dare woke up, and the gal was gone. That's all I know on't."
The trader was not shocked nor amazed; because, as we said before,
he was used to a great many things that you are not used to. Even the
awful presence of Death struck no solemn chill upon him. He had seen
Death many times—met him in the way of trade, and got acquainted
with him—and^he only thought of him as a hard customer, that embar¬
rassed his property-operations very unfairly; and so he only swore that
the gal was a baggage, and that he was devilish unlucky, and that, if
things went on in this way, he should not make a cent on the trip. la
short, he seemed to consider himself an ill-used man, decidedly; but
there was no help for it, as the woman had escaped into a State which
never will give up a fugitive—not even at the demand of the whole
glorious Union. The trader, therefore, sat discontentedly down, with
his little account-book, and put down the missing body and soul under
the head of losses !
" He's a shocking creature, isn't he—this trader ? so unfeeling! It's
dreadful, really!"
" Oh, but nobody thinks anything of these traders ! They are univer¬
sally despised—never received into any decent society."
But who, Sir, makes the trader? Who is most to blame? The
enlightened, cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the system of
which the trader is the inevitable result, or the poor trader himself ?
You make the public sentiment that calls for his trade, that debauches
and depraves him, till he feels no shame in it; and in what are you
better than he ?
Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he low, you refined
and he coarse, you talented and he simple ?
In the day of a future Judgment these very considerations may make
it more tolerable for him than for you.
In concluding these little incidents of lawful trade, we must beg the
world not to think that American legislators are entirely destitute of
humanity, as might perhaps be unfairly inferred from the great efforts
made in our national body to protect and perpetuate this species of
traffic.
Who doss not know how our great men are outdoing themselves m
declaiming against the foreign slave-trade ? There are a perfect host of
Clarksons and Wilberforces risen up among us on that subject most
edifying to hear and behold. Trading negroes from Africa, dear reader,
is so horrid! It is not to be thought of I But trading them from Ken*
tucky—that's quite another thing J
90
tTKCLB TOM'S CASTS, OB
CHAPTEE Xin.
the qttakeb settlement.
A quiet scene now rises before us. A large, roomy, neatly-painted
kitchen, its yellow floor glossy and smooth, and without a particle of
dust; a neat, well-blacked cooking stove; rows of shining tin, suggestive
of unmentionable good things to the appetite; glossy green wood chairs,
old and firm; a small flag-bottomed rocking-chair, with a patch-work
cushion in it, neatly contrived out of small pieces of different coloured
woollen goods, and a larger-sized one, motherly and old, whose wide
arms breathed hospitable invitation, seconded by the solicitations of its
feather cushions—a real, comfortable, persuasive old chair, and worth, in
the way of honest, homely enjoyment, a dozen of your plush or broche-
telle drawing-room gentry; and in the chair, gently swaying back and
forward, her eyes bent on some fine sewing, sat our old friend Eliza.
Yes, there she is, paler and thinner than in her Kentucky home, with a
world of quiet sorrow lying under the shadow of her long eyelashes, and
marking the outline of her gentle mouth! It was plain to see how
old and firm the girlish heart was grown under the discipline of heavy
sorrow; and when, anon, her large dark eye was raised to follow the
gambols of her little Harry, who was sporting, like some tropical but¬
terfly, hither and thither over the floor, she showed a depth of firmness
and steady resolve that was never there in her earlier and happier days.
By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap, into which
she was carefully sorting same dried peaches. She might be fifty-five or
sixty; but hers was one of those faces that time seems to touch only
to brighten and adorn. _ The snowy lisse crape cap, made after the strait
Quaker pattern, the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying in placid folds
across her bosom, the drab shawl and dress, showed at once the com¬
munity to which she belonged. Her face was round and rosy, with a
healthful downy softness, suggestive of a ripe peach. Her hair, partially
silvered by age, was parted smoothly back from a high placid forehead,
on which time had written no inscription except peace on earth, good
will to men; and beneath shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving brown
eyes; you only needed to look straight into them, to feel that you saw to
the bottom of a heart as good and true as ever throbbed in woman's
bosom. So much has been said and sung of beautiful young girls, why
don't somebody wake up to the beauty of old women P If any want to
get up an inspiration under this head, we refer them to our good friend
Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in her little rocking-chair. It had
a turn for quacking and squeaking—that chair had—either from having
taken cold m early life, or from some asthmatic affection, or perhaps
from nervous derangement; but, as she gently swung backward and for¬
ward, the cliair kept up a kind of subdued " creechy crawchy," that would
have been intolerable in any other chair. But old Simeon Halliday
oiten declared it was as good as any musio to him, and the children all
avowed that they wouldn't miss of hearing mother's chair for anything
is the world. For why ? for twenty years or more nothing but lovingr
M?E AMONG THE LOWLY. 91
words, and gentle moralities, and motherly loving-kindness, had come
from that chair—head-aches and heart-aches innumerable had been cured
there—difficulties spiritual and temporal solved there—all by one good,
loving woman, God bless her!
" And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza ? " she said, as
Bne was quietly looking over her peaches.
"Yes, ma'am," said Eliza, firmly. "I must go onward. I dare not
stop."
' And what'11 thee do, when thee gets there ? Thee must think about
that, my daughter."
" My daughter," came naturally from the lips of Rachel Halliday; for
hers was just the face and form that made "mother" seem the most
natural word in the world.
Eliza's hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work; but she
answered firmly—
" I shall do—anything I can find. I hope I can find something."
" Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases," said Rachel,
" Oh, thank you," said Eliza, " but"—she pointed to Harry—" I can't
sleep nights; I can't rest. Last night I dreamed I saw that man coming
into the yard," she said, shuddering.
" Poor child!" said Rachel, wiping her eyes; " but thee mustn't feel
so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath a fugitive been stolen
from our village. I trust thine will not be the first."
The door here opened, and a little, short, round; pincushiony woman
stood at the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like a ripe apple. She
was dressed, like Rachel, in sober grey, with the muslin folded neatly
across her round, plump little chest.
" Ruth Stedman," said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; " how is
thee, Ruth ?" she said, heartily taking both her hands.
" Nicely," said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and dusting it
with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a round little head, on
which the Quaker cap sat with a sort of jaunty air despite all the strok-
ing"*and patting of the small fat hands, which were busily applied to
arranging it. Certain stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had es¬
caped here and there, and had to be coaxed and cajoled into their place
again; and then the new comer, who might have been five-and-twenty,
turned from the small looking-glass, before which she had been making
these arrangements, and looked well pleased — as most people who
looked at her might have been; for she was decidedly a wholesome,
whole-hearted, chirruping little woman, as ever gladdened man's heart
withal.
" Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little boy I told
thee of."
" 1 am glad to see thee, Eliza—very," said Ruth, shaking hands, as
if Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting; " and this is
thy dear boy — I brought a cake for him," she said, holding out a little
heart to the boy, who came up, gazing through his curls, and accepted
it shyly.
" Where's thy baby, Ruth ?" said Rachel.
" Oh, he's coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came in, and ran
©ST with him to the barn, to show him to the children."
At this moment the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-look¬
ing girl with large brown eyes, like her mother's, came in with the
baby. . . .
"Ah ! ah!" said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white, fat
fellow in her arms; " bow i?ood he looks, and ho*.? bo does grow !"
52 UKCL3 TOM'S CAB1K, OS
"To be Hire he does," said little bustling Kutli, as she took the
child, and began taking off a little blue silk hood, and various layers
and wrappers of outer garments; and having given a twitch here, and
a pull there, and variously adjusted and arranged him, and kissed
him heartily, she set him on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby
seemed quite used to this mode of proceeding, for he put his thumb in
his mouth (as if it were quite a thing of course), and seemed soon ab¬
sorbed in his own reflections, while the mother seated herself, and
taking out a long stocking of mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit
with briskness.
" Mary, thee'd better fill the kettle, hadn't thee ? " gently suggested
the mother.
Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon re-appearing, placed it over
the stove, where it was soon purring and steaming, a sort of censer of
hospitality and good cheer. The peaches, moreover, in obedience to a
few gentle whispers from Eachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand,
in a stew-pan over the fire.
Eachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying on an
apron, proceeded quietly to make up some biscuits, first saying to Mary,
" Mary, hadn't thee better tell John to get a chicken ready ?" and Mary
disappeared accordingly.
" And how is Abigail Peters ?" said Eachel, as she went on with her
biscuits.
"Oh. she's better," said Euth; "I was in this morning; made the
bed, tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in this afternoon, and baked
bread and pies enough to last some days; and I engaged to go back to
get her up this evening."
" I will go in to-morrow, and do any cleaning there may be, and look
over the mending," said Eachel.
"Ah! that is well," said Euth. "I've heard," she added, that
Hannah Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last night — I must go
there to-morrow."
"John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay all day,"
suggested Eachel.
" Thank thee, Eachel; we'll see to - morrow; but here comes
Simeon."
Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat and
pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.
"IIow is thee, Euth?" he said warmly, as he spread his broad open
hand for her little fat palm; " and how is John ?"
" Oh! John is well, and all the rest of our folks," snid Euth, cheerily.
" Any news, father ?" said Eachel, as she was putting her biscuits
into the oven.
"Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along to-night, with
friends," said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing his hands at a
neat sink, in a little back porch.
" Indeed !" said Eachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing at Eliza.
"Did thee say thy name was Harris?" said Simeon to Eliza, as he
re-entered.
Eachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously answered
"yes ;" her fears, ever uppermost, suggested that possibly there might
be advertisements out for her.
" Mother!" said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling Eachel
out.
" What does thee want, father ?" said Eachel, rubbing her flour?
hands, as she went into the porch "
Lira AMONG ttl2 LuW£?» -^3
h This child's husband is in tlie settlement, and will be here lo-mens,"
Jaid Simeon.
"Now, thee doesn't Bay that, father?" said Eachol, all har face
radiant with joy.
" It's really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the waggon, to wie
other stand, and there he found an old woman and two men, and or,o
said his name was George Harris; and, from what he told of his history
I am certain who he is. He is a bright, likely fellow, too."
" Shall we tell her now ?" said Simeon.
" Let's tell Ruth," said Rachel. " Here, Ruth!—come here!"
Ruth laid down her knitting work, and was in the back porch in a
moment.
" Ruth, what does thee think ?" said Rachel. " Father says Elisa's
husband is in the last company, and will be here to-niglit."
A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the speech. She
gave such a bound from the floor, as she clapped her little hands, that
two stray curls fell from under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her
white neckerchief.
"Hush thee, dear!" said Rachel, gently; "hush, Ruth. Tell us;
shall we tell her now ?"
" Now ! to be sure, this very minute. Why, now, suppose 'twas my
John, how should I feel ? Do tell her right off."
" Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbour, Ruth,"
said Simeon, looking with a beaming face on Ruth.
" To be sure. Isn't it what we are made for ? If I didn't love John
and the baby, I should not know how to feel for her. Come, now, do
tell her—do!" and she laid her hands persuasively on Rachel's arm.
" Take her into thy bedroom, there, and let me fry the chicken while
thee does it."
Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing, and
opening the door of a small bedroom, said, gently, "Come in here with
ine, my daughter; I have news to tell thee."
The blood flushed in Eliza's pale face; she rose, trembling with nervous
anxiety, and looked towards her boy.
" No, no," said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her hands. " Never
thee fear, it's good news, Eliza—go in, go in !" And she gently pushed
her to the &t>or, which closed after her; and then, turning round, she
caught little Harry in her arms, and began kissing him.
" Thee'll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it? Thy father
is coming," she said, over and over again, as the boy looked wonderingly
at her.
Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. Rachel
Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, " The Lord hath had mercy
on thee, daughter; thy husband hath escaped from the house of
bondage."
The blood flushed to Eliza's chee"k in a sudden glow, and went back
to her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down, pale and faint.
" Have courage, child," said Rachel, laying her hand on her head.
"He is among friends, who will bring him here to-night."
"To-night!" Eliza repeated, "To-night!" The words lost all
meaning to her; her heaawas dreamy and confused; all was mist for
a moment.
"When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on the bed, with a
blanket over her, and little Ruth rubbing her hands with camphor. Sho
opened her eyes in a state of dreamy, delicious languor, such as one has
Who has long been bearing a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and would
94 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
rest. The tension of the nerves, which had never ceased a moir.i-nt sinfld
the first hour of her flight, had given way, and a strange feeling oi secu¬
rity and rest came over her; and, as she lay, with her large dark eyes
open, she followed, as in a quiet dream, the motions of those about her.
She saw the door open into the other room; saw the supper-table, with
its snowy cloth: heard the dreamy murmur of the singing tea-kettle;
saw Ruth tripping backward and forward,with plates of cakes and saucers
of preserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a cake into Harry's hand,
or pat his head, or twine his long curls round her snowy lingers. She
saw the ample, motherly form of Rachel, as she ever and anon came to
the bedside, and smoothed and arranged something about the bedclothes,
and gave a tuck here and there, by way of expressing her good will; aud
was conscious of a kind of sunshine beaming down upon her from her
large, clear, brown eyes. She saw Ruth's husband come in—saw her fly
up to him, and commence whispering very earnestly, ever and anon, with
impressive gesture, pointing her little finger toward the room. She saw
her, with the baby in her arms, sitting down to tea; she saw them all at
table, and little Harry in a high chair, under the shadow of Rachel's
ample wing; there were low murmurs of talk, gentle tinkling of tea¬
spoons, and musical clatter of cups and saucers, and all mingled in a
delightful dream of rest; and Eliza slept as she had not slept before,
since the fearful midnight hour when she had taken her child and flea
through the frosty starlight.
She dreamed of a beautiful country—a land, it seemed to her, of rest,
green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully glittering water; and
there, in a house which kind voices told her was a home, she saw her
boy playing, a free and happy child. She heard her husbaud's foot¬
steps ; she felt him coming nearer ; his arms were around her; his
tears falling on her face, and she awoke ! It was no dream. The
daylight had long faded; her child lay calmly sleeping by her side; a
candle was burning dimly on the stand, and her husband was sobbing by
her pillow.
The next mornin g was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. " Mother w
was up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls aud boys, whom we had
scarce time to introduce to our readers yesterday, and who all moved
obediently to Rachel's gentle "Theehad better," ormore gentle "Hadn't
Uiee better ? " in the work of getting breakfast; for a breakfast in the
luxurious valleys of Indiana is a thing complicated and multiform, and,
with picking up the rose-leaves and trimming the bushes in Paradise,
takir g other hands than those of the original mother. While, therefore,
John ran to the spring for fresh water, and Simeon, the second, sifted
meal for corn-cakes, ana Mary ground coffee, Rachel moved gently and
quietly about, making biscuits, cutting up chicken, and diffusing a sort
of sunny radiance over the whole proceeding generally. If there was
any danger of friction or collision from the ill-regulated zeal of so many
young operators, her gentle " Come! come!" or " I wouldn't, now," was
quite sutiicient V alky the difficulty. Bards have written of the cestus
of Venus that turned the heads of all the world in successive genera¬
tions. We had rather, for our part, have the cestus of Rachel Halliday,
that kept heads from being turned, and made everything go on harmoni¬
ously. We think it is more suited to our modern days, decidedly.
While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the elder stood
in his shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass in the corner, engaged in
tha anti-patriarchal operation of shaving. Everything went on so
IIBB AMONG THE tOWLY. So
Cially, so quietly, so harmoniously, in the great kitchen—it seemed so
pleasant to every one to do just what they were doing, there was sucli an
atmosphere of mutual confidence and good-fellowship everywhere—
even the knives and forks had a social clatter as they went on to the
table; and the chicken and ham had a cheerful and joyous fizzle in the
pan, as if they rather enjoyed being cooked than otherwise- and when
George and Eliza and little Harry came out, they met such a hearty,
rejoicing welcome, no wonder it seemed to them like a dream.
At last, they were all seated at breakfast, whilo Mary stoo'l at the
6tnve, baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained the true, exact,
golden-brown tint of perfection, were transferred quite handily to tha
table.
Each el never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the head of
her table. There was so much motherliness and full-heartedness even
in the way she passed a plate of cakes or poured a cup of coffee, that it
seemed to put a spirit into the food and drink she offered.
It was the first time that ever George had sat down on equal terms at
any white man's table; and he sat down, at first, with some constraint
and awkwardness; but they all exhaled and went off like fog in the
genial morning rays of this simple, overflowing kindness.
This, indeed, was a home—home—a word that George had never yet
known a meaning for; and a belief in God, and trust in his providence,
began to encircle his heart, as with a golden cloud of protection and con¬
fidence, dark, misanthropic, pining, atheistic doubts, and fierce despair,
melted away before th6 light of a living Gospel, breathed in living faces,
preached by a thousand unconscious acts of love and good will, which,
like the cup of cold water given in the name of a disciple, shall never lose
their reward.
" Father, what if thee should get found out again ?" said Simeon,
second, as he buttered his cake.
" I snould pay my fine," said Simeon, quietly.
"But what if they put thee in prison?"
" Couldn't thee and mother manage the farm ?" said Simeon, smiling,
"Mother can do almost everything," said the boy. "But isn't it a
ehame to make such laws ? "
"Thee mustn't speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon," said liis father,
gravely. " The Lord only gives us our worldly goods that we may do
justice and mercy; if our rulers require a price of us for it, we mutt
deliver it up."
"Well, I hate those old slaveholders !" said the boy, who felt as
unchristian as became any modern reformer,
"I am surprised at thee, son," said Simeon ; "thy mother never
taught thee so. I would do even the same for the slaveholder as for the
slave; if the Lord brought him to my door in affliction."
Simeon second blushed scarlet; but his mother only smiled, and said,
" Simeon is my good boy; he will grow older by and by, and then he will
be like his father."
" I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any difficulty on
our account," said George, anxiously.
" Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the world. If
we would not meet trouble for a good cause, we were not worthy of ouir
name."
" But for me," said George, " I could not bear it."
" Fear not, then, friend George; it is not for thee, but for God and
man, we do it," said Simeon. "And now thou must lie by quietly this
day; and to-night, at ten o'olook, Pliineas Fletcher will carry thee
s6 uncle toii's cabin 02
onward to the next stand—thee and the rest of thy company. ThS
pursuers are hard after thoe; we must n9t delay."
" If that is the case, why wait till evening ?" said George.
" Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settlement is a
Frisud, and all are watching. Moreover, it is safer to travel by night
CHAPTER XIY.
evangeline.
The Mississippi! How, as by an enchanted wand, have its scenes
been changed, since Chateaubriand wrote his prose-poetic description of
it, as a river of mighty, unbroken solitudes, rolling amid undreamed
wonders of vegetable and animal existence.
But, as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance has emerged
to a reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. What other river of the
world bears on its bosom to the ocean the wealth and enterprise of such
another country ?—a country whose products embrace all between the
tropics and the poles ! Those turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing
along, an apt resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is
poured along its wave by a race more vehement and energetic than any
the old world ever saw. Ah ! would that they did not also bear along a
more fearful freight, the tears of the oppressed, the sighs of the helpless,
the bitter prayers of poor, ignorant hearts to an unknown God —
unknown, unseen, and silent, but who will yet "come out of his place to
save all the poor of the earth!"
The slanting light of the setting sun quavers on the sea-like expanse
of the river; the shivery canes, and the tall, dark cypress, hung with
wreaths of dark, funereal moss, glow in the golden ray, as the heavily-
laden steamboat marches onward.
_ Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over deck and
sides, till she seems in the distance a square, massive block of gray, sli6
moves heavily onward to the nearing mart. We must look some time
among its crowded decks before we shall find again our humble friend
Tom. High on the upper deck, in a little nook among the everywhere
predominant cotton-bales, at last we may find him.
Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby's representations, and
partly from the remarkably inoffensive and quiet character of the man,
Tom had insensibly won his way far into the confidence even of such a
man as Haley.
At first he had watched him narrowly through the day, and never
allowed him to sleep at night unfettered; but the uncomplaining patience
and apparent contentment of Tom's manner led him gradually to dis¬
continue these restraints, and for some time Tom had enjoyed a sort of
parole of honour, being permitted to come and go freely wnere he pleased
on the boat.
Evew quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a hand in
every emergency which occurred among the workmen below, he had
won the good opinion of all the hands, and spent many hours in
helping them with as hearty a good will as ever he worked on a Ken¬
tucky farm.
When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he would climb to a
nook among the cotton-bales of the upper deck, and busy himself in
studying over his Bible—and it is there we see him now.
Urn Ail ON 0 THE Lor/LT. S9
^ Fur a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the ri\<er is higher
lhan the surrounding country, and rolls its tremendous volume between
massive levees twenty feet in height. The traveller from the deck of
the steamer, as from some floating castle top, overlooks the whole
country for miles and miles around. Tom therefore, had spread out
full before him, in plantation after plantation, a map of the life to which
he was approaching.
He saw tlfb distant slaves 'at their toil, he saw afar their villages of
huts gleaming out in long rows on many a plantation, distant from the
stately mansions and pleasure-grounds of the master; and as the moving
picture passed on, his poor foolish heart would be turning backward to
the Kentucky farm, with its old shadowy beeches—to the master's
house, with its wide, cool halls, and near by the little cabin, overgrown
with the mulliflora and bignonia. There he seemed to see familiar faces
of comrades, who had grown up with him from infancy; he saw his busy
wife, bustling in her preparations for his evening meals; he heard the
merry laugh of his boys at their play, and the chirrup of the baby at his
Knee, and then, with a start, all faded, and he saw again the cane-brakes
and cypresses of gliding plantations, and he^rl again the creaking and
groaning of the machinery, all telling him too plainly that all that phac«
of life had gone by for ever.
In such a case, you write to your wife, and send messages to your
children; but Tom could not write—the mail for him had no existence,
and the gulf of separation was unbridged by even a friendly word
or signal.
Is it strange, then, that some tears fell on the pages of his Bible,
as he lays it on the cotton bale, and with patient finger, threading
his slow way from word to word, traces out its promises ? Having
learned late in life, Tom was but a slow reader, and passed on labori¬
ously from verse to verse. Fortunate for him was it that the book he
was intent on was one which slow reading cannot injure—nay, one
whose words, like ingots of gold, seem often to need to be weighed
separately, that the mind may take in their priceless value. Let us
follow him a moment, as pointing to each word, and pronouncing each
half' aloud, he reads—
" Let—not—your—heart—be—troubled. In—my—Father's—house
—are—many—mansions. I—go—to—prepare—a—place—for—you."
Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had a heart as
full of honest grief as poor Tom's—perhaps no fuller—for both were only
men; but Cicero could pause over no such sublime words of hope, and
look to no such future re-union ; and if he had seen them, ten to one
he would not have believed—he must fill his head first with a thousand
questions of authenticity of manuscript, and correctness of translation.
But to poor Tom, there it lay, just what he needed, so evidently trut
and divine that the possibility of a question never entered his simple
head. It must be true; for if not true, how could he live ?
As for Tom's Bible, though it had no annotations and helps in margin
from learned commentators, still it had been embellished with certain
way-marks and guide-boards of Tom's own invention, and which helped
him more than the most learned expositions could have done. It had
been his custom to get the Bible read to him by bis master's children,
in particular by young Master George; and as they read, he wouH
designate, by bold strong marks and dashes, with pen and ink, the
ii?>sages which more particularly gratified his ear, or affected his heart.
His Bible was thus marked through, from one end 1o the other, with a
vari«ty of styles and designations ; so he could in a moment seiso upoa
88 tmCLB TOM'S CAiSitf, OB
his favourite passages, without the labour of spelling out what Ia£
between them; and while it lay there before him, every passage
breathing of some old home scene, and recalling some past enjoyment,
his Bible seemed to him all of this life that remained, as well as the
promise of a future one. f
Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman of fortune
and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the naKie ot bu. Clare.
He had with him a daughter between five and six years ot jage, together
with a lady who seemed to claim relationship to both, and to have the
little one especially under her charge. ,
Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl—for she wasone of
those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no more contained in one
place than a sunbeam or a summer breeze, nor was she one that, once
seen, could be easily forgotten.
Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual
chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was about it an undulating
and aerial grace, such as one might dream of for some mythic and alle¬
gorical being. Her face was remarkable, less for its perfect beauty o<
feature than for a singular and dreamy earnestness of expression, whick
made the ideal start when they looked at her, and by which the dullest
and most literal were impressed, without exactly knowing why. The
shape of her head and the turn of her neck and bust was peculiarly
noble, and the long golden brown hair, that floated like a cloud around
it j the deep spiritual gravity of her violet-blue eyes, shaded by heavy
fringes of golden brown—all marked her out from other children, and
made every one turn and look after her, as she glided hither and thither
on the boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not what you would have
called either a grave child, or a sad one. On the contrary, an airy and
innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like the shadow of summer
leaves over her childish face, and around her buoyant figure. She was
always in motion, always with a half-smile on her rrsy mouth, flying
hither and thither, with an undulating and cloud-like tread, singing to
herself as she moved, as in a happy dream. Her father and female
guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit of her, but when caught, she
melted from them again like a summer cloud; as no word of chiding or
reproof ever fell on her ear for whatever she chose to do, she pursued
her own way all over the boat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to
move like a shadow through all sorts of places, without contracting spot
or stain; and there was not a corner or nook, above or below, where
those fairy footsteps had not glided, and that visionary golden head,
with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along.
The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes found
those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging depths of the furnace,
and fearfully and pityingly at him, as if she thought him in some
ureadful danger. Anon the steersman at the wheel paused and smiled,
as the picture-like head gleamed through the window of the round
house, and in a moment was gone again. A thousand times a day
rough voices blessed her, and smiles of unwonted softness stole over hard
faces, as she passed; and when she tripped fearlessly over dangerous
places, rough, sooty hands were stretched involuntarily out to save her
and smooth her path.
Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly race, ever
yearning toward the simple and childlike, watched the little creature
with daily increasing interest. To him she seemed something almost
fiirine; and whenever her golden head and deep blue eyes peered out
ajhon liim from behind some dusky cotton-bale, or looked down uvo«
£II?S AM03G THE L0WL2. £3
him over some ridge of packages, he half believed that he saw one of
the angels stepped out of his New Testament.
Often and often she walked mournfully round the place where Haley's
gang of men and women sat in their chains. She would glide in among
them, and look at them with an air of perplexed and sorrowful earnest¬
ness ; and sometimes she would lift their chains with her slender hands,
and then sigh woefully, as she glided away. Several times she appeared
suddenly among them, with her hands full of candy, nuts, and oranges,
which she would distribute joyfully to them, and then be gone again.
Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he ventured on any
overtures towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abundance of simple
acts to propitiate and invite the approaches of the little people, and ha
resolved to play his part right skilfully. He could cut cunning little
baskets out of cherry-stones, could make grotesque faces on hickory-
■ auts, or odd jumping figures out of elder-pith, and he was a very Pan
I in the manufacture of whistles of all sizes and sorts. His pockets were
full of miscellaneous articles of attraction, which he had hoarded in
days of old for his master's children, and which he cow produced, with
commendable prudence and economy, one by one, as overtures for ac¬
quaintance and friendship.
The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in everything going
on, and it was not easy to tame her. For a while, she would perch like
a canary-bird on some box or package near Tom, while busy in the little
arts aforesaid, and take from him, with a kind of grave baslifulness, the
little articles he offered. But at last they got on quite confidential
terms.
"What's little missy's name?" said Tom at last, when he thought
matters were ripe to push such an inquiry.
" Evangeline St. Clare," said the little one, " though papa and every¬
body else call me Eva. Now, what's your name?"
"My name's Tom; the little ckii'en used to call mo Uncle Tom, way
back thar in Kentuclc."
" Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, I like you,"
said Eva. " So, Uncle Tom, where are you going ?
" I don't know, Miss Eva."
"Don't know ?" said Eva.
"No. I am going to be sold to somebody. I don't know who."
"My papa can buy you," said Eva, quickly; "and if he buys you, you
will have good times. 1 mean to ask him to, this very day."
" Thank you, my little lady," said Tom.
The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in wood, and Eva,
hearing her father's voice, bounded nimbly away. Tom rose up, and
went forward to clTer his service in wooding, and soon was busy among
Ihe hands.
Eva and her father were standing together by the railings to see the
boat start from the lan<lirig-place, the wheel had made two or three re¬
solutions in the water, when, by some sudden movement, the little one
suddenly lost her balance, and fell sheer over the side of the boat into
the water. Her father, scarce knowing what he did, was plunging in
after her, but was held back by soma behind him, who saw that more
efficient aid had followed his child.
Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck as she fell. Ee
saw her strike the water and sink, and was after her in a moment. A
broad-chested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for him to keep afloat
m the water till, in a moment or two, the child rose to the surface, and
ha caught her in his arms, and, swimming with her to the boat-side
H S
100 tJNCIiE lOli'S CASIN, OS
handed her tip, ail dripping, to the grasp of hundreds of hands, which,
as if they had all belonged to one man, were stretched eagerly out to
receive her. A few moments more ana her father bore her, dripping
and senseless, to the ladies' cabin, where, as is usual in cases of the Kind,
there ensued a very well-meaning and kind-hearted strife among the
female occupants generally, as to who should do the most things to make
& disturbance, and to hinder her recovery in every way possible.
It was a sultry, close day the next day, as the steamer drew near to
New Orleans. A general bustle of expectation and preparation was
spread through the boat; in the cabin, one and another were gathering
their things together and arranging them preparatory to going ashore.
The steward and chambermaid and all, were busily engaged in cleaning,
furbishing, and arranging the splendid boat, preparatory to a grand
entree.
On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded, and
anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes towards a group on the
other side of the boat.
There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day before,
but] otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accident which had befallen
her A graceful, elegantly-formed young man stood by her, carelessly
leaning one elbow on a bale of cotton, while a large pocket-book lay
open before him. It was quite evident, at a glance, that the gentleman
was Eva's father. There was the same noble cast of head, the same large
blue eyes, the same golden-brown hair; yet the expression was wholly
different. In tbs large, clear blue eyes, though in form and colour
exactly similar, trwe was wanting that misty, dreamy depth of expres¬
sion ; all was clear, bold, and bright, but with a light wholly of this
world: the beautifully-cut mouth had a proud and somewhat sarcastio
expression, while an air of free-and-easy superiority sat not ungracefully
in every turn and movement of his fine form. He was listening with a
good-humoured, negligent air, half-comic, half-contemptuous, to Haley,
who was very volubly expatiating on the quality of the article for which
they were bargaining.
" All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black morocco, com¬
plete!" he sa.i, when Haley had finished. " Well, now, my good fellow,
what's the damage, as they say in Kentucky; in short, what's to be paid
out for this business ? How much are you going to cheat me, now ? Out
with it!"
" Wal,"said Haley, "if I should say thirteen hundred dollars for
that ar fellow, I shouldn't but just' save myself—I shouldn't, now, raily."
" Poor fellow" said the young man, fixing his keen, mocking blue eye
on him ; " but I suppose you would let me nave him tor that, out of a
particular regard for me ?"
" Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, and nat'llj
enough."
" Oh, certainly, there's a call on your benevolence, my friend. Now,
as a matter of Christian charity, how cheap could you afford to let him
go, to oblige a young lady that's particular sot on him P "
" Wal, now, just think on't," said the trader; "just look at them
limbs—broad-chested, strong as a horse. Look at his head; them high
forrads allays shows calculatin' niggers, that'll do any kind o thing. I've
marked that ar. Now, a nigger of that ar heft and build is worth con
giderable, just, as you may say, for his body, supposin' he's stupid ; but
come to put in his calculatin' faculties, and them which I can show h*
LIFS AMONG TUB ZOVTLY. 101
has oacommon, why, of course, it makes him come higher. Why, that
ar fellow managed liis master's whole farm. He has a strornary'talent
for business."
" Bad, bad, very bad; knows altogether too much!" said the young
man, with the same mocking smile playing about his mouth. " Never
will do in the world. Your smart fellows are alwaj's running off, steal¬
ing horses, and raising the devil generally. I think you'll have to take
oif a couple of hundred for his smartness."
" Wal, there might be something in that ar, if it warnt for his cha¬
racter; but I car, show recommends from his master and others, to
prove he is one of your real pious—the most humble, prayin', pious crittur
ye ever did see. Why, he's been called a preacher in them parts he came
from."
' And I mitrht use him for a family chaplin, possibly," added the young
man. drily. " That's quite an idea. Religion is a remarkably scarce
article at our house."
" You're joking, now."
" Row do you know I am ? Didn't you just warrant him for a
preacher. Has he been examined by any synod or council ? Come,
hand over your papers."
If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humoured twinkle
in the large blue eye, that all this banter was sure in the long
run, to turn out a cash concern, he might have been somewhat out of
atience; as it was, he laid down a greasy pocket-book on the cotton
ales, and began anxiously studying over certain papers in it, the young
man standing by the while, looking down on him with an air of careless,
easy drollery.
" Papa, do buy him! it's no matter what you pay," whispered Eva,
6oftly, getting up on a package, and putting her arm around her father's
neck. You have money enough, I know. I want him."
" What for, pussy ? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box, or a
rocking-horse, or what?"
" I want to make him happy."
" An original reason, certainly."
Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby, which
the young man took with the tips of his long fingers, and glanced over
carelessly.
" A gentlemanly hand," he said, " and well spelt too. Well, now, but
I'm not sure, after all, about this religion," said he, the old wicked ex¬
pression returning to his eye; " the country is almost ruined with pious
white people: such pious politicians as we have just before elections—
such pious goings on in all departments of church and state, that a fellow
does not know who will cheat him next. I don't know, either, about
religion's being up in the market, just now. I have not looked in the
papers lately, to see how it sells. How many hundred dollars, now, do
you put on for this religion ?"
" You like to be a jokin, now," said the trader;" but then there's
sense under all that ar. I know there's differences in religion. Some
kinds is mis'rable: there's your meetin pious; there's your singin, roarin
pious; them ar an't no account, in black or white—but these rayl.v is;
and I've seen it in niggers as often as any, your rail softly, quiet, stiddy,
honest pious, that the hull world couldn't tempt 'em to do nothing that
they thinks is wrong ; and ye see in this letter what Tom's old master
q&ys about him."
" Now," said the young man, stooping gravely over his book of bills,
* if you cstn assure me that I really can buy this kind of pious, and th&$
102 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
it will be set down to my account in the book up above, as something
belonging to me, I wouldn't care if I did go a little extra for it. How
d'ye say ? "
" Wal, raily, I can't do that," said the trader. " I'm a thinkin that
every man '11 have to hang on his own hook, in themar quarters.
" feather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and can t trade
with it in the state where he wants it most, an't it, now ? said the young
man, who had been making out a roll of bills while he was speaking.
" There, count your money, old boy!" he added, as h.8 handed the roll
to the trader. .
" All right," said Haley, his face beaming with delight; and pulling
out an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale, which, it a few
moments, he handed to the young man.
" I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried," said the latter,
as he ran over the paper, " how much I might bring. Say so much for
the shape of my head, so much for a high forehead, so much for arms,
and hands, and legs, and then so much for education, learning, talent,
honesty, religion! Bless mo, there would be small charge on that last,
Fm thinking. But come, Eva," he said; and taking the hand of his
daughter, he stepped across the boat, and carelessly putting the tip of
his finger under Tom's chin, said, good humouredly, "Lookup, Tom,
and see how you like your new master."
Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, young,
handsome face, without a feeling ol pleasure; and Tom felt tne teara
start in his eyes as he said, heartily," God bless you, mas'r!"
" Well, I hope he will. "What's your name ? Torn P Quite as likely
to do it for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive
horses, Tom ? "
"I've been allays used to horses," said Tom. "Mas'r Shelby raised
heaps on 'em."
"Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition that you won't
be drunk more than once a week, unless in cases of emergency, Tom."
Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, "I never drink,
mas'r."
" I've heard that story before, Tom; but then we'll see. It will be
a special accommodation to all concerned, if you don't. Never mind,
my boy," he added, good-humouredly, seeing Tom still looked grave; " I
don't doubt you mean to do well."
" I sartin do, mas'r," said Tom.
" And you shall have good times" said Eva. " Papa is very good to
everybody, only he always will laugh at them."
" Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation," said St
Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away.
CHAPTEE XV.
ob tom's niw masteb, and vabious other mattebs.
Since the thread of our humble hero's life hasnow become interwoven
with that of higher ones, it is necessary to give some brief introduction
to them.
Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana,
The family had its origin in Canada. Of two brothers, very similar in
temperament and character, one had settled on a flotmshinn farm &
lEFE AMONG THE LOWLY.
Vermont, and the other became an opuleiil planter in Louisiana. 'jPIiQ
mother of Augustine was a Huguenot French lady, whose family liiid
emigrated to Louisiana during the days of its early settlement. Augus¬
tine and another brother were the only children of their parents. Hav¬
ing inherited from his mother an exceeding delicacy of constitution, he
was, at the instance of physicians, during many years of his boyhood,
sent to the care of his uncle in Vermont, in order that his constitution
might be strengthened by the cold of a more bracing climate.
In childhood he was remarkable for an extreme and marked sensitive¬
ness of character, more akin to the softness of woman than the ordinary
hardness of his own sex. Time, however, overgrew this softness with
the rough bark of manhood, and but few knew how living and fresh it
still lay at the core. His talents were of the very first order, although
his mind showed -a preference always for the ideal and aesthetic; and
there was about him that repugnance to the actual business of life
which is the common result of this balance of the faculties. Soon after
the completion of his college course, his whole nature was kindled into
one intense and passionate effervescence of romantic passion. His hour
came—the hour tha& comes only once; his star rose in the horizon—
that star that rises so often in vain, to be remembered only as a
thing of dreams; and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure, he saw
and won the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the
northern States, and they were affianced. He returned south to make
arrangements for their marriage, when, most unexpectedly, his letters
were returned to him by mail, with a short note from her guardian,
stating to him that ere this reached him the lady would be the wife of
another. Stung to madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done,
to fling the whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort. Too
proud to supplicate or seek explanation, he threw himself at once into
a whirl of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from the time of the
fatal letter was the accepted lover of the reigning belle of the season;
and as soon as arrangements could be made, he became the husband 01
a fine figure, a pair of bright, dark eyes, and a hundred thousand
dollars; and, of course, everybody thought him a happy fellow.
The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and entertaining
a brilliant circle of friends m their splendid villa near Lake Pont-
chartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought to him in that well
remembered writing. It was handed to him while he was in full tide
of gay and successful conversation, in a whole room-full of company.
He turned deadly pale when he saw the writing, but still preserved his
composure, and finished tiie playful warfare of badinage which he was
at the moment carrying on with a lady opposite; and, a short time
after, was missed from the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and
read the letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from
her, giving a long account of a persecution to which she had been ex¬
posed by her guardian's family, to lead her to unite herself with their
son; and she related how, for a long time, his letters had teased to
arrive; how she had written time and again, till she became weary and
doiihtful; how her health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at
last, she had discovered the whole fraud which had been practised on
them both. The letter ended with expressions of hope and thankfulness,
and professions of undying affection, which were more bitter than
death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to her immediately:—
" I have received yours—but too late. I believed all I heard. I was
desperate. I am married, and all is over. Only forget—it is all that
remains for either of us."
tQ4 UNCLE TOM'S CADIS', 03
And thus ended the whole romnncs and ider1
St. Clare; bat the reaZ remamed-the «<hlve toe £ at, La » .
mud, when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company oi | J
boils and white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming \.aterB,
Sone Cn a id there it lies, flat, slimy, bare-exceedmgly real
g°0f course^ in a novel, people's hearts breik, and they d>e and th at *
thp r-nc" of it • and in a story this is very convenient. Lutm real me \ e
do not die when all that makes liie bright dies to us.
busy and important round ol' eating, drinking, dressing, walkirv,
buying, soling, talking, reading, and all that makes up ! ^
monly called living yet to be gone through; and this yeo remained to
Augustine. Had his wife been a whole woman, she might j et h. \ o
done something—as woman can-to mend the broken thieaclb of life,
and weave again into a tissue of brightness. But Mane ot. Glare could
Kiot; GV6T1 SCO tll&t ttlGy Yield t)6GD forolc.611. As t)6foiG stflfcodj SUG C'OllSlstcd
if a fine figure, a pair of splendid eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars;
and none of these items were precisely the ones to minister to a mind
diseased.
When Augustine, pale as death, was found 1\ ing on the sofa, and
\leaded sudden sick headache as the cause of his distress, she recom¬
mended to liim to smell of hartshorn; and when the paleness and head-
iche came on week after week, she only said that she never thought
Mr. St. Clare was sickly; but it seems he was very liable to sick
headaches, and that it was a very unfortunate thing for her, because he
didn't enjoy going into company with her, and it seemed odd to go so
much alone, when they were just married. Augustine was glad in his
heart that he had married so undiscerning a woman; but as the glosses
and civilities of the honeymoon wore away, he discovered that a beau¬
tiful young woman, who has lived all her life to be caressed and waited
on, might prove quite a hard mistress in domestic life. Marie never
had possessed much capability of atfection, or much sensibility; and
the little that she had, had merged into a most intense and unconscious
selfishness,—a selfishness the more hopeless from its quiet obtuseness,
its utter ignorance of any claims but her own. From her infancy she
had _ been surrounded with servants, who lived only to study her
caprices; the idea that they had either feelings or rights had never
dawned upon her, even in distant perspective. Her father, whose only
child she had been, had never denied her anything that lay within the
compass of human possibility; and when she entered life,—beautifuL
accomplished, and an heiress,—she had, of course, all the eligibles ana
non-eligibles of the other sex sighing at her feet, and she had no doubt
that Augustine was a most fortunate man in having obtained her. It is
a great mistake to suppose that a woman with no heart will be an easy
creditor in the exchange of affection. There is not on earth a more
merciless exactor of love from others than a thoroughly selfish woman;
and the more unlovely she grows, the more jealously and scrupu¬
lously she exacts love, to the uttermost farthing. When, therefore, St.
Clare began to drop off those gallantries and small attentions which
flowed at first through the habitude of courtship, he found his sultana
no way ready to resign her slave; there were abundance of tears pout-
mgs, and small tempests; there were discontents, pinings, upbra'idings,
ht. Clare was good-natured and self-indulgent, and sought to "buy off
with presents and flatteries; and when Marie became mother to a beau
tiful daughter, he really felt awakened, for a time, to something like
tenderness.
St. Clare s mother had been 3 woman of uncommon elevation and
LIFE AMONG TH3 LOWLT. 105
purity of character, and he gave to this child his mothers name, fondly
fancying that she would prove a reproduction of her image. The thing
had been remarked with petulant jealousy by his wife, and she regarded
her husband's absorbing devotion to the child with suspicion and dis¬
like ; all that was given to her seemed so much taken from herself. From
the time of the birth of this child her health gradually sunk. A life of
constant inaction, bodily and mental,—the friction of ceaseless ennui
and discontent, united to the ordinary weakness which attended the
period of maternity,—in course of a few years, changed the blooming
young belle into a yellow, faded, sickly woman, whose time was divided
among a variety of fanciful diseases, and who considered herself, in
every sense, the most ill-used and suffering person in existence.
There was no end of her various complaints; but her principal forts
appeared to lie in sick headache, which sometimes would confine her to
her room three days out of six. As, of course, all family arrangements
fell into the hands of servants, St. Clare found his menage anything but
comfortable. His only daughter was exceedingly delicate, and he feared
that, with no one to look after her and attend to her, her health and life
might yet fall a sacrifice to her mother's inefficiency. He had taken
her with him on a tour to Vermont, and had persuaded his cousin, Miss
Ophelia St. Clare, to return with him to his southern residence; and
they are now returning on this boat, where we have introduced them to
our readers.
And now, while the distant domes and spires of New Orleans rise to
our view, there is yet time for an introduction to Miss Ophelia.
Whoever has travelled in the New England States will remember, in
some cool village, the large farm-house, with its clean-swept grassy yard,
shaded by the dense and massive foliage of the sugar-maple; ana re-
membe? the air of order and stillness, of perpetuity and unchanging
repose, that seemed to breathe over the whole place. Nothing lost, or
out of order; not a picket loose in the fence, not a particle of litter in
the turfy yard, with its clumps of lilac-bushes growing up under the
windows. Within, he will remember wide, clean rooms, where nothing
ever seems to be doing or going to be done, where everything is once
and for ever rigidly in place, and where ail household arrangements
move with the punctual exactness of the old clock in the corner. In
the family " keeping-room," as it is termed, he will remember the staid,
respectable old book-case, with its glass doors, where Kollin's History,
Mil ton's Paradise Lost, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and Scott's Family
ljible, stand side by side in decorous order, with multitudes of other
books, equally solemn and respectable. There are no servants in the
house, but the lady in the snowy cap, with the spectacles, who sits sew¬
ing every afternoon among her daughters, as if nothing ever had been
done, or were to be dono—she and her girls, in some lousj-forgotten
fore part of the day, " did up the ivorTc " and for the rest ot the time,
probably at all hours when you would see them, it is " done up." The
old kitchen floor never seems stained or spotted; the tables, the chairs,
and the various cooking utensils, never seem deranged or disor¬
dered ; though three and sometimes four meals a day are got there;
though the family washing and ironing is there performed, and though
pounds of butter and cheese are in some silent and mysterious manner
there brought into existence.
On such a farm, in such a house and family, Miss Ophelia had spent
a quiet existence of some forty-five years, when her cousin invited her
to visit his southern mansion. The eldest of a large family, she was still
pojasidered by her father and mother as one of " the childrenand tho
108 UNCIE TOM'S CABIN, OS
proposal tliat she should go to Orleans was a most momentous®
the family circle. The old gray-headed father took down 01r. _
out of the bookcase, and looked out the ex act 1atu udo and } 1":, owl(
and read Flint's Travels in the South and West, to make up his own
mind as to the nature of the country. «-e roo0n't an awful
The good mother inquired, anxiously, if Orl®a^1^^n„toianrr f^the
wicked place," saying, "that it seemed to her most equal to gomD
Sandwich Islands, or anywhere among tae 1aeatnen. „ -p
It was known at the minister's, and at the doctor s and ^
body's milliner shop, that Ophelia St. Clare was "talking about going
away down to Orleans with her cousin ; and of course the whole village
could do no less than help this very important process of talking about
the matter. The minister, who inclined strongly to abolitionist views,
was quite doubtful whether such a step might not tend somewhat to
encourage the southerners in holding on to their slaves; while the doctor,
who was a stanch colonizationist, inclined to the opinion that Miss
Ophelia ought to go, to show the Orleans people that we don't think
hardly of them, after all. He was of opinion, in fact, that southern
people needed encouraging. When, however, the fact that she had
resolved to go was l'ully before the public rmnd, she was solemnly in¬
vited out to tea by all her friends and neighbours for the space of a fort¬
night, and her prospects and plans duly canvassed and inquired into.
Miss Moseley, who came into the house to help to do the dressmaking,
acquired daily accessions of importance from the developments with
regard to Miss Ophelia's wardrobe which she had been enabled to make.
It was credibly ascertained that Squire Sinclare, as his name was com¬
monly contracted in the neighbourhood, had counted out fifty dollars, and
given them to Miss Ophelia, and told her to buy any clothes she thought
best; and that two new silk dresses, and a bonnet, had been sent for from
Boston. As to the propriety of this extraordinary outlay, the public mind
was divided; some affirming that it was well enough, all things consi¬
dered, for once in one's life, and others stoutly affirming that the money
had better have been sent to the missionaries ; but all parties agreed that
there had been no such parasol seen in those parts as had been sent on
from New York, and that she had one silk dress that might fairly be
trusted to stand alone, whatever might be said of its mistress. There
were credible rumours, also, of a hem-stitched pocket-handkerchief;
and report even went so far as to state Miss Ophelia had one pocket-
handkerchief with lace all around it—it was even added that it was worked
in the corners; but this latter point was never satisfactorily ascertained,
and remains, in fact, unsettled to this day.
Miss Ophelia, as you now behold her, stands before you, in a very
shining brown linen travelling-dress, tail, square-formed, and angular.
Her face was thin, and rather sharp in its outlines; the lips compressed,
like those of a person who is in the habit of making up her mind defi¬
nitely on all subjects; while the keen, dark eyes, had a peculiarly
searching, advised movement, aud travelled over everything, as if they
were looking for something to take care of.
All her movements were sharp, decided, and energetic; and though
she was never much of a talker, her words were remarkably direct and
to the purpose when she did speak.
In her habits, she was a living impersonation of order, method aud
exactness. In punctuality^ she was as inevitable as a clock and aj
inexorable as a railroad-engine; and she held in most decided contempt
and abomination anything of a contrary character
The great sin of sins, in her eye—the sum of »U evils—was ex-
1I.FE AMOJ'O THE £OWL-. 107
pressed by ono very common and important word in her vocabulary—"
shiftlessness." Her finale and ultimatum of contempt consisted in a
very emphatio pronunciation of the word " shiftlessand by this she
characterized all modes of procedure which had. not a direct and inevi¬
table relation to accomplishment of some purpose then definitely had in
mind. People who did nothing, or who did not know exactly what they
were going to do, or who did not take the most direct way to accomplish
what they set their hands to, were objects of her entire contempt • a
contempt shown less frequently by anything she said than by a kind of
stony grimness, as if she scorned to say anything about the matter.
As to mental cultivation, she had a clear, strong, active mind, was
well and thoroughly read in history and the older English classics, and
thought with great strength within certain narrow limits. Her theolo¬
gical tenets were all made up, labelled in the most positive and distinct
forms, and put by, like the bundles in her patch trunk; there were just
so many of them, and there were never to be any more. So, also, were
her ideas with regard to most matters of practical life—such as house¬
keeping in all its branches, and the various political relations of her
native village. And, underlaying all, deeper than anything else, higher
and broader, lay the strongest principle of her being—conscientiousness.
Nowhere is conscience so dominant and all-absorbing as with New
England women. It is the granite formation, which lies deepest, and
rises out, even to the tops of the highest mountains.
Miss Ophelia was the absolute bond-slave of the " ought." Once make
her certain that the " path of duty," as she commonly phrased it, lay in
any given direction, and fire and water could not keep her from it. She
would walk straight down into a well, or up to a loaded cannon's mouth,
if she were only quite sure that there the path lay. Her standard 01
right was so high, so all-embracing, so minute, and making so few con¬
cessions to human frailty, that though she strove with heroic ardour to
reach it, she never actually did so, and of course was burdened with a
constant and often harassing sense of deficiency. This gave a severe
and somewhat gloomy cast to her religious character.
But how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with Augustine St.
Clare—gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical, sceptical,—in short walking
with impudent and nonchalant freedom over every one of ner most
cherished habits and opinions ?
To tell the truth, then, Miss Ophelia loved him. When a boy? it had
been hers to teach him his catechism, mend his clothes, comb his hair,
and bring him up generally in the way he should go; and her heart
having a warm side to it, Augustine had, as he usually did with most
people, monopolized a large share of it for himself, and therefore it was
that he succeeded very easily in persuading her that the "path of duty"
lay in the direction of New Orleans, and that she must go with him to
take care of Eva, and keep everything from going to wreck and ruin
during the frequent illnesses of his wffe. The idea of a house without
anybody to take care of it went to her heart; then she loved the lovely
little girl, as few could help doing; and though she regarded Augustine
as very much of a heathen, yet she loved him, laughed at his jokes, and
forbore with his failings, to a n extent which those who knew him thought
perfectly incredible. But what more or other is to be known of Miss
Ophelia, our reader must discover by a personal acquaintance.
There she is, sitting now in her state-room, surrounded by a mixed
multitude of little and big carpet-bags, boxes, baskets, each containing
gome separate responsibility, which she is tying, binding up, packing^ or
ffstemng, with & face of grent earnestness.
108
TTNCIS TOM'S CABIN, OS
Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things ? Of course you
J.0 Keep lu I1K/C, UUUU , uiuou iwivu ., . . , °, Q yy
ever mean to have anything; and now, Eva, is your thimble put up r
" Really, aunty, I don't know." .
" Well, never mind; I'll look your box over; thimble, wax, two spoons,
scissors, knife, tape-needlo; all right—put it in here. Yv hat did you
ever do, child, when you were coming on with only your papa ? I should
have thought you'd a' lost everything you had."
" Well, aunty, 1 did lose a great many; and then, when we stopped
anywhere, papa would buy some more of whatever it was."
" Mercy on us, child, what a way!"
" It was a very easy way, aunty," said Eva.
" It's a dreadful shiftless one," said aunty.
" Why, aunty, what '11 you do now ?" said Eva. " That trunk is ton
f 11 to be shut down."
" It must shut down," said aunty, with the air of a general, as she
squeezed the things in, and sprung upon the lid ; still a little gap re¬
mained about the mouth of the trunk.
"Get up here, Eva!" said Miss Ophelia, courageously; "what has
been done can be done again. This trunk has got to be shut and locked,
—there are no two ways about it."
And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute statement, save
in. The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss Ophelia turned the
key, and pocketed it in triumph.
"Now we're ready. Where's your papa? I think it time this bag¬
gage was set out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you seo your papa."
" Oh, yes, he's down the other end of the gentlemen's cabin, eating an
orange."
" He can't know how near we are coming," said aunty; " hadn't you
better run and speak to him ? "
" Papa never is in a hurry about anything," paid Eva; " and we haven't
come to the landing. Do step on the guards, aunty. Look ! there's our
house, up that street! "
The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast, tired monster,
to prepare to push up among the multiplied steamers at the levee. Eva
joyously pointed out the various spires, domes, and way-marks, by
which she recognised her native city.
" Yes, yes, dear; very fine," said Mis3 Ophelia. " Eut mercy on us!
the boat has stopped! where is your father ?
And now ensued the usual turmoil of landing—waiters running twenty
ways at once—men tugging trunks, carpet-bags, boxes—women anxiously
calling to their children, and everybody crowding in a dense mass to the
plank towards the landing.
Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the lately vanquished trunk
and marshalling all her goods and chattels in tine military order seemed
resolved to defend them to the last. 5
" SVloll T TTA11W fmivilr vnn'nm Q U C( 01.^.11 T __ * >
" Shall T take your trunk, ma'am ? " " Shall I take your baggage ? "
Let me tend to your baggage, missis ? " " Shan't I carry out thee*
LIFE AlfOSTG TllE LOWLY. 109
7&r, missis ? " rained down upon her unheeded. She sat with grim de¬
termination, upright as a darning-needle stuck in a board, holding on
her bundle of umbrella and parasols, and replying with a determination
that was enough to strike dismay even into a hackman, wondering to
Eva, in each interval, "what upon earth her papa could be thinking of;
he couldn't have fallon over, now—but something must have happened:"
and just as she had begun to work herself into a real distress, he
came up, with his usually careless motion, and giving Eva a quarter of
the orange he was eating, said—
" Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready."
" I've been ready, waiting nearly an hour," said Miss Ophelia; " 1
be^nn to be really concerned about you."
" That's a clever fellow, now," said he. "Well, the carriage is waiting,
and the crowd are now off, so that one can walk out in a decent and
Oil ristian manner, and not be pushed and shoved. Here," he added to
a d river who stood behind liim, " take these things."
" I'll go and see to his putting them in," said Miss Ophelia.
" Oh, pshaw, cousin, what's the use ? " said St. Clare.
"Well, at any rate, I'll carry this, and this, and this," said Miss
Ophelia, singling out three boxes and a small carpet-bag.
" My dear Miss Vermont, positively you mustn't come the Green
Mountains over us that way. You must adopt at least a piece of southern
principle, and not walk out under all that load. They'll take you for a
waiting-maid; give them to this fellow; he'll put them down as if they
were eggs, now."
Miss Ophelia looked despairingly as her cousin took all her treasures
from her, and rejoiced to find herself once more in the carriage with
them, in a state of preservation.
" Where's Tom ? " said Eva.
" Oh, he's on the outside, pussy. I'm going to take Tom up to mother
for a peace-otfering, to make up for that drunken fellow that upset the
carriage."
" Oh, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know," said Eva; " he'll
never get drunk."
The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion, built in that odd
mixture of Spanish and Trench style, of which there are specimens in
some parts of N ew Orleans. It was built in the Moorish fashion—a
square building inclosing a court-yard, into which the carriage drove
through an arched gateway. The court, in the inside, had evidently been
arranged to gratify a picturesque and voluptuous ideality. Wide
galleries ran ail around the four sides, whose Moorish arches, slender
pillars, and arabesque ornaments, carried the mind back, as in a dream,
to the reign of Oriental romance in Spain. In the middle of the court, a
fountain threw high its silvery water, falling in a never-ceasing spray
into a marble basin, fringed with a deep border of fragrant violets. The
water in the fountain, pellucid as crystal, was alive with myriads of gold
and silver fishes, twinkling and darting through it like so many living
jewels. Around the fountain ran a walk, paved with a mosaic of pebbles,
laid in various fanciful patterns; and this, again, was surrounded by turf,
smooth as green velvet, while a carriage-drive inclosed the whole. Two
large orange-trees, now fragrant with blossom.a, threw a delicious shade;
and, ranged in a circle round upon the turf, were marble vases of
arabesque sculpture, containing the choicest flowering plants of the
tropics. Huge pomegranate trees, with their glossy leaves and flame-
coloured flowers, dark-leaved Arabian jessamines, with their silvery
stars, geraniums, luxuriant roses bending beneath their heavy abundance
110 TTNCIB TOM'S CABIN, OB
of flowers, golden jessamines, lemon-scented verbenum.
bloom and fragrance, while here and there a mysuo old aloe, «
strange, massive leaves, sat looking like some hoary old enchanter,
sitting in weird grandeur among the more perishable bloom ana ira
grThe°Seriesthat surrounded the court were festooned with a curtain
place was luxurious and romantic. +„ wj- from
As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready to Durst uom
a cage, with the wild eagerness of her delight.
" 5h, isn't it beautiful, lovely, my own dear, darling home . •-he -wi
to Miss Ophelia. " Isn't it beautiful ?"
" 'Tis a pretty place," said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted, though 15
iooks rather old and heathenish to me."
Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an air of
calm, still enjoyment. The negro, it must be remembered, is an ex olio
of the most gorgeous and superb countries of the world, and he has deep
in his heart a passion for all that is splendid, rich, and fanciful; a pas¬
sion which, rudely indulged by an untrained taste, draws on them the
ridicule of the colder and more correct white race.
St. Clare, who was in his heart a poetical voluptuary, smiled as Misa
Ophelia made her remark on his premises, and, turning to Tom, who
was standing looking round, his beaming black face perfectly radiant
with admiration, he said,—
" Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you."
"Yes, mas'r, it looks about the right thing," said Tom.
All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being hustled off,
hackman paid, and while a crowd of all ages and sizes—men, women,
and children—came running through the galleries, both above and
below, to see mas'r come in. Foremost among them was a highly-
dressed young mulatto man, evidently a very distingue personage, attired
in the ultra extreme of the mode, and gracefully waving a scented cam¬
bric handkerchief in his hand.
This personage had been exerting himself, with great alacrity, in
driving all the flock of domestics to the other end of the verandah.
" Back! all of you. I am ashamed of you," he said in a tone of
authority. " "Would you intrude on masters domestic relations in the
first hour of his return ?"
All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with quite an air,
and stood huddled together afr a respectful distance, except two stout
porters, who came up and began conveying away the baggage.
Owing to Mr. Adolph's systematic arrangements, when St. Clare
turned round from paying the hackman, there was nobody in view but
Mr. Adolph himself, conspicuous in satin vest, gold guard-chain, and
white pants, and bowing with inexpressible grace and suavity.
"Ah, Adolph, is it you?" said his master, offering his hand to him;
" how are you, boy P" while Adolph poured forth, with great fluency, an
extemporary speech, which he had been preparing with great care for a
fortnight before.
"Well, well," said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air of negligent
drollery, " that's very well got up, Adolph. See that the baggage is well
bestowed. I'll come to the people in a minuteand so saying, he led
Miss Ophelia to a large parlour that opened on to the verandah.
While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird through tha
porch and parlour, to a little boudoir opening likewise on the verandah.
LIVE AMONG THE LOWIY. Ill
A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman half rose from a oouoh on which
Bhe was reclining.
"Mamma!" said Eva, in a sort of rapture, throwing herself on her
neck, and embracing her over and over again.
" That'll do—take care, child—don't you make my head ache!" said
the mother, after she had languidly kissed her.
St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, husbandly
fashion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie lifted her largo
eyes on her cousin with an air of some curiosity, and received her with
languid politeness. A crowd of servants now pressed to the entry door,
nnd among them a middle-aged mulatto woman, of very respectable
I appearance, stood foremost, in a tremor of expectation and joy, at tho
' door.
' " Oh, there's Mammy!" said Eva, as she flew across the room; and,
throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her repeatedly.
This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache, but, on the
contrary, she hugged her, and laughed, and cried, till her sanity was a
thing to be doubted of; and when released from her, Eva flew from one
to another, shaking hands and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia after¬
wards declared fairly turned her stomach.
" Well!" said Miss Ophelia, " you southern children can do some¬
thing that I couldn't."
" What, now, pray ?" said St. Clare.
"Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn't have anything
hurt; but as to kissing—"
" Niggers," said St. Clare, " that you're not up to; eh ?"
"Yes, that's it. How can she?"
St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. " Holloa, here, what's
to pay out here? Here, you all—Mammy, Jimmy, Polly, Sukey—glad
to see mas'r ?" he said, as he went shaking hands from one to another.
" Look out for tho babies !" he added, as he stumbled over a sooty little
urchin, who was crawling upon all fours. " If I step upon anybody, let
'em mention it."
There was an abundance of laughing and blessing mas'r, as St. Clare
distributed small pieces of change among them.
"Come, notake yourselves off, like good boys and girls," he said;
and the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappeared through a door
into a large verandah, followed by Eva, who carried a large satchel,
which she had been tilling with apples, nuts, candy, ribbons, laces, and
toys of every description, during her whole homeward journey.
As St. Clare turned to go back, his eye fell upon Tom, who was
standing uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, while Adolph
stood negligently leaning against the banisters, examining Tom through
an opera-glass, with an air that would have done credit to any dandy
living.
" Puh! you puppy," said his master, striking down the opera-glass ;
" is that the way you treat your company ? Seems to me, I)olph,'' he
added, laying his finger on the elegant figured satin vest that Adolph
was sporting, "seems to me that's my vest."
" Oh ! master, this vest all stained with wine!—of course, a gentleman
in master's standing never wears a vest like this. I understood I was to
take it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow like me."
And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through kia
tcsnted hair, with a grace.
" So, that's it, is it ?" said St. Clare, carelessly. " "Well, here, I m going
to show this Tom to his mistress, ana then you take him to the kitchen i
112 trr^LS TOM'S CABIN, oa
He is worth t«M
and mind you don't jm; un any of your airs • „
-d Ad°1Ph> bUR S
dcL1§^ T(;^°Sid's"ciarc jg'J'SStfuUy on.the vetaet carpeK
' ' "i Odours of mirrors, pictures, statues, and
„,ul J spirit in f. Helookf you a
" See here, Marie, said b . ^ te's a regular hearse lor black-
eoachmaia, at last, to orde . ^ ^ a funeral, if you want. Open
vour^s^now^a'nd look at him. Now, don't say I never think about
' °M ope™ed°her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without rising.
" I know he'll get drunk," she said.
" No he's warranted a pious and sober article.'
« Well, I hope he may turn out well," said the lady; "it'smore than
I expect, though."
" Dolpb," said St. Clare, show Tom down stairs; and mind your¬
self," he added; " remember what I told you."
Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumbering tread,
went after.
" He's a perfect behemoth!" said Marie.
" Come, now, Marie," said St. Clare, seating himself on a stool beside
her sofa, " be gracious and say something pretty to a fellow."
" You've been gone a fortnight beyond the time," said the lady,
pouting.
" Well, you know I wrote you the reason."
" Such a short, cold letter!" said the lady.
" Dear me ! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or
nothing."
" That's just the way, always," said the lady; "always something to
make your journeys long and letters short."
" See, here, now," he added, drawing an elegant velvet case out of his
pocket, and opening it, "here's a present I got for you in New York."
It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, representing Eva
and her father sitting hand in hand.
Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.
" What made you sit in such an awkward position ?" she said.
"Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but what do you
think of the likeness ?"
"If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose
you wouldn't in another," said the lady, shutting the daguerreotype.
" Hang the woman!" said St. Clare, mentally; but aloud lie added,
Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don't be
nonsensical, now."
" It's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare," said the lady, " to insist
ln^ ai l°°king at things. You know I've been lying all day
witn trie sick headache; and there's been such a tumult made ever
6mce you came, I'm half dead."
_=ick headache, ma'am !" said Miss Ophelia,
suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair, where she had
eat quietly, taking an inventory of the furniture, and calculating its
expense.
Yes, I'm a perfect martyr to it," 6aid the lady.
life among the lowly. 113
" Juniper-berry tea is good for sick headache." said Miss Ophelia:
"at least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry's wifo, used to say so; ana
she was a great nurse-"
" HI have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the
lake brought in for that especial purpose," said St. Clare, gravely pull-
inj; the bell as he did so; "meanwhile, cousin, you must be wanting to
retire to your apartment, and refresh yourself a little, after your journey.
Do]ph," he added, "tell Mammy to come here." The decent mulatto
woman whom Eva had caressed so rapturously soon entered; she was
dressed neatly, with a high red and yellow turban 011 her head, the recent
gift of Eva, and which the child had been arranging on her head,
""Mammy," said St. Clare, "I put this lady under your care; she is
tired, and wants rest. Take her to her chamber, and be sure she is
\nade comfortable;" and Miss Ophelia disappeared in the rear of
Mammy.
CHAPTEE XVL
tom's mistbess and heb opinions.
" And now, Marie," said St. Clare, " your golden days are dawning.
Here is our practical, business-like New England cousin, who will take
the whole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to
refresh yourself, and grow young and handsome. The ceremony of
delivering the keys had better come off forthwith."
This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few mornings aftei
Miss Ophelia had arrived.
" I'm sure she's welcome," said Marie, leaning her head languidly on
her hand. " I think she'll find one thing, if she does, and that is, that
it's we mistresses that are the slaves, down here."
" Oh, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of wholesome
truths besides, no doubt," said St. Clare.
" Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our convenience"
said Marie; " I'm sure, if we consulted that, we might let them all go at
once."
Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother's face with an
earnest and perplexed expression, and said simply, " What do you keep
them for, mamma?'
" I don't know, I'm sure, except for a plague; they are the plague of
my life. I believe that more of my ill-health is caused by them than by
any one thing ; and ours, I know, are the very worst that ever anybody
was plagued with."
" Oh, come, Marie, you've got the blues this morning," said St. Clare,
"You know 'tisn't so. There's Mammy,the best creature living—what
could you do without her?"
" Mammy is the best I ever knew," said Marie; " and yet Mammy,
now, is selfish—dreadfully selfish; it's the fault of the whole race."
" Selfishness is a dreadful fault," said St. Clare, gravely.
"Well, now, there's Mammy," said Marie, " I think it's selfish of her
to sleep so sound at nights; she knows I need little attentions almost
every hour, when my worst turns are on, and yet she's so hard to wake.
I absolutely am worse, this very morning, for the efforts I had to make
to wake her last night."
" Hasn't she sat up with youa good many nights lately mamma
said Eva.
S
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
«Eo„ should you know that?" said Marie, starely! Ham
«1» only told me .b* tad nights you'd had-
"° ™V™hVdou°tCyou''Mj«n. or Bo»«»ke tor P1"06 anigM 01saii
St. Clare, " and let her rest ?" aiarie. « St. Clare, you really are
" How can you P™po*e ;ig j am the least breath disturbs me; and a
inconsiderate • ' woui(i drive me absolutely frantic. Il Mammy
strange hand abou p>,e onp;i1t to, she'd wake easier—of course sho
felt the ^.|jfc.ira (Jf people who had such devoted servants, but it never
would. 3) al!,j J\I;\rie sighed.
W Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air of shrewd,
observant gravity ; and she still kept her lips tightly compressed, as if
i determined fully to ascertain her longitude and position, before she
committed herself.
"Now, Mammy has a sort of goodness " said Marie; " she's smooth
and respectful, but she's selfish at heart. Now, she never will be done
fidgeting and worrying about that husband of hers. You see, when I
was married and came to live here, of course I had to bring her with me,
and her husband my father couldn't spare. lie w&* a blacksmith, and,
of course, very necessary; and I thought and said, at the time, that
Mammy and lie had belter give each other up, as it wasn't likely to be
convenient for tliem ever to live together again. 1 wish now I'd insisted
on it, and married Mammy to somebody else; but I was foolish and
indulgent, and didn't want to insist. I told Mammy at the time that
she mustn't ever expect to see him more than once or twice in her life
again, for the air of father's place doesn't agree wilh my health, and I
can't go there; and I advised her to take up wi oh somebody else; but
no—she wouldn't. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots,
that everybody don't see as [ do."
" Has she children ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" Yes; she has two."
" I suppose she feels the separation from them ?"
" Well, of course, I couldn't bring them. They were little dirty
things—I couldn't have them about; and, besides, they took up too
much of her time; but 1 believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort
of sulkiness about this. She won't marry an j body else; and I do believe
now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my
health is she would go back to her husband to-morrow, if she only could.
I do, indeed," said Marie; "they are just so selfish. now. the best of
them."
"It's distressing to reflect upon," said St. Clare, drily.
Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of mortification
and repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl of the lip, as he spoke.
"Now Mammy ha-s always been a pet with me," said Marie. " I wish
some of your northern servants could look at her closets of dresses-
silks and muslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging there.
I've worked sometimes whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting
her ready to go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She
never was whipped more than once or twice in her whole life. She
has her strong coffee or her tea every day with white sugar in it. It's
abominable, to be sure; but St. Clare will have high life below stairs
and they every one of them live just as they pleasa. The fact in, our
servants are over-indulged. I suppose it in paitly ovr fault thai they
Iir-I? AMONG TIIE LOWLY. 118
ere selfish, and act like spoiled children; but I've talked to St. Clare till
I'm tired."
"And I, too," said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper.
Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother, with that
expression of deep and mystic earnestness which was peculiar to her.
She walked softly round to her mother's chair, and put her arms round
her neck.
"Well, Eva, what now ?"' said Marie.
" Mamma, couldn't I take care of you one night—just one ? I know
I shouldn't make you nervous, and I shouldn't sleep. I often lie awake
nights, thinking—"
" Oh, nonsense, child—nonsense!" said Marie: "you are such a strange
child!"
"But may I, mamma? I think," she said, timidly, "that Mammy
isn't well. She told mo her head ached all the time, lately."
" Oh, that's just one of Mammy's fidgets! Mammy is just like all the
rest of thera— makes such a fuss about every little headache or finger-
ache ; it'll never do to encourage it—never! I'm principled about thie
matter." said she, turning to Miss Ophelia; "you'll find the necessity
of it. If you encourage servants in giving way to every little disagree¬
able feeling, and complaining of every little ailment, you'll have your
hands full. I never complain myself—nobody knows what I endure. I
feel it a duty, to bear it quietly, and I do."
Miss Ophelia's round eyes expressed an undisguised amazement at
this peroration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely ludicrous that
he burst into a loud laugh.
" St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my ill-
health," said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr. " I only hope
the day won't come when he'll remember it!" and Marie put her hand¬
kerchief to her eyes.
Of course there was a rather foolish silence. Finally, St. Clare got
up, looked at his watch, and said he had an engagement down street.
Eva tripped away after him, and Miss Ophelia and Marie remained at
. the table alone.
"Now, that's just like St. Clare!" said the latter, withdrawing her
handkerchief with somewhat of a spirited flourish, when the criminal to
be affected by it was no longer in sight. " He never realizes, never can,
and never will, what I suffer, and have for years. If I was one of the
complaining sort, or ever made any fuss about my ailments, there would
be some reason for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining
wife. But I've kept things to myself, and borne, and borne, till St.
Clare has got in the way of thinking I can bear anything."
Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected to answef
to this.
, While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped away her
tears, and smoothed her plumage in a general sort of way, as a dovts
might be supposed to make toilet after a shower, and began a housewifely
chat with Miss Ophelia, concerning cupboards, closets, linen-presses,
store-rooms, and other matters, of which the latter was, by common
understanding, to assume the direction—giving her so many cautions,
directions, and charges, that a head less systematic and business-like than
Miss Ophelia's would have been utterly dizzied and confounded.
"And now," said Marie* "I believe I've told you everything; so
that, when my next sick turn oomes on, you'll be able to go forward
entirely, without consulting me; only about Eva — she requires
watching,"
Ufl UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
- .... 6aid Miss Ophelia; "I never
" She seems to be a good child, very, saia ivx
saw a better child." "very. There are things about
"Eva's peculiar " said her' ®«Jker. ▼ ^article;33 and Marie sighed,
her so singular; she consideration. .
ojhdfc i^her^ said, "I hope she isn't," but had pru-
denceenough to kee£.^° Tfo be with servants; and I think that well
" Eva Now, I always played with father's little
enough with some c^ me any ^arm. But Eva somehow always seems
negroes—it nev eaualitywith every creature that comes near her.
ftP? tiling about the child. I never have been able to break
It s a stra clare^ j Relieve, encourages her in it. The fact is, St. Clare
indulges every creature under this roof but his own wife."
Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.
"Now, there's no way with servants," said Marie, "but to put them
down, and keep them down. It was always natural to me, from a child.
Eva is enough to spoil a whole house-full. "What she will do when she
comes to keep house herself, I'm sure I don't know. I hold to being
kind, to servants—1 always am; but you must make 'em know their place.
Eva never does; but there's no getting into the child's head the first
beginning of an idea what a servant's place is ! Tou heard her offering
to take care of me nights, to let Mammy sleep! That's just a speci¬
men of the way the child would be doing all the time, if she was left to
herself."
" Why," said Miss Ophelia, bluntly, " I suppose you think your ser¬
vants are human creatures, and ought to have some rest when they are
Ured ?"
"Certainly; of course. I'm very particular in letting them have
everything that comes convenient—anything that doesn't put one at all
out of the way, you know. Mammy can make up her sleep, some time
or other; there's no difficulty about that. She's the sleepiest concern
that ever I saw; sewing, standing, or sitting, that creature will go to
sleep, and sleep anywhere and everywhere. No danger but Mammy
gets sleep enough, liut this treating servants as if they were exotio
flowees or China vases is really ridiculous," said Marie, as she plunged
into the depths of a voluminous and pillowy lounge, and drew towards
her an elegant cut-glass vinaigrette.
" You see," she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice, like the last
dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or something equally ethereal,
"you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don't often speak of myself. It isn't my
habit; 'tisn't agreeable to me. In fact, I haven't strength to do it.
But there are points where St. Clare and I differ. St. Clare never
understood me, never appreciated me. 1 think it lies at the root of all
my ill-health. St. Clare means well, I am bound to believe; but men
are constitutionally selfish and inconsiderate to woman. That, at least
is my impression." '
Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New England
caution, and a very particular horror of being drawn into family diflicul-
ties, now began to foresee something of this kind impending ; so com¬
posing her face into a grim neutrality, and drawing out ofher pocket
about a yard and a quarter of stocking, which she kept; as a specific
against what Dr. Watts asserts to be a personal habit of Satan when
people have idle hands, she proceeded to knit most energetically shut¬
ting her lips together in a way that said, as plain as words could You
Usedn't try to make me speak. I don't want anything to do with jour
tlFE AMOSa TUB LOWEY. H?
feffairs f—m fact, she looked about as sympathizing as a stone lion.
But Marie didn't care for that. She bad got somebody to talk to, and
she felt it her duty to talk, and that was enough ; and reinforcing her¬
self by smelling again at her vinaigrette, she went on.
"You see, I brought my own property and servants into the connec¬
tion, when I married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled to manage
them my own way. St. Clare had his fortune and his servants, and I'm
well enough content he should manage them his way; but St. Clare will
be interfering. He has wild, extravagant notions about things, particu¬
larly about the treatment of servants. He really does act as if he set
liis servants before me, and before himself too; for he lets them make
him all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a ringer. Now, about some,
things, St. Clare is really frightful—he frightens me—good-natured as'
he looks in general. Now, he has set down his foot that, come what
will, there shall not be a blow struck in this house, except what he or I
strike; and he does it in a way that I really dare not cross him. Well,
you may see what that leads to: for St. Clare wouldn't raise his hand if
every one of them walked over him, and I—you see how cruel it would
be to require me to make the exertion. Now, you know these servants
axe nothing but grown-up children."
" I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that I don't 1"
said Miss Ophelia, shortly.
" Well, but you will have to know something, and know it to your cost
if you stay here. You don't know what a provoking, stupid, careless,
unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set of wretches they are."
Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got upon this
topic; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed quite to forget her
languor.
" You don't know, and you can't, the daily, hourly trials that beset a
housekeeper from them, everywhere and every way. But it's no use to
complain to St, Clare. He talks the strangest stuff. He says we have
made them what they are, and ought to bear with tliem. He says their
faults are all owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the fault
and punish it too. He says we shouldn't do any better in their place
just as if one could reason from them to us, you know."
" Don't you believe that the Lord made them of one blood with us ?"
said Miss Ophelia, shortly.
"No, indeed, not I! A pretty story, truly! They are a degraded race."
" Don't you think they've got immortal souls ?" said Miss Ophelia, with
increasing indignation.
" Oh, well," said Marie, yawning," that, of course—nobody doubts that.
But as to putting them on any sort of equality with us, you know, as if
we could be compared, why, it's impossible! Now, St. Clare really has
talked to me as if keeping Mammy from her husband was like keeping
me from mine. There's no comparing in this way. Mammy couldn't
have the feelings that I should. It's a different thing altogether—of
course, it is; and yet St. Clare pretends not to see it. And just as if
Mammy could love her little dirty babies as I love Eva! Yet St. Clare
once really and soberly tried to persuade me that it was my duty, with ray
weak health, and all I suffer, to let Mammy go back, and take somebody
else in her place. That was a little too much, even for me to bear. I
don't often show re 7 feelings. I make it a principle to endure everything
in silence; it's a wife's hard lot, and I bear it. But I did break out,
that time; so that he has never alluded to the subject since. But I
know by his looks, and little things that he says, that he thinks so as
much as ever; and it's so trying, so provoking I"
118 uncle Tom's cabin, 02
v 00 if «>ifi wds afraid she should
Miss Ophelia looked veryH^°^w^v iith her needles in a way
say something; hut she rattled a 7 M rie couid only have und&r-
that had volumes of meaning in *1
stood it. , „ t,A continued* "what youve got to manage. A.
" So you just see, shecon •servants have it all their own way, 1
household without any r , they please, except so far as I, with
do what ^^^^a|^^^ept^ip^overnment. I keep my cowhide about,
my/C6blftwVl'dolay it on; out the exertion is always too much for
and sometimes would only this thing done as others do—"
H1G» j 't'.Vlp"
"Why send them to the calaboose, or some of the other places, to be
flowed That's the only way. If I wasn't such a poorA feeble-piece, I
believe ! should manage with twice the energy that St. <u are does."
" And how does St. Clare contrive to manage ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" You say he never strikes a blow."
" Well, men have a more commanding way, you know; it is easier for
them; besides, if you ever looked full in his eye, if s peculiar—that eye
—and if he speaks decidedly, there's a kind of flash. I'm afraid of it,
myself; and the servants know they must mind. I couldn't do as much
by a regular storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn of his eye,
if once he is in earnest. Oh, there's no trouble about St. Clare; that's
the reason he's no more feeling for me. But you'll find, when you come
to manage, that there's no getting along without severity—they are so
bad, so deceitful, so lazy."
• " The old tune," said St. Clare, sauntering in. "What an awful account
these wicked creatures will have to settle at last, especially for being lazy!
You see, cousin," said he, as he stretched himself at full length on a
ounge opposite to Marie, " it's wholly inexcusable in them, in the light
of the example that Marie and I set them, this laziness."
" Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad!" said Marie.
" Am I, now ? Why, I thought I was talking good, quite remarkably
for me. I try to enforce your remarks, Marie, always."
" You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare," said Marie.
" Oh, I must havo been mistaken, then. Thank you, my dear, for
setting me right."
"You do really try to be provoking," said Marie.
" Oh, come, Mario, the day is growing warm, and I have just had a
long quarrel with Dolph, which has fatigued me excessively; so, pray be
agreeable, now, and let a fellow repose in the light of your smile."
" What's the matter about Dolph ?" said Marie. That fellow's im¬
pudence has been growing to a point that is perfectly intolerable to me.
2 only wish I had the undisputed management of him a while. I'd
bring him down I"
" What you say, m.v dear, is marked with your usual acuteness and
pod sense," said St. Clare. " As to Dolph, the case is this: that he
lias so long been engaged in imitating my graces and perfections, that he
has at last really mistaken himself for his master; and I hav& been
obliged to give him a little insight into his mistake."
"How?" said Marie.
"Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that I preferred
fco keep some of my clothes for my own personal wearing; also, I put his
ma^iilieencG upon an allowance of cologne-water, and actually was so
cruel as to restrict him to one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs
Dolph was particularly huffy about it, and I had to talk to him like a
father to bring him round."
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 119
"Oh, St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your servants P It's
abominable, the way you indulge them !" said Marie.
" Why, after all, what's the harm of the poor dog's wanting to be like
his master ? and if I haven't brought him up any better than to find his
chief good in cologne and cambric handkerchiefs, why shouldn't I give
them to him ?"
" And why haven't you brought him up better P" said Miss Ophelia,
with blunt determination.
" Too much trouble; laziness, cousin, laziness—which ruins more
souls than you can shake a stick at. If it weren't for laziness, I should
have been a perfect angel myself. I'm inclined to think that laziness
is what your old Dr. Botherem, up in Vermont, used to call the' essence
ol moral evil.' It's an awful consideration, certainly."
" I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility upon you,"
said Miss Ophelia. " I wouldn't have it, for a thousand worlds. You
ought to educate your slaves, and treat them like reasonable creatures,
like immortal creatures, that you've got to stand before the bar of
(jiod with. That's my mind," said the good lady, breaking suddenly
out with a tide of zeal that had been gaining strength in her mind all
the morning.
" Oh! come, come," said St. Clare, getting up quickly; " what do you
know about us ?" And he sat down to the piano, and rattled a lively
piece of music. St. Clare had a decided genius for music. His touch
was brilliant and firm, and his fingers flew over the keys with a rapid
and bird-like motion, airy, and yet decided. He played piece after
piece, like a man who is trying to play himself into a good humour.
After pushing the music aside, he rose up, and said gaily, "Well, now,
cousin, you've given us a good talk, and done your duty; on the whole,
I think the better of you for it. 1 make no manner or doubt that you
threw a very diamond of truth at me, though you see it hit me so directly
in the face, that it wasn't exactly appreciated at first."
" Eor my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk," said Marie.
"I'm sure, if anybody does more for servants than we do, I'd like to
know who; and it don't do 'em a bit good—not a particle; they get
worse and worse. As to talking to them, or anything like that, I'm
sure I have talked till I was tired and hoarse, telling them their duty,
and all that; and I'm sure they can go to churcn when they like,
though they don't understand a word of the sermon, more than so many
pigs, so it isn't of any great use for them to go, as I *ee; but they do
go, and so they have every chance; but, as I said before, they are a
degraded race, and -always will be, and there isn't any help for them;
you can't make anything of them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia,
I've tried, and you haven't; I was born and bred among them, and I
know."
Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore sat silent.
St. Clare whistled a tune.
"St. Clare, I wish you wouldn't whistle," said Marie; "it makes my
head worse."
" I won't" said St. Clare. " Is there anything else you wouldn't wish
me to do ?
" I wish you would have some kind of sympathy for my trials ; jon
never have any feeling for me "
" My dear accusing angel!" said St. Clare.
"It's provoking to be talked to in that way."
"Then, hew will you be talked to? I'll talk to order—any waj
you'll mentiou, only to give satisfaction."
12o DHClE TOM'S CAfilS, 03
A gay laugh from a® court rang 5S
,eraKh.#t Clare steppedLouttfgK'S?
"What is it? sald aVttl?^)ssv'seat in the court, everyone of his
^^HSssa.issr-'sss
«° Tom, /?oher°benevolent' smile, and seemed, in his quiet way, to
'iom had a sober, ^ ^ much as his little mistress He lilted uis
evefwhln h? saw h?s master with a half-deprecating, apologetic air.
y« ilow can you let her ?" said Miss Ophelia.
« Why not ?" said St. Clare.
"Why I don't know, it seems so dreadful!'
" You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large dog, even if
ho was black; but a creature that can think, and reason, and !'eei, ami is
immortal, you shudder at; confess it, cousin. I know the feeling among
some of you northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle of
virtue in our not having it; but custom with us does what Christianity
ought to do—obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. 1 have ciien
noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger this was with you than
with us. You loathe them as you would a snake or a toad, yet you are
indignant at their wrongs. You would not have them abused, but you
don't want to have anything to do with them yourselves. You would
send them to Africa, out of your sight and smell, and then send a
missionary or Wo to do up all the self-denial of elevating them com¬
pendiously. Isn't that it i"
" Well, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, " there may be some
truth in this."
" What would the poor and lowly do without children ?" said St.
Clare, leaning on the railing, and watching Eva as she tripped off,
leading Tom with her. " 1 our little child is your only true democrat.
Tom, now, is a hero to Eva; his stories are wonders in her eyes?, his
songs and Methodist hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and
little bits of trash in his pocket a mine of jewels, and he the most won¬
derful Tom that ever wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of
Eden that the Lord has dropped down expressly for the poor and lowly,
who get few enough of any other kind."
"It's strange, cousin," said Miss Ophelia; "one might almost think
you were a professor, tcshear you talk."
" A professor !" said St. Clare.
" Yes; a professor of religion."
"Not at all: not a professor as you town-folks have tt; and, what is
worse, I'm afraid, not a praetiicr, either."
" What makes you talk so, then ?"
" Nothing is easier than talking," said St. Clare. " 1 believe Shak-
speare makes somebody say, ' 1 could sooner show twenty that were
food to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow my own showing'
fothing like division of labour. My forte lies in talking, and yours
ousin, lies in doing." '
In Tom's external situation at this time, there was, as the world *ays
nothing to complain of. Little Eva's fancy for him—the instinctive
gratitude and loveliness of a noble nature—had led her to petition her
father that he might be her especial attendant, whenever she needed
HI'S AMGSTG THE LOWLY. 121
the escort of a servant, in her walks or rides • and Tom bad general
orders to let everything else go, and attend to Miss Eva whenever sh9
wanted him—orders which our readers may fancy were far from disa¬
greeable to him. He was kept well dressed, for St. Clare was fastidiously
particular on this point. His stable services were merely a sinecure,
and consisted simply in a daily care and inspection, and directing a u
under-servant in his duties; for Marie St. Clare declared that she
could not have any smell of the horses about him when he came near
her, and that he must positively not be put to any service that would
make him unpleasant to her, as her nervous system was entirely inade¬
quate to any trial of that nature; one snitf of anything disagreeable
being, according to her account, quite sufficient to close the scene, and
put an end to all her earthly trials at once. Tom, therefore, in his
well-brushed broad-cloth suit, smooth beaver, glossy boots, faultless
wristbands and collar, with his grave, good-natured black face, looked
respectable enough to he a bishop of Carthage, as men of his colour
were, in other ages.
Tnen, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to which his
sensitive race are never indiiierent; and he did enjoy with a quiet
joy the birds, the flowers, the fountains, the perfume, and light and
beauty of the court, the silken hangings, and pictures, and lustres, and
statuettes, and gilding, that made the parlours within a kind of Alad¬
din's palace to him.
If ever Africa shall show an elevated and cultivated race—and come
it must, some time, her turn to figure in the great drama of human
improvement—life will awake there with a gorgeousness and splendour
of which our cold western tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-oil'
mystic land of gold, and gems, and spices, and v, aving palms, and won¬
drous flowers, and miraculous fertility, will awake new forms of art,
new styles of splendour; and the negro race, no longer despised and
trodden down, will, perhaps, show forth some of the latest and moss
magnificent revelations of human life. Certainly they will, in their
gentleness, their lowly docility of heart, their aptitude to repose on a
superior mind and rest on a higher power, their child-like simplicity of
affection, and facility of forgiveness. In all these they will exhibit the
highest form of the peculiarly Christian life—and, perhaps, as Godchas-
teneth whom he loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnace of
affliction, to make her the highest and noblest in that kingdom which
he will set up, when every other kingdom has been tried and failed;
for the first shall be last, and the last first. _
Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood, gorgeously
dressed, on the verandah, one Sunday morning, clasping a diamond
bracelet on her slender wrist? Most likely it was. Or, if it wasn't
that, it was something else ; for Marie patronized good things, and she
was going now, in full force—diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels and
all—to a fashionable church, to be very religious. Marie always made
a point to be very pious on Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so
elegant, so airy and undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf enve¬
loping her like a mist. She looked a graceful creature, and she felt very
good and very elegant indeed. Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfect
contrast. It was not that she had not as handsome a silk dress and
shawl, and as fine a pocket-handkerchief; but stiffness, and squareness,
and bolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as indefinite yet appreciable
a presence, as did grace her elegant neighbour; not the grace of God
however—that is quite another thing.
" "VV here's Eva ?" said Maris.
1*2 UNCLE TOM'S C'ABI>;, 03
"The child stopped on the stairs tc say something to Mammy
And what was Eva saying to Mammy, on the stairs ? L±ste , >
and you will hear, though Marie does not. _ r „
"Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadful y. don't
" Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately, l ou aon c
^"We^rm glad you're goin^out; and here"—and
threw her arms around her— Mammy, you shall take my vin^j-
8 r "What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them diamonds ! Lor,
miss ,'twouldn't be proper, no ways." , , ,
" Why not ? You need it, and I don't. Mamma always uses it lor
headache, and it'll make you feel better. No, you shall take it3 to piease
me now.
^Do hear tho darling talk!" said Mammy, as Eva thrust it into her
bosom, and, kissing her, ran down stairs to her mother.
"What were you stopping for ?"
"l was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take to
church with her."
"Eva!" said Marie, stamping impatiently, "your gold vinaigrette to
Mammy ! When will you learn what's proper 1 Go right and take it
bade this moment!"
Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly.
" I say, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as she pleases," said
St. Clare.
" St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world ?*"' said Marie.
" The Lord knows," said St. Clare; " but she'll get along in heaven
better than you or I."
"O papa, don't," said Eva, softly touching his elbow; "it troubles
mother."
"Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?" said Misa Ophelia,
turning square about on St. Clare.
" I'm not going, thank you."
" I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church," said Marie; " but ho
hasn't a particle of religion about him. It really isn't respectable."
" I know it," said St. Clare. "You ladies go to church to learn how
to get along in the world, I suppose, and your piety sheds respectability
on us. If I do go at all, I would go where Mammy goes; there's some¬
thing to keep a fellow awake there, at least."
" What! those shouting Methodists ? Horrible!" said Marie.
"Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches, Marie.
Positively, it's too much to ask of a man. Eva, do you like to go?
Come, stay at home and play with me."
" Thank you, papa; but I'd rather go to church."
" Isn't it dreadful tiresome ? " said St. Clare.
" I think it is tiresome, some," said Eva; " and I am sleepy, too, but I
try to keep awake."
" What do you go for, then ? "
" Why, you know, papa," she said, in a whisper, "cousin told me that
God wants to have us; and he gives us everything, you know • and it
isn't much to do it, if he wants us to. It isn't so very tiresome after
all." '
" You sweet little obliging soul!" said St. Clare, kissing her • " go
along, that's a ?ood girl, and pray for me." '
" Certainly, I always do," said the child, as she sprang after her mother
into the carriage.
LIFE AMOira THE LOWLY. 123
St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her, as the carriage
drove away; large tears were in his eyes.
" O Evangeline! rightly named," he said; " hath not God made thee an
evangel to me ? "
So he felt a moment; and then he smoked a cigar, and read the
Picayune, and forgot his little gospel. Was h8 much unlike other
folks ?
" You see, Evangeline," said her mother, " it's always right and proper
to be kind to servants, but it isn't proper to treat them just as we would
our relations, or people in our own class of life. Now, if Mammy was
sick, you wouldn't want to put her in your own bed ? "
" I should feel just like it, mamma," said Eva, " because then it would
bs handier to take care of her, and because, you know, my bed is better
than hers."
Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral perception
evinced in this reply.
" What can I do to make this child understand me?" she said.
" Nothing," said Miss Ophelia, significantly.
_ Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment; but children, luckily,
do not keep to one impression long; and in a few moments she was
merrily laughing at various things which she saw from the coach-
windows, as it rattled along.
* * * #. » # #
"Well, ladies," said St. Clare, as they were comfortably seated at the
dinner-table, "and what was the bill of fare at church to-dayP"
" Oh, Dr. G preached a splendid sermon," said Marie. " It was
just such a sermon as you ought to hear; it expressed all my views
exactly."
" It must have been very improving," said St. Clare. " The subject
must have been an extensive one."
"Well, I mean all my views about society, ?nd such things," said
Marie. "The text was, 'He hath made everything beautiful in its
season;' and he showed how all the orders and distinctions in society
came from God; and that it was so appropriate, you know, and beautiful,
that some should be high and some low, and that some were born to rule
and some to serve, and all that, you know; and he applied it so well to all
this ridiculous fuss that is made about slavery, and he proved distinctly
that the Bible was on our side, and supported ail our institutions so
convincingly. I only wish you'd heard him."
" Oh, I didn't need it," said St. Clare. " I can learn what does me as
much good as that from the Picayune any time, and smoke a cigar
besides, which I can't do, you know, in a church."
" Why," said Miss Ophelia, " don't you believe in these views ? "
" Who—I ? You know I'm such a graceless dog that these religious
aspects of such subjects don't edify me much. If 1 was to say anything
on this slavery matter, I would say out, fair and square,' We're in for
it; we've got 'em and mean to keep 'em—it's for our convenience and
our interest;' for that's the long and short of it; that's just the whole
of what all this sanctified stuff amounts to, after all; and I think that
will be intelligible to everybody, everywhere."
"I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent!" said Marie. "I
think it's shocking to hear you talk."
" Shocking! it s the truth. This religious talk on such matters,
why don't they carry it a little further, and show the beauty, in its
season, of a fellow's taking a glass too much, and sitting a little too late
over his cards, and various providential arrangements of that sort, which
124 tfNCLB TOM'S CABIIf, OS
are pretty frequent among us young men; we'd like to hear that those
im''That'sejast the'way h^sa'lways talking » said Marie; "you can't get
any satis/action out of him. I believe it's just because he dont like
reiruou in at he's always running out in this way he 3 been doing.
"Tloli"\on!said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladies look
at hiu'V" " Religion! Is what you hear at church religion ? Is that
wh'Jli can bend and turn, and descend and ascend, to fib every crooked
nh se ol selfish, worldly society, religion? Is that religion which is
less scrupulous, less generous, less just, less considerate lor man than
evo.i my own ungodly, worldly, blinded nature? No! "When I look
{or a religion, I must look for something above me, and cot something
beneath.3
"i'Uen you don't believe that the Bible justifies slavery?" said
Miss Ophelia.
" Trie Bible was my mother's book," said St. Clare. "By it she lived
and died, and I would be very sorry to think it did. I'd as soon desire
to have it proved that my mother could drink brandy, chew tobacco, and
swear, by way of satisfying me that I did right in doing the same. It
wouldn't make me at all more satisfied with these things in myself, and
it would take from me the c .mfort of respecting her; and it really is a
comfort, in this world, to lu.ve anything one can respect. In short, you
see," said he, suddenly resuming his gay tone, "all I want is, that
different things be kept in diti'erent boxes. The whole frame-work of
society, both in Europe and America, is made up of various things which
will not stand the scrutiny of any very ideal standard of morality. It's
pretty generally understood that men don't aspire after the absolute
right, but only to do about as well as the rest of the worlcL Now, when
any one speaks up, like a man, and says slavery is necessary to us, we
can't get along without it, we should be beggared if we give it up, and,
of course, we mean to hold on to it—this is strong, clear, well-defined
language; it has the respectability of truth to it; and if we may judge
by their practice, the majority of the world will bear us out in it. But
when he begins to put on a long face, and snuffle, and quote Scripture, I
incline to think he isn't much better than he should be."
" You are very uncharitable," said Marie.
"Well," said St.Clare, "suppose that something should bringdown
the price of cotton once and for ever, and make the whole slave property
a drug in the market; don't you think we should soon have another ver¬
sion of the Scripture doctrine ? What a flood of light would pour into
the church, all at once, and how immediately it would be discovered that
everything in the Bible and reason went the other way !"
" Well, at any rate," said Marie, as she reclined herself on a lounge
" I'm thankful I'm born where slavery exists; and I believe it's right°—
indeed, I fee) it must be; and, at any rate, I'm sure I couldn't get along
without it."
" I say, what do you think, pussy ?" said her father to Eva, who oame
in at this moment, with a flower in her hand.
" What about, papa ?"
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 125
"Why, which do you like the best; to live as they do at jour uncle's,
up in Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants, as we do ?"
" Oh, of course,, our way is the pleasantest," said Eva.
" "Why sosaid St. Clare, stroking her head.
" AVhy, it makes so many more round you to love, you know," said
Eva, looking up earnestly.
"Now, thats just like Eva," said Marie; "just one of her odd
speeches."
" Is it an odd speech, papa?" said Eva, whisperingly, as she got upon
his knee.
" Rather, as this world goes, pussy," said St. Clare. " But where has
my little Eva been, all dinner-time ?"
" Oh, I've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing, and Aunt Dinah
gave me my dinner."
" Hearing Tom sing, eh ?"
" Oh, yes! He sings such beautiful things about the New Jerusalem,
and bright angels, and the land of Canaan."
" I dare say; it's better than the opera, isn't it ?"
" Yes; and he's going to teach them to me."
" Singing lessons, eh ?—you are coming on."
"Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible; and he explains
what it means, you know."
"On my word," said Marie, laughing,"that is the latest joke of the
season."
" Tom isn't a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I'll dare swear,"
said St. Clare. "Tom has a natural genius for religion. I wanted the
horses out early this morning, and I stole up to Tom's cubiculum there,
over the stables, and there I heard him holding a meetina; by himself-
and, in fact, I haven't heard anything quite so savoury as Tom's prayer
this some time. He put in for me with a zeal that was quite apostolic."
" Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I've heard of that trick
before."
" I f he did, he wasn't very politic; for he gave the Lord his opinion of
me pretty freely. Tom seemed to think there was decidedly room for
improvement in me, and seemed very earnest that I should be con¬
verted."
" I hope you'll lay it to heart," said Miss Ophelia.
" I suppose you are much of the same opinion," said St. Clare. "Well,
we shall see,—shan't we, Eva ?"
CHAPTER XVII.
THE fbee&an's defence.
There was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as the afternoon
drew to a close. Rachel Halliday moved quietly to and fro, collecting
from her household stores such needments as could be arranged in the
smallest compass, for the wanderers who were to go forth that night.
The afternoon shadows stretched eastward, and the round red sun stood
thoughtfully on the horizon, and his beams shone yellow and calm into
the little lied room where George and his wife were sitting. He was
Bitting with his child on his knee, and his wife's hand in his. Both
looVed thoughtful and serious, and traces of tears were on their cheeks.
" i'es Eliza " said George, " I know all you say is true. You are »
126 TTNCIE TOM'S CABIN, OB
good child—a great deal better than I am; and I will try to do m
liy. I'll try to act worthy of a free man. 111 try to feel like aChr^tnu.
God Almighty knows that I've meantto do well—tried hard to do e
when everything has been against me; and now 111 forget all tne pisj,
and put away every hard and bitter feeling, and read my Bib*e, and leain
t0" Anfwhenwe'get to Canada,» said Eliza, «I can help you. I can do
dressmaking very well; and I understand fine^washing and ironing; and
between us we can find something to live on.
"Yes Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy. O .tliza, if
these people only knevv what a blessing it is for a man to feel that his
wife and child belong to him ! I've often wondered to see men that
could call their wives and children their omi fretting and worrying
about anything else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have no¬
thing but our bare hands. I feel as if I could scarcely ask God for any
more. Yes, though I've worked hard every day till I am twenty-five
years old, and have not a cent of money, nor a roof to cover me, nor a
spot of land to call my own, yet, if they will only let me alone now, I
will be satisfied—thankful. I will work, and send back the money for
you and my boy. As to my old master, he has been paid five times over
for all he ever spent for me. I don't owe him any thine."
" But yet we are not quite out of danger," said Eliza; " we are cot
yet in Canada."
" True," said George, " but it seems as if I smelt the free air, and it
makes me strong."
At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apartment, in earnest
conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the door. Eliza started
and opened it.
Simeon Halliduy was there, and with him a Quaker brother, whom
he introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall and lp.tliy, red-
haired, with an expression of great acuteness and shrewdness in his face.
He had not the placid, quiet, unworldly air of Simeon Halliday; on the
contrary, a particularly wide awake and au fait appearance, like a man
who rather prides himself on knowing what he is about, and keeping a
bright look-out ahead; peculiarities which sorted rather oddly with his
broad brim and formal phraseology.
" Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of importance to the
interest of thee and thy party, George," said Simeon: " it were well for
thee to hear it,"
" That I have," said Phineas, " and it shows the use of a man's always
sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as I've always said. Last
night I stopped at a little lone tavern, back on the road. Thee remem¬
bers the place, Simeon, where we sold some apples, last year, to that fat
woman with the great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard driving;
and, after my supper, I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in the
corner, and pulled a buffalo over me, to wait till my bed was ready; and
what does I do, but get fast asleep."
" With one ear open, Phineas ?" said Simeon, quietly.
"No ! I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was pretty well
tired; but when I came to myself a little, I found that there were soma
men m the room, sitting round a table drinking and talking; and I
thought, before I made much muster, I'd just see what they were up to
especially as I heard them say something about the Quakers*. ' So' says
one, ' they are up in the Quaker settlement, no doubt/ says he. Then I
listened with both ears, and I found that they were talking about this
rery party. So I lay and heard them lay off all their plans. This young
LIFE AMONG THE IOWSY. 127
man, they said, was to be &tfnt back to Kentucky, to his master, who was
going to make an example of him, to keep all niggers from running
away ; and his wife two of them were going to run down to New Orleans
to sell, on their own account, and they calculated to get sixteen or
eighteen hundred dollars for her; and the child, they said, was going to
a trader who had bought him; and then there was the boy Jim, and his
mother, they were to go back to their masters in Kentucky. They said
that there were two constables, in a town a little piece ahead, who would
fo in with 'em to get 'em taken up, and the young woman was to be
taken before a judge: and one of the fellows, who is small and smooth-
fcpoken, was to swear to her for his property, and get her delivered over
to him to take south. They've got a right notion of the track we are
going to-night; and they'll bo down after us, six or eight strong. So,
now, what's to be done P"
The group that stood in various attitudes, after this communication,
were worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday, who had taken her hands
out of a batch of biscuit, to hear the news, stood with them upraised
and floury, and with a face of the deepest concern. Simeon looked
profoundly thoughtful; Eliza had thrown her arms around her hus¬
band, and was looking up to him. George stood with clenched hands
and glowing eyes, and looking as any other man might look whose wife
was to be sold at auction, and son sent to a trader, all under the shelter
of a Christian nation's laws.
" What shall we do, George?" said Eliza, faintly.
" I know what I shall do," said George, as he stepped into the little
room, and began examining his pistols.
" Ay, ay," said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; " thou scest,
Simeon, how it will work."
" I see," said Simeon, sighing; " I pray it come not to that."
"I don't want to involve any one with or for me" said George. " If
you will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I will drive alone to the
next stand. Jim is a giant in strength, and brave as death and despair,
and so am I."
"Ah, well, friend," said Phineas, "but thee'll need a driver, for all
that. Thee's quite welcome to do all the fighting, thee knows; but I
know a thing or two about the road that thee doesn't."
" But I don't want to involve you," said George.
" Involve ?" said Phineas, with a curious and keen expression of facs.
" When thee does involve me, please to let me know."
"Phineas is a wise and skilful man," said Simeon. "Thee does
well, George, to abide by his judgment; and," he added, laying his hand
kindly on George's shoulder, ana pointing to the pistols, " be not over
hasty with these—young blood is not."
" 1 will attack no man," said George. " All I ask of this country is
to bo let alone, and I will go out peaceably; but"—he paused, and his
brow darkened and his face worked—" I've had a sister sold in that New
Orleans market. I know what they are sold for; and am I going to
stand by and see them take my wife and sell her, when God has given
me a pair of strong arms to defend her ? No; God help me! I'll fight
to the last breath, before they shall take my wife and son. Can you
blame me?"
" Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood could
not do otherwise," said Simeon. "'Woe unto the world because jt
offences, but woe unto them through whom the offence cometh.3"
" Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place ?"
" J pray that I be not tried," said Simeon; " the flesh i9 weak.
J23 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, 03
"•Ifldnk *r fleall would be gS^JV^S^!
•js'S"''hold a m°wfor ^
feeHree to do of man worketh not the righteousness of God-,
leu "Way > °rpi vaEainst the corrupt will of man, and none can receive
itsVveThlyto whoni it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be not
„o Jdo" said Phineas: "but if we are tempted too much—
why, let them look out, that's all"
"it's quite plain thee wasn t born a Friend, said Simeon, smiling.
« rpbe ola nature hath its way in thee pretty strong as yet."
To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted backwoods¬
man, a vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck ; but having wooed a
pretty Quakeress, had been moved by the power of her charms to join
the society in this neighbourhood; and though he was an honest, sober,
and efficient member, and nothing particular could be alleged against
him, yet the more spiritual among them could not but discern an ex¬
ceeding lack of savour in his developments.
" Friend Phineas will ever Jiave ways of his own," said Rachel Halli-
day, smiling; " but we all think that his heart is in the right place, after
all."
" "Well," said George, "isn't it best that we hasten our flight ?"
" I got up at four o'clock, and came on with all speed, full two or three
hours ahead of them, if they start at the time they planned. It isn't
safe to start till dark, at any rate; for there are some evil persons in the
villages ahead, that might be disposed to meddle with us, if they saw our
waggon, and that would delay us more than the waiting; but in two
hours I think we may venture. I will go over- to Michael Cross, and
engage him to come behind on his swift nag, and keep a bright look-out
on the road, and warn us if any company of men come on. Michael
keeps a horse that can soon get ahead of most other horses; and he
could shoot ahead and let us know, if there were any danger. I am going
out now to warn Jim and the old woman to be in readiness, and to see
about the horses. We have a pretty fair start, and stand a good chance
to get to the stand before they can come up with us. So, have good
courage, friend George: this isn't the first ugly scrape that I've been in
with thy people," said Phineas, as he closed the door.
" Phineas is pretty shrewd," said Simeon. " He will do the best that
can be done for thee, George."
" All I am sorry for," said George, " is the risk to you."
" Thee'll much oblige us, friend George, to say no more about that.
What we do we are conscience bound to do; we can do no other way.
And now, mother " said he, turning to Rachel, " hurry thy preparations
for these friends, for we must not send them away fasting."
And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-cake and
cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the et ceteras of the even in °
meal, George and his wife sat in their little room, with their arms folded
about each other, in such talk as husband and wife have when thev know
that a few hours may part them for ever.
"Eliza " said George, " people that have friends, and houses, and
'ai?'ls, and money, and all those things, can't love as we do who have
nothing but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creature ever had
loved me, but my poor, heart-broken mother and sister. I saw pooi
life among the lowly. 129
Emily that morning the trader aimed her off. She came to the corner
where I was lying asleep, and said, ' Poor George, your last friend is
going. What will become of you, poor boy ?' And I got up and threw
my arms round her, and cried and sobbed, and she cried too; and those
were the last kind words 1 got for ten long years; and my heart all
withered up, and felt as dry as ashes, till I met you. And your loving
me—why, it was almost like raising one from the dead ! I've been a
new man ever since! And now, Eliza, I'll give my last drop of blood,
but they .shall not take you from me. Whoever gets you must walk o\er
my dead body."
" O Lord, have mercy !" said Eliza, sobbing. " If he will only lot us
get out of this country together, that is all we ask."
" Is God on their side ?" said George, speaking less to his wife than
pouring out his own bitter thoughts. " Does he see all they do P TV hy
does he let such things happen ? And they tell us that the Bible is on
their side; certainly all the power is. They are rich, and healthy, and
happy; they are members of churches, expecting to go to heaven ; and
they get along so easy in the world, and have it all their own way ; and
poor, honest, faithful Christians—Christians as good or bettor than they
—are lying in the very dust under their feet. They buy 'em and sell
'em. and make trade of their heart's blood, and groans and tears—and
God lets them."
" Friend George," said Simeon, from the kitchen, " listen to this
psalm; it may do thee good."
George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her tears, came
forward also to listen, while Simeon read as follows:—
" ' But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well nigh
slipped. For I was envious of the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of
the wicked. They are not in trouble like other men, neither are they
plagued like other men. Therefore pride compasseth them as a chain;
violence covereth them as a garment. Their eyes stand out "with fatness;
they have more than heart could wish. They are corrupt, and speak
wickedly concerning oppression; they speak loftily. Therefore his
people return, and the waters of a full cup are wrung out to them, and
they say, How doth God know ? and is there knowledge in the Most
High ?' Is not that the way thee feels, George ?"
" It is so, indeed," said George, " as well as I could have written it
myself."
" Then, hear," said Simeon ■ " ' When I thought to know this, it was
too painful for me, until I went unto the sanctuary of God. Then under¬
stood I their end. Surely thou didst set them in slippery places, thou
ca.sted.st them down to destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, so,
O Lord, when thou awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Neverthe¬
less, I am continually with thee; thou hast holden me by my right hand.
Thou shalt guide me by thy counsel, and afterwards receive me to glory
It is good for me to draw near unto God. I have put my trust in the
Lord God.'" . , ,
The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man, stole like
sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of George; and after
he ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued expression on his fine
features. _
" If this world were all, George," said Simeon, " thee might, indeed,
ask, Where is the Lord ? But it is often those who have least of all m
t.his Hfo Vvhom he chooseth for the kingdom. Put thy trust in him, and,
do matter what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter.'
If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent exhort#
ISO OTCLE TOM'S CABIN, 03
from whose mouth they might have come merely as pious and
rical flourish, proper to be used to people in distress, perhaps ^ / i "1
not have had much effect; but coming from one who dany-ana_ caniuy
risked fine and imprisonment for the cause of God and man, Y
a weight that could not but be felt, and both the poor, desolate lugitives
found calmness and strength breathing into them from it.
And now Rachel took Eliza's hand kindly, and led the way to the
supper-table. As they were sitting down, a light tap sounded at tne aoo*,
and Ruth entered.
"I just ran in," she sairt, "with these little stockings ^for the boy
three pair.nice, warm, woollen ones. It will be so cold, tnee kuows, in
Canada. Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza ? " she added, tripping
round to Eliza's side of the table, and shaking her warmly by the hand,
and slipping a seed-cake into Harry's hand. " I brought a little p'trcel
of these for him," she said, tugging at her pocket to get out the package,
" Children, thee knows, will always be eating."
" Oh, thank you; you are too kind," said Eliza.
" Come, Ruin, sit down to supper," said Rachel.
" I couldn't, any way. I left John with the baby, and some biscuits
in the oven: and I can't stay a moment, else John will burn up all the
biscuits, and give the baby all the su^ar in the bowl. That's the way he
does," said the little Quakeress, laughing." So, good-bye, Eliza; good-bye,
George; the Lord grant thee a safe journeyand, with a few tripping
steps, Ruth was out of the apartment.
A little while after supper a large covered waggon drew up before ths
door; the night was clear starlight, and Phineas jumped briskly down
from his seat to arrange his passengers. George walked out of the door,
with his child on one arm and his wife on the other. His step was firm,
his face settled and resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out ai'ier them.
" You get out a moment," said Phineas to those inside, "and let me
fix the back of the waggon, there, for the women-folks ana the boy."
" Here are the two buffaloes," said Rachel. " Make the seats as com¬
fortable as may be; it's hard riding all night."
.iim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother, who
clung to his arm and looked anxiously about, as if she expected the
pursuer every moment.
" J im, are your pistols all in order ?" said George, in a low, firm voice.
"Yes indeed," said Jim.
" And you've no doubt what you shall do if they come ? "
" I rather think I haven't," said Jim, throwing open his broad chest,
and taking a deep breath. " Do you think I'll let them get mother
igain ? "
During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taken her leave of her kind
friend Rachel, and was handed into the carriage by Simeon, and, creep¬
ing into the back part with her boy, sat down among the buffalo-skins.
The old woman was next handed in and seated, and George ana Jim
Placed on a rough board seat in front of them, and Phineas mounted in
tront.
" Farewell, my friends," said Simeon, from without.
" God bless you!" answered all from within.
And the waggon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen road.
There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the rough¬
ness of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle, therefore
rumbled on, through long dark stretches of woodland, over wide dreary
Slains, up hills and down valleys, and on, on, on they jogged, hour after
our, Th® child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily m his mother's lap.
IIFE AMONG THE IOWLY. 181
The poor frightened old woman at last forgot her feara; and even Eliza,
as the night waned, found all her anxieties insufficient to keep her eyes
from dosing. Phineas seemed, on the whole, the briskest of the com-
Eany, and beguiled his long drive with whistling certain very un-Quaker-
ke songs as he went on.
But about three o'clock George's ear caught the hasty and decided
click of % horse's hoof coming behind them at some distance, and jogged
Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up his horses, and listened.
" That must be Michael," he said; "I think I know the sound of his
gallop ? and he rose up and stretched his head anxiously back over the
road.
A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the top of a.
distant hill.
"There ha is, I do believe!" said Phineas. George and Jim both
sprang out of the waggon, before they knew what they were doing. All
stood intensely silent, with their faces turned towards the expected mes¬
senger. On he came. Now he went down into a valley, where they
could not see him; but they heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer
and nearer ; at last they saw him emerge on the top of an eminence,
wiohin hail.
"Yes, that's Michael!" said Phineas; and, raising his voice,
" Halloa, there, Michael!"
" Phineas! is that thee ?"
" Yes; what news ?—they coming ?"
" Eight on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy, swearing,
and foaming like so many wolves !"
And, just as he spoke, a braese brought the faint sound, of galloping
horsemen towards them.
" In with you—quick, boys, in /" said Phineas. "If you must fight,
wait till I get you a piece ahead." And, with the word, both jumped in,
and Phineas lashed the horses to a run, the horseman keeping close
beside them. The waggon rattled, jumped, almost flow, over the frozen
ground; but plainer, and still plainer, came the noise of pursuing horse¬
men behind. The women heard it, and looking anxiously out, saw, far
in the rear, on the brow of a distant hill, a party of men looming up
against the red-streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their
pursuers had evidently caught sight of their waggon, whose white cloth-
covered top made it conspicuous at some distance, and a loud yell of
brutal triumph came forward on the wind. Eliza sickened, and strained
her child closer to her bosom; the old woman prayed and groaned, and
George and Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of despair. The
Eursuers gained on them fast; the carriage made a sudden turn, and
rought them near a ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that rose in an
isolated ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all around it, quite
clear and smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose up black
and heavy against the brightening sky, and seemed to promise shelter
and concealment. It was a place well known to Phineas, who had been
familiar with the spot in his hunting days; snd it was to gain this point
he had been racing his horses.
" Now for it," said he, suddenly checking his horses, and springing
from his seat to the ground. " Out with you, in a twinkling, every one,
and up into these rocks with me. Michael, thee tie thy horse to the
waggon, and drive ahead to Amariah's, and get him aud his boys to corns
back and talk to these fellows."
K 1
132 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OS
In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.
"There," said Phineas, catching up Karry, "you, Each of you, ^
to the women; and run, noio, if you ever did run. whole
There needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can .ay hij0
party were over the fence, making w^h all sPefe^^T^et^Cfed[e V®
Michael, throwing himself from his liorse, and fastening the bridle to
th« Come0ahea??4id Phin^fSreached the rocks, and saw in
the mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but plainly-marked
footpath leading up among them; this is one of our old hunting-dens.
^'phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, with the boyf
in his arms. Jim came second, bearing his trembling old mother over
his shoulder, and George and Eliza brought up the rear. The party of
horsemen came up to the fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths, were
dismounting, to prepare to follow them. A few moments' scrambling
brought them to the top of the ledge; the path then passed between a
narrow defile, where only one could walk at a time, till suddenly they
came to a rift or chasm more than a yard in breadth, and beyond which
lay a pile of rocks, separate from the rest of the ledge, standing full
thirty feet high, with its sides steep and perpendicular as those of a
castle. Phineas easily leaped the chasm, and set down the boy on a
smooth, flat platform of crisp white moss, that covered the top of
the rock.
" Over with you !" he called. " Spring, now, once for your lives!"
said he, as one after another sprang across. Several fragments of loose
stone formed a kind of breastwork, which sheltered their position from
the observation of those below.
" Well, here we all are," said Phineas, peeping over the stone breast¬
work to watch the assailants, who were coming tumultuously up under
the rocks. " Let 'em get us, if they can. Whoever comes here has to
walk single file between those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols,
boys, d'ye see ? "
" I do see," said George; " and now, as this matter is ours, let us
take all the risk, and do all the fighting.
" Thee's quite welcome to do the fighting, George," said Phineas, chew¬
ing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke; " but I may have the fun of
looking on, I suppose. But see, these fellows are kinder debating down
there, and looking up, like hens when they are going to fly up on to the
roost. Hadn't thee better give 'em a word of advice before they come
up, just to tell 'em handsomely they'll be shot if they do ? "
The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the dawn, con¬
sisted of our old acquaintances Tom Loker and Marks, with two con¬
stables, and a posse consisting of such rowdies at the last tavern as could
be engaged by a little brandy to go and help the fun of trapping a set of
niggers.
^ Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed," said one.
Fes, 1 see 'em go up right here," said Tom; " and here's a path. I'm
for going right up. They can't jump down in a hurry, and it won't take
long to ferret 'em out."
" But> Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks," said Marks
that would be ugly, you know."
" Ugh !" said Tom, with a sneer. "Always for saving your skin, Marks
•No danger—niggers are too plaguey scared !"
"I don't know why I shouldn't save my skin," said Marks. "It's the
«est I've got; and niggers do fight like the devil, sometimes."
1IFE AMONG THiS LOWLY. 133
At this moment, George appeared 011 the top of a rock above them,
and, speaking in a calm, clear voice, said—
Gentlemen, v/lio are you down there, and what do you want ? "
" We want a party of runaway niggers," said Tom Loker; " one
George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim Selden, and an
old woman. TV e've got the oflioers here, and a warrant to take'em; and
we're going to have 'em, too. D'ye hear. An't you George Harris, that
belongs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?"
" I am Georgo Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did call me his
property. But now I'm a free man, standing on God's free soil; and
my wife and my child I claim as mine. Jim and his mother are here.
We have arms to defend ourselves, and we mean to do it. You can
come up, if you like ; but the first one of you that comes within the
range of our bullets is a dead man, and the next, and the next; and so
on till the last."
" Oh, come ! come!" said a short, puffy man, stepping forward, and
blowing his nose as he did so. "Young man, this an't no kind of talk at
all for you. You see, we're officers of justice. We've got the law on our
side, and the power, and so forth; so you'd better give up peaceably, you
see. for you'll certainly have to give up at last."
' I know very well that you've got the law on your side, and the
power," said George, bitterly. "You mean to take my wife to sell in
New Orleans, and put my boy like a calf in a trader's pen, and send
Jim's old mother to the brute that whipped and abused her before, be¬
cause he couldn't abuse her son. You want to send Jim and me back to
be whipped and tortured, and ground down under the heels of them that
you call masters; and your laws will bear you out in it—more shame
for you and them ! But you haven't got us. We don't own your laws,
we don't own your country; we stand here as free, under God's sky, as
you are; and by the great God that made us, we'll tight for our liberty
till we die."
George stood out in fail' sight, on the top of the rock, as he made his
declaration of independence; the glow of dawn gave a flash to his swarthy
cheek, and bitter indignation and despair gave fire to his dark eye; and,
as if appealing from man to the justice of God, he raised his hand to
heaven as he spoke.
If it had been only an Hungarian youth, now bravely defending in
some mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping from Austria
into America, this would have been sublime heroism; but as it was a
youth of African descent, defending the retreat of fugitives through
America into Canada, of course we are too well instructed and patriotic
to see any heroism in it; and if any of our readers do, they must do it
on their own private responsibility. When despairing Hungarian fugi¬
tives make their way, against all the search-warrants and authorities of
their lawful government, to America, press and political cabinet ring
with applause and welcome. When despairing African fugitives do the
same thing—it is—what is it ?
Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice, manner of
the speaker, for a moment struck the party below to silence. There is
something in boldness and determination that for a time hushes even
the rudest nature. Marks was the only one who remained wholly un¬
touched. He was deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the momen¬
tary silence that followed George's speech, he fired at him.
Ye see, ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentuoky, he
said, coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-sleeve.
George sprang backward—Eliza uttered a shriek—the ball had passed
184 TJNCLB TOM'S CABIN, OB
close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of hi3 wu«, and struck ia
the tree above.
"It's nothing, Eliza," said George, quickly. ■ ^
" Thee'd better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying, said rlnneas
" they're mean scamps." . , . M
"Now, Jim," said George, "look that youx pistols are ail ngnt, ana
watch that pass with me. The first man that shows hi. ;ise.i 1 nre at;
you take the second, and so on. It won't do, you know, to waste two
shots on one."
" But what if you don't hit ?"
" I shall hit," said George, coolly.
" Good! Now, there's stuff in that fellow," muttered Phmeas, bet ,vecn
his teeth.
The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a moment, rather
undecided.
" I think you must have hit some on 'em," said one of tho men. " I
heard a squeal! "
" I'm going right up for one," said Tom. " I never was afraid of
niggers, and I an't going to be now. Who goes after ? " he said, spiing-
ing up the rocks.
George heard the words distinctly. lie drew up his pistol, examined
it, pointed it towards that point in the defile where the first man would
appear.
One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, an;l, the way
being thus made, the whole party began pushing up the rock— the
hindermost pushing the front ones faster than they would have gone of
themselves. On they came, and in a moment the burly form of Tom
appeared in sight, almost at the verge of the chasm.
George fired—the shot entered his si le; but, thouch wounded, he
would not retreat; but, with a yell like that of a mad buii, he was leaping
right across the chasm into the party.
" Friend," said Piiineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and meeting
him with a push from his long arms, thee isn't wanted here."
Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees, bushes,
logs, loose stones, till he lay, bruised and groaning, thirty feet below.
The fall might have killed him, had it not been broken and moderated
by his clothes catching in the branches of a large tree; but he camo
down with some force, however — more than was at all agreeable or
oonvenient.
" Lord help us! they are perfect devils !" said ilarks, heading the
retreat down the rocks with much more of a will than he had joined the
ascent, while all the party came tumbling precipitately after him—the
fat constable, in particular, blowing and puffing in a very energetio
manner.
" I say, fellers," said Marks, "you jist go round and pick up Tom,
there, while I run and get on to my horse, to go back for help—that's
youand, without minding the liootings and jeers of his company, Murks
was as good as bis word, and was soon seen galloping away.
" Was over such a sneaking varmint?" said one of the men. " To
come on his business, and clear out and loavo us this yer way! "
"Well, we miht pick up that feller," said another. " Cass me if I
much care whether he is dead or alive."
The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackled through
stumps, logs, and bushes, to where that hero lay groaning and svi earing
wiih alternate vehemence.
LI?3 AMONG THE LOWLY. 1&5
" Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom," said one. M Ye much hurt ? "
*' Don't know. Get me up. can't ye ? Blast that infernal Quaker !
If it had not been for him, Ida pitched some on 'em down here, to see
how they liked it."
With much labour and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted to rise;
and. with one holding him uj> under each shoulder, they got him as far
as the horses.
" If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. Give me a
handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place, and stop this infernal
bleeding."
George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift the burly
form of Tom into the saddle. After two or three ineifectual attempts, he
reeled, and fell heavily to the ground.
" On, I hope he isn't killed! " said Eliza, who, with ail the party, stood
watching the proceeding.
" W hy not P " said Phineas. " Serves him right."
" Because after death comes the judgment," said Eliza.
" Yes," said the old woman, who had been groaning and praying, In
her Methodist fashion, during all the encounter, " it's an awful case foi
the poor crittur's soul."
" On my word, they're leaving him, I do believe," said Phineas.
_ It was true; for after some appearance of irresolution and consulta¬
tion, the whole party got on their horses and rode away. When they
were quite out of sight, Phineas began to bestir himself.
" Well, we must go down and walk a piece," he said. " I told
Michael to go forward and bring help, and be along back here with the
waggon; but we shall have to walk a piece along the road, I reckon, to
meet them. The Lord grant he be along soon! It's early in the day;
there won't be much travel afoot yet a while; we an't much more than
two miles from our stopping-place. If the road hadn't been so rough
last Might, we could have outrun'em entirely."
A t lie party neared the fence, they discovered in the distance, along
the road, their own waggon coming back, accompanied by some men on
horseback.
" Well, now, there's Michael, and Stephen, and Amariah," exclaimed
Phineas, joyfully. " Now we are made—as safe as if we'd got there."
" Well, do stop, then," said Eliza, " and do something for that poor
man ; he s groaning dreadfully."
" It would be no more than Christian," said George; " let's take hire
up and carry him on."
" And doctor him up among the Quakers!" said Phineas, "pretty
well that! Well, I don't care if we do. Here, let's have a look at him
and Phineas, who, in the course of his hunting and backwoods life, had
acquired some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded
man and began a careful examination of his condition.
" Marks," said Tom, feebly, "is that you, Marks ?"
"No; I reckon 'tan't, friend," said Phineas. "Much Maries cares
for thee, if his own skin's safe. He's off, long ago."
" I believe I'm done for," said Tom, ' The cussed sreaking dog, to
leave me to die alone! My poor old mother always told mo 'twould
be so."
" La sakes! jist hear the poor crittur! He s got a mammy, now,
said the old negress. " I can't help kinder pityin' on him."
" Softly, softly; don't thee snap and snarl, friend," said Phineas, as
Tom winced and pushed hia hand away. " Thee has no chance, unless?
156 tTHCLE TOM'a CA2XJJ, OB
1 stop tliC bleeding." And Phineas busied himself with making some
oir-liaiid surgical arrangements with his own pocket-handerclnel,
such as could be mustered by the company.
" You pushed me down there" said Torn, faintly. „ .,
" "XVell, if I hadn't, thee would have pushed us down, thee sees, saia
Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. " There, there—-let me nx
this bandage. We mean well to thee; we bear no malice, lhee snail De
taken to a nouse where they'll nurse thee first-rate—as well as thy own
mother could." . ,
Tom groaned, and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigour ana
resolution are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with the flowing
of the blood; and the gigantic fellow really looked piteous in his help¬
lessness.
The other party now came up. The seats were taken out of the
waggon. The buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were spread all along one
side, and four men, with great difficulty, lifted the heavy form of Tom
into it. Before he was got in, he fainted entirely. The old negress,
in the abundance of her compassion, sat down on the bottom, and took
his head in her lap. Eliza, George, and Jim, bestowed themselves, as
well as they could, in the remaining space, and the whole party set
forward.
" What do you think of him ?" said George, who sat by Phineas in
front.
" Well, it's only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but then tumbling and
scratching down that place didn't help him much. It has bled pretty
freely—pretty much dreaned him out, courage and all; but he'll get over
it, and maybe learn a thing or two by it."
" I'm glad to hear you say so," said George. " It would always be a
heavy thought to me if I'd caused his death, even in a just cause."
" Yes," said Phineas; " killing is an ugly operation, any way they'll fix
it, man or beast. I've been a great hunter in my day, and I tell thee
I've seen a buck that was shot down, and a dying, look that way on a
feller with his eye that it reely most made a feller feel wicked for killing
on hiin ; and human creatures is a more serious consideration yet, being,
as thy wife says, that the judgment comes to 'em after death. So I
don't know as our people's notions on these matters is too strict; and,
considerin' how I was raised, I fell in with them pretty considerably."
" What shall we do with this poor fellow ?" said George.
" Oh, carry him along to Amariah's. There's old Grandmam Stephens
there—Dorcas, they call her—she's most an amazing nurse. She takes
to nursing real natura-lvand an't never better suited than when she gets
« sick body to tend. We may reckon on turning him over to her for a
fortnight or so."
A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farmhouse,
where the weary travellers were received to an abundant breakfast. Tom
i ,oker was soon carefully deposited in a much cleaner and softer bed than
ho had ever been in the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully
dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and shutting his
eyes on the white window-curtains and gently-gliding figures of his sick¬
room, like a weary child. And here, for the present we shall take our
leave ui one party.
8.2FB AMONG THE LOWLS.
13?
CHAPTER XYIII.
MISS OPHELIA'S EXPERIENCES AND OPINIONS.
Oub friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often compared hia more
fortunate lot, 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.
St. Clare was indolent, and careless of money. Hitherto the providing
and marketing had been principally done by Adolph, who was to the
full as careless and extravagant as his master; and, between them both
they had carried on the dispersing process with great alacrity. Accus¬
tomed, for many years, to regard his master's property as his own care,
Tom saw, with an uneasiness he could scarcely repress, the wasteful
expenditure of the establishment; and, in the quiet, indirect way which
his class often acquire, would sometimes make his own suggestions.
St. Clare at first employed him occasionally; but, struck with his
soundness of mind and good business capacity, he confided in him more
and more, till gradually all the marketing and providing for the family
were intrusted to him.
" No, no, Adolph," he said, one day, as Adolph was deprecating the
passing of power out of his hands; " let Tom alone. You only under¬
stand what you want—Tom understands cost and come to; and there
may be some end to money, by-and-bys if we don't let somebody do
that."
Trusted to an unlimited extent by a careless master, who handed
him a bill without looking at it, and pocketed the change without
counting it, Tom 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. But, to that nature, the
very unbounded trust reposed in him was bond and seal for the most
scrupulous accuracy.
With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless and self-
indulgent, and unrestrained by a master, who found it easier to indulge
than to regulate, he had fallen into an absolute confusion as to meum and
tuur.i with regard to himself and his master, which sometimes troubled
even St. Clare. His own good sense taught him that such a training ol"
his servants was unjust and dangerous. A sort of chronic remorse went
with him everywhere, although not strong enough to make any decided
cb 111 ge in his course; and this very remorse reacted again into indul¬
gence. He parsed lightly over the most serious faults, because he told
himself that, if he had done his part, his dependants had not fallen into
them.
Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an odd
mixture of fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That ho never
read the Bible; never went to church; that he jested and made free
with any and everything that came in the way of his wit; that he spent
his Sunday evenings at the opera or theatre ; that he went to wine-par¬
ties, and clubs, and suppers, oftener than was at all expedient—were all
things that Tom could see as plainly as any body, and on which he based
a conviction that " mas'r wasn't a Christian a conviction, hovvsver,
i§8 trWCIB TOM'S CABIN, OB
which he would have been very slow to express to any one else, but
which he founded many prayers, in his own simple fashion, when ne was
by himself in his little dormitory. Not that Torn had not his own way
of speaking his mind occasionally, with something of the tact o!ten oo-
servable in his class; as, for example, the very day after the oaDDatn we
have described, St. Clare was invited out to a convivial party ot choice
spirits, and was helped home, between one and two o'clock at night, m a
condition when the physical had decidedly attained the upper hand of
the intellectual. Tom and Adolph assisted to get him composed lor tho
night, the latter in high spirits, evidently regarding the matter as a good
joke, and laughing heartily at tho rusticity of Tom's horror, who really
was simple enough to lie awake most of the rest of the night, praying
for his young master.
"Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?" said St.Clare, the next day,
as he sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers. St. Clare had
just been intrusting Tom with some money, and various commis¬
sions. "Isn't all right there, Tom?" he added, as Tom still stood
waiting.
" I'm 'fraid not, mas'r," said Tom, with a grave face.
St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup, and looked
fit Tom.
" Why, Tom, what's the case ? You look as solemn as a coffin."
" I feel very bad. mas'r. I allays have thought that mas'r would be
good to everybody.
"Well, Tom, haven't I been ? Come now, what do you want?
There's something you haven't got, I suppose, and this is the preface."
" Mas'r allays been good to me. I haven't nothing to complain of,
on that head. But there is one that mas'r isn't good to."
" Why, Tom, what's got into you ? Speak out; what do you mean?"
" Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied upon the
matter then. Mas'r isn't good to himself."
Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on the door
knob. St. Clare felt his face Hush crimson, but he laughed.
" Oh, that's all, is it ?" he said, gaily.
"All !" said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on his knees.
" 0 my dear young mas'r ! Im 'fraia it will bo loss of all--all—body
and soul. The good Book says, ' it biteth like a serpent ai d stingoth
like an adder,' my dear mas'r!"
Tom's voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks,
" You poor silly fool!" said St. Clare, with tears in his own eye3.
" Get up, Tom. I'm not worth crying over."
But Tom wouldn't rise, and looked imploring.
" Well, I won't go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom," said
St. Clare ; "on my honour, I won't. I don't know why I haven't stopped
long ago. I've always despised it, and myself for it; so now, Tom, wipe
up your eyes, and go about your errands. Come, come," he added, " no
blessings. I'm not so wonderfully good, now," he said, as he gently
pushed Tom to the door. " There, I'll pledge my honour to you, Tom,
you don't see me so again," he said; and Tom went off, wiping his eyes,
with great satisfaction.
. "I'll keep my faith with him, too," said St. Clare, as he closed the
coor.
And St. Clare did so; for gross sensualism, in anv form, was not the
peculiar temptation of his nature.
But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulations manifold of our
SIPE AMONG THE LOWLY. 139
friend Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labours of a southern house¬
keeper P
^Jiere is all the difference in the world in the servants of southern
establishments, according to the character and capacity of the mistresses
who have brought them up.
South as well as north, there are womeu who nave an extraordinary
talent for command, and tact in educating. Such are enabled, with
apparent ease, and without severity, to subject to their will, and bring
into harmonious and systematic order, the various members'of their
small estate, to regulate their peculiarities, and so balance and compen¬
sate the deficiencies of one by the excess of another as to produce a
harmonious and orderly system.
Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have already described,
and such our readers may remember to have met with. If they are not
common at the South, it is because they are not common in the world
They are to be found there as often as anywhere; and, when existing,
find in that peculiar state of society a brilliant opportunity to exhibit
their domestio talent.
Such a housekeeper Marie St. Clare was not, nor her mother before
her. Indolent and childish, unsystematic and improvident, it was not
to be expected that servants trained under her care should not be so
likewise; and she had very justly described to Miss Ophelia the state of
confusion she would find in the family, though she had not ascribed it
to the proper cause.
The first morning of her regency, Miss Ophelia was up at four
o'clock; and having attended to all the adjustments of her own
clumber, as she had done ever since she came there, to the great
amazement of the chambermaid, she prepared for a vigorous onslaught
on the cupboards and closets of the establishment of which she had
the keys.
The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, the kitchen and
cellar, that day, all went under an awful review. Hidden things of
darkness were brought to light, to an extent that alarmed all the prin¬
cipalities and powers of kitchen and chamber, and caused many won-
derings and murmurings about " dese yer northern ladies" from the
domestio cabinet.
Old Dinah, the head cook, and principal of all rule and authority in
the kitchen department, was filled with wrath at what she considered an
invasion of privilege. No feudal baron in Magna Charta times could
have more thoroughly resented some incursion of the Crown.
Dinah was a character in her own way, and it would be injustice to
her memory not to give the reader a little idea of her." She was a native
and essential cook, as much as Aunt Chloe—cooking being an indi¬
genous talent of the African race; but Chloe was a trained and metho¬
dical one, who moved in an orderly domestic harness, while Dinah was
a self-taught genius—and, like geniuses in general, was positive, opi¬
nionated, and erratic, to the last degree.
Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectly scorned
logic and reason in every shape, and always took refuge in intuitive
certainty; and here she was perfectly impregnable. No possible amoun t
of talent, or authority, or explanation, could ever make her believe that
any other way was better than her own, or that the course she had pur¬
sued in the smallest matter could be in the least modified. Tiiis had
been a conceded point with her old mistress, Marie's mother; and " Miss
Marie," as Dinah always called her young mistress, even after bar mar-
UKCLE TOM'S CAB IK, 03
riage, found it easier to submit than contend; and eo Dinah had ruled
supreme. This was the easier, in that she was perfect mistress 01 tn. t
diplomatic art which unites the utmost subservience of manner wiin
the utmost inflexibility as to measure- , .
Dinah was mistress of the whole art and mystery of excuse-maKintr,
in all its branches. Indeed, it was an axiom with her^ that the cook
can do no wrong; and a cook in a southern kitchen finds abundance
of heads and shoulders on which to lay off every sin and frailty, so as
to maintain her own immaculateness entire. If any part of tha dinner
was a failure, there were fifty indisputably good reasons for it; and it
was the fault undeniably of fifty other people, whom Dinah berated
with unsparing zeal.
But it was very seldom that there was any failure in Dinah's last
results. Though her mode of doing everything was peculiarly
meandering ana circuitous, and without any sort of calculation as to
time and place,—though her kitchen generally looked as if it had been
arranged by a hurricane blowing through it, and she had about as many
places for each cooking utensil as there were days in the year; yet, if
one would have patience to wait her own good time, up would come her
dinner in perfect order, and in a style of preparation with which an epi¬
cure could find no fault.
It was now the season of incipient preparation for dinner. Dinah,
who required large intervals of reflection and repose, and was studious
of ease in all her arrangements, was seated on the kitchen floor, smoking
a short stumpy pipe, to which she was much addicted, and which she
always kindled up as a sort of censer, whenever she felt the need of an
inspiration in her arrangements. It was Dinah's mode of invoking the
domestic muses.
Seated around her were various members of that rising race with
which a southern household abounds, engaged in shelling peas, peel¬
ing potatoes, picking pin-feathers out of fowls, and other preparatory
arrangements; Dinah every once in a while interrupting her meditations
to give a poke or a rap on the head to some of the young operators, with
the pudding-stick that lay by her side. In fact, Dinah ruled over the
woolly heads of the younger members with a rod of iron, and seemed to
consider them born for no earthly purpose but to "saveher steps," as
she phrased it. It was the spirit of the system under which she had
grown up, and she carried it out to its full extent.
Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through all the
other parts of the establishment, now entered the kitchen. Dinah
had heard, from various sources, what was going on, and resolved to
stand on defensive and conservative ground, mentally determined to
oppose and ignore every new measure, without any actual and observ¬
able contest.
The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a great, old-
fashioned fire-place st/etching along one side of it, an arrangement
which St. Clare had vainly tried to persuade Dinah to exchange for the
convenience of a modern cook-stove. Not she. No Puseyite, or con¬
servative of any school, was ever more inflexibly attached to time-
honoured inconveniences than Dinah.
When St. Clare had first returned from the north, impressed with the
system and order of his uncle's kitchen arrangements, he had largely
provided his own with an array of cupboards, drawers, and various appa¬
ratus, to induce systematic regulation, under the sanguine illusion that
it would be of any possible assistance to Dinah in her arrangements.
He might as well have provided them for a squirrel or a magpie. The
hlFTB AMONG TH2 LOWTiT. 141
more drawers and closets there were, the more hiding-holes could Dinah
make for the accommodation of old rags, hair-combs, old shoes, ribbons,
cast-off artificial flowers, and other articles of vertu, wherein her soul
den slited.
"VI hen Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen, Dinah did not rise, but
emotced on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements obliquely
out of the corner of tier eye, but apparently intent only on the ope¬
rations around her.
Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers.
" What is this drawer for, Dinah ?" she said.
"It's handy for most anything, missis," said Dinah. So it appeared
to be. From the variety it contained, Miss Ophelia pulled out first a
line clamnsk table-cloth, stained with blood, having evidently been used
to envelop some raw meat.
""What's this, Diiah? You don't wrap up meat in your mistress's
best tnble-dotbs ?"
" 0 Lor, rui.^is. no; the towels was all a missin'—so I jest did it. I
laid out to \vn?h that, nr—that's why I put it thar."
"Shiftless!" said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to tumble over
the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and two or three nutmegs,
a Methodist hymn-book, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some
yarn and knitling-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers,
one or two gilded china-saucers with some pomade in them, one or two
thin old shoes, apiece of flannel carefully pinned up inclosing some
small white onions, several damask table-napkins, some coarse crash
towels, some twine and darning-needles, and several broken papers, from
which sundry sweet herbs were sifting into the drawer. _
" Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah ?" said Miss Ophelia, with
the air of one wno prayed for patience.
" Most anywhar, missis ; there's some in that cracked teacup, up
there, and there's some over in that ar cupboard."
" Here are some in the grater," said Miss Ophelia, holding them up.
"Laws, yes, I put 'em there this morning—I likes to keep my things
handy," said Dinah. "You, Jake! what are you stopping for ? You'll
eotch it! Be still, thar," she added, with a dive of her stick at the criminal.
" What's this ?'" said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of pomade.
" Laws, it's my har grease; I put it thar to have it handy."
" Do you use your mistress's best saucers for that ?"
" Law ! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry; I was gwine to
change it this very day."
" Here are two damask table-napkins."
" Them table-napkins I put thar, to get 'em washed out,-some day."
" Don't you have some place here on purpose for things to be washed ?"
" Well, Mas'r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; but I likes
k mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it an't
handy a liftin' up the lid."
"Why don't you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, there P"
" Law, missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and another,
der an't no room, noways—"
" But you should wash your dishes, and clear them away."
"Wash my dishes !" said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath began to
rise over her habitual respect of manner; 'what does ladies know 'bout
work, I want to know ? When'd mas'r ever get Ms dinner, if I was to
spend all my time a washin' and a puttin' up dishes ? Miss Marie never
telled me so, nohow."
"Well, here are Ihese onions."
|42 tTNCLS TOM'S CABIN, OB
" I.-a7J8, yes!" said Dinah; " tliar is whar I put'W, now. I
'member. Them's particular onions I was a savin for dis yer very sie .
I'd lorgot they was in dat ar old flannel."
Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting-paper of sweet herbs. ^
"I wish missis wouldn't touch dem ar. I likes to keep my things
where I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, ratner decidedly.
" But you don't want these holes in the papers.
" Them's handy for sift-in' on't out," said Dinah.
" iiut you see it spills all over the drawer."
" Laws, yes! if missis will go a tumblin' things_ all up so. it Will.
Missis has spilt lots dat ar way," said Dinah, coming uneasily to the
drawers. " If missis only will go up stars till my clarin' up time comes,
I'll have everything right; hut I can't do nothin' when ladies is round
a hinderin'. You, Sam, don't you gib the baby that ar sugar-bowl. I'll
crack ve over, if you don't mind !"
"I'm going through the kitchen, and going to put everything in
order, once, Dinah, and then I'll expect you to keep it so."
" Lor, now ! Miss Phelia; dat ar an't no way for ladies to do. I never
did see ladies doin' no sich; my old missis nor Miss Marie never did,
and 1 don't see no kinder need on'tj" and Dinah stalked indignantly
about, while Miss Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of
scattering bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, table¬
cloths, and towels for washing; washing, wiping, and arranging with her
own hands, and with a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.
" Lor, now, if dat ar ae way dem northern ladies do, dey an't ladies,
nohow," she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing dis¬
tance. " I has things as straight as anybody, when my clarin' up time
comes; but I don't want ladies round, a liinderin', and getting my
things all where I can't find 'em."
To do Dinah justice, she had, at regular periods, paroxysms of refor¬
mation and arrangement, which she called clarin up times," when she
would begin with great seel, and turn every drawer and closet wrong
side outward, on to the floor or tables, and make the ordinary confusion
seven-fold more confounded. Then she would light her pipe, and lei¬
surely go over her arrangements, looking things over, and discoursing
upon them; making all the young fry scour most vigorously on the tin
things, and keeping up for several hours a most energetic state of con¬
fusion, which she would explain to the satisfaction of all inquirers by
the remark that she was a " clarin' up." " Jjhe couldn't hev things a
gwine on so as they had been, and she was gwine to make these yer
young ones keep better orderfor Dinali herself somehow indulged the
illusion that she herself was the soul of order, and it was only the
■young <uns, and the everybody else in the house, that were the cause of
anything that fell short of perfection in this respect. When all the tins
were scoured, and the tables scrubbed snowy white, and everything that
could offend tucked out of sight in holes and corners, Dinah would
dress herself up in a smart dress, clean apron, and high, brilliant Madras
turban, and tell all marauding "young uns " to keep out of the kitchen,
for she was gwine to have things kept nice. Indeed, these periodic
Bcasons were often an inconvenience to the whole household; for Dinah
•would contract such an immoderate attachment to her scoured tin, as
'a insist upon it that it shouldn't be used again for any possible pur¬
pose, at least till the ardour of the " clarin' up " period abated.
Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every departments
faf the house to a systematic pattern; but her labours in all deparfe.
ments that depended on the co-operation of servants were liv^ those ct
LII'3 AMONQ TITS. LOWLY, 14$
Sisyphus or the JDanaides. In despair, she one day appealed to "Si
There is no such thing as getting anything like system in this
family !"
" To be sure there isn't," said St. Clare.
" Such shiftless management, such waste, such confusion, I never
saw!"
" I dare say you didn't." .
" You would not take it so coolly if you were housekeeper."
" My dear cousin, you may as well understand, once for all, that we
masters are divided into two classes, oppressors and oppressed. We who
are good-natured and hate severity make up our minds to a good deal of
inconvenience. If we willJceep a shambling, loose, untaught set in the
community, for our conveilience, why, we must take the consequence.
Some rare cases I have seen, of persons who, by a peculiar tact, can
produce order and system without severity; but I'm not one of tliem;
and so I made up my mind, long ago, to let things go just as they do. I
will not have the poor devils thrashed and cut to pieces, and they know
it; and, of course, they know the staff is in their own hands."
" But to have no time, no place, no order—all going on in this
shiftless way!"
" My dear Vermont, you natives up by the North Pole set an extrava¬
gant value on time! What on earth is the use of time to a fellow who
has twice as much of it as he knows what to do with ? As to order and
system, where there is nothing to be done but lounge on the sofa and
read* an hour sooner or later in breakfast or dinner isn't of much
account. Now, there's Dinah gets you a capital dinner—soup, ragout,
roast fowl, dessert, ice-creams, and all—and she creates it all out of chaos
and old night down there, in that kitchen. I think it really sublime,
the way she manages. But, heaven bless us! if we are to go down
there, and view all the smoking and squatting about, the hurryscurry-
ation of the preparatory process, we should never eat more ! My good
cousin, absolve yourself from that! It's more than a Catholic penance,
and does no more good. You'll only lose your temper, and utterly con¬
found Dinah. Let her go her own way."
" But, Augustine, you don't know how I found things."
" Don't I ? Don't I know that the rolling-pin is under her bed, and
the nutmeg-grater in her pocket with her tobacco—that there are sixty-
five different sugar-bowls, one in every hole in the house—that she
washes dishes with a dinner-napkin one day, and with the fragment of
an old petticoat the next! But the upshot is, she gets up glorious
dinners, makes superb coffee; and you must judge her as warriors and
statesmen are judged, by her success."
" But the waste—the expense !"
" Oh, well! Lock everything you can, and keep.the key. Give out by
driblets, and never inquire for odds and ends—it isn't best."'
" That troubles me, Augustine. I can't help feeling as if these ser¬
vants were not strictly honest. Are you sure they can be relied on ?"
Augustine laughed immoderately at the grave and anxious face with
which Miss Ophelia propounded the question.
" O cousin, that's too good. Honest!—as if that's a thing to be
expected! Honest!—why,of course,theyarn't. Why should they be?
What upon earth is to make them so ?"
"Why don't you instruct?" . T _ __
" Instruct! Oh, fiddlestick! What instructing do you think I should
do f I look like it! As to Marie, she has spirit enough, to be sure, to
X44 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
kill off a whole plantation, it I'd let her manage ; but Asa wculdn t get
the cneatery out of them.'
I! Are there no honest ones ? ^ makeg so impracticably
KoVii^S, you se^'fromS motiStrlair'the'coloured child
cln^e^^lonVno^ther6 wa? with itf parontS Sressfits young
master and missie play-fellows. Cunning and deception become neces-
S Inevitable habits. It; i«n't fair to expect anything else of him. He
ou^t, not to be punished for it. As to honesty, the slave is kept m that
dependent, semi-childish state, that there is no making him realize the
rights of property, or feel that his master's goods are not his own, if he
can get them. Tor my part, I don't see how they can be honest. Such
a fellow as Tom, here, is—is a moral miracle!"
" And what becomes of their souls ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" That isn't my a tfair, as I know of," said St. Clare; " I am only
dealing in facts of the present life. The fact is, that the whole race are
pretty generally understood to be turned over to the devil, for our
benefit, in this world, however it may turn out in another !"
"This is perfectly horrible!" said Miss Ophelia; "you ought to be
ashamed of yourselves!"
" I don't know as I am. We are in pretty good company for all that,"
said St. Clare, " as people in the broad road generally are. Look at the
high and the low, all the world over, and it's the same story; the lower
class used up, body, soul, and spirit, for the good of the upper. Iftis so
in England ; it is so everywhere; and yet all Christendom stands aghast,
with virtuous indignation, because we do the thing in a little different
shape from what they do it."
"it isn't so in Vermont."
"Ah, well, in New England, and in the free States, you have the better
of us, I grant. But there's the bell; so, cousin, let us for awhile lay
aside our sectional prej udices, and come out to dinner."
As Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen in the latter part of the afternoon,
some of the sable children called out, " La,, sakes! thar's Prue a coming,
grunting along like she allers does."
A tall, bony, coloured woman now entered the kitchen, bearing oil her
head a basket of rusks and hot rolls.
" Ho, Prue! you've come," said Dinah.
Prue had a peculiar scowling expression of countenance, and a sullen,
grumbling voice. She set down her basket, squatted herself down, ana
resting her elbows on her knees, said—
" O Lord! I wish't I's dead!"
" Why do you wish you were dead ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" I'd be out o' my misery," said the woman, gruffly, without taking
her eyes from the floor.
" What need you getting drunk, then, and cutting up, Prue ?" said a
spruce quadroon chambermaid, dangling, as she spoke, a pair of coral
eardrops.
The woman looked at her with a sour, surly glance.
" Maybe you'll come to it, one of these yer days. I'd be glad to
see you, 1 would ; then you 11 be glad of a drop, like me, to forget your
misery.
" Come, Prue," said Dinah, "let's look at your rusks. Here's missis
will pay for them."
Miss Ophelia took out a couple of dozen.
ItPE AM6NG THE LOWLY.. Ii5
^ Thar's some tickets in thatar old cracked jug on the top shelf," said
Dinah. "You, Jake, climb up and get it down/5
^ Tickets—what are they for ?" said Miss Ophelia.
V\ e buy tickets of her mas'r, and she gives us bread for 'em."
And they counts my money and tickets, when I gets home, to see
if I s got the change; and if I han't, they half kills me?'
"And serves you right," said Jane, the pert chambermaid, "if you
will take their money to get drunk on. That's what she does, missis."
" And that's what I will do; I can't live no other ways—drink and
forset my misery."
<rYou are very wicked and very foolish," said Miss Ophelia, " to steal
your master's money to make yourself a brute with."
" It's raighty likely, missis; but I will do it, yes I will. O Lord
I wish I's dead, I do; I wish I's dead, and out of my misery !" and
slowly and stillly the old creature rose, and got lier basket on her head
again ; but before she went out sne looked at the quadroon girl, who still
stood playing with her ear-drops.
" Ye think that ye're mighty fine with them ar, a frolickin', and a
tossin' your head, and a lookin' down on everybody. Wei!, never mind—
you may live to be a poor, old, cut-up crittur, like me. Hope to the Lord
ye will, I do ; then see if ye won't drink—drink—drink—yerself into
torment; and sarve ye right, too—ugh!" and, with a malignant howl,
the woman left the room.
" Disgusting old beast!" said Adolph, who was getting his mas¬
ter's shaving-water. " If I was her master, I'd cut her up worse than
she is."
" Ye couldn't do that ar, no ways," said Dinah. " Her back's a far
sight now—she can't never get a dress together over it."
" I think such low creatures ought not to be allowed to go round to
genteel families," said Miss J ane. " What do you think, Mr. St. Clare ?"
she said, coquettishly tossing her head at Adolph.
It must be observed that, among other appropriations from his mas-
tor's stock, Adolph was in the habit of adopting his name and address;
and that the style under which he moved, among the coloured circles of
New Orleans, was that of Mr. St. Clare.
" I'm certainly of your opinion, Miss Benoir," said Adolph.
Benoir was the name of Marie St. Clare's family, and Jane was one of
her servants.
" Pray, Miss Benoir, may I be allowed to ask if those drops are for
the ball to-morrow night ? They are certainly bewitching!"
" I wonder, now, Mr. St. Clare, what the impudence of you men wil\
come to!" said Jane, tossing her pretty head till the ear-drops twinkled
again. " I shan't dance with vou for a whole evening, if you go to ask¬
ing me any more questions/'
" Oh, you couldn't be so cruel, now! I was just dying to know
whether you would appear in your pink tarletane," said Adolph.
" What is it ?" said Rosa, a bright, piquant little quadroon, who came
skipping down stairs at this moment.
" Why, Mr. St. Clare's so impudent!"
" On ray honour," said Adolph, " I'll leave it to Miss Rosa, now."
" I know he's always a saucy creature," said Hosa, poising herself on
one of her little feet, and looking maliciously at Adolph. " He's always
getting me so angry with him."
" O ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart, between you,
said Adolph. " I shall be found dead in my bed some morning, and
you'll have it to answer for."
146 uncle tom's cabin, o&
"Do hear the horrid creature talk!" said both laolies, laughing itii«
moderately. . ,, , „
" Come, clar out, you! I can't have you cluttering up the kitchen,
said Dinah, "in my way, foolin' round here." , „ „ „
" Aunt Dinah's glum, because she can't go to the oaH, . said Jxosa. ^
" Don't want none o' your light-coloured balls," said Dinah; cuttin.
round, tnakin' b'lieve you's white folks. Arter all, you s niggers, much
as I am." _ .
" Aunt Dinah greases her wool stiff, every day, to make it lie straight,
said Jane. . , , . ,
" And it will be wool, after all," said Bosa, maliciously shaking down
i her long, silky curls. .
" Well, in the Lord's sight, an't wool as good as har, any time ? said
Dinah. " I'd like to have missis say which is worth the most—a couple
such as you, or one like me ? Get out wid ye, ye trumpery—I won't
have ye round!"
Here the conversation was interrupted in a twofold manner. St.
Clare's voice was heard at the head of the stairs, asking Adolph if he
meant to stay all night with his shaving-water; and Miss Ophelia,
coming out of the dining-room, said—
" Jane and Eosa, what are you wasting your time for, here ? Go in
wd attend to your muslins."
Our friend Tom, who had been in the kitchen during the coversation
with the old rusk-woman, had followed her out into the street. He saw
her go on, giving every once in a while a suppressed groan. At last she
set her basket down on a door-step, and began arranging the old fadad
shawl which covered her shoulders.
" I'll carry your basket a piece," said Tom, compassionately.
" Why should ye ?" said the woman. " I don't want no help."
" You seem to be sick, or in trouble, or somethin'," said Tom,
" I an't sick," said the woman, shortly.
" I wish," said Tom, looking at her earnestly, "I wish I could per-
suade you to leave off drinking. Don't you know it will be the ruin of
ye, body and soul ?"
I knows I'm gwine to torment," said the woman, sullenly. "To
don't need to tell me that ar. I's ugly—I's wicked—I's gwine straight
to torment. 0 Lord! I wish I's thar !"
Tom shuddered at these frightful words, spoken with a sullen im¬
passioned earnestness.
" 0 Lord have mercy on ye! poor crittur. Han't ye never heard of
Jesus Christ ?" ■
, "Jesus Christ—who's he?"
; " Why, he's the Lord," said Tom.
" I think I've hearn tell o' the Lord, and the judgment and torment,
I've hearn o' that."
" But didn't anybody ever tell you of the Lord Jesus, that loved ui
poor sinners, and died for us?"
"Don't know nothin' 'bout that," said the woman; "nobody han't
never loved me, since my old man died."
" Where was you raised ?" said Tom.
' Up in Kentuck, A man kept me to breed chil'en for market, and
sold em as fast as they got big enough; last of all he sold me to a spe¬
culator, and my mas'r got me o him."
" What set you into this bad way of drinkin' ? "
"To get shet o'my misery. I had one child after . come here: and
V thought then I d have one to raise, 'cause mas'r wasn't a speculator,
nifja Aiioua TJEIe Lowit. 147
Ifc W8s do peartesfc little tiling ! and missis she seemed to think a heap
on t, a t first • it never cried—it was likely and fat. But missis tuck sick,
tended her; and I tuck the fever, and my milk all left me, and the
child it pined to skin and bone, and missis wouldn't buy milk for iQ.
She wouldn't hear to me, when I telled her I hadn't milk. She said she
knowed I could Iced it on what other folks eat; and the child kinder
pined, and cried, and cried, and cried, day and night, and got all gone to
skin and bones, and missis got sot agin it, and she said 'twarn't nothin'
but crossness. She wished it was dead, she said; and she wouldn't let
me have it o' nights, 'cause, she said, it kept me awake, and made me
good for nothing. She made me sleep in her room; and I had to put
it away ofif in a little kind o' garret, and thar it cried itself to death,
one night. It did; and I tuck to drinkin', to keep its crying out of
my ears! I did—and I will drink ! I will, if I do go to torment for
it! ^las'r says I shall go to torment, and I tell him I've got thar
now i"
" O, ye poor crittur!" said Tom, " han't nobody never telled ye how
the Lord Jesus loved ye, and died for ye ? Han't they telled ye that
he'll help ye, and ye can go to heaven, and have rest, at last?"
" I looks like gwine to heaven," said the woman; "an't thar where
white folks is gwine ? S'pose they'd have me thar ? I'd rather go to tor¬
ment, and get away from mas'r and missis. I had, so," she said, as, with
her usual groan, she got her basket on her head, and walked sullenl]
away.
Tom turned, and walked sorrowfully back to the house. In the court
he met little Eva,—a crown of tuberoses on her head, and her eyes
radiant with delight.
" O, Tom ! here you are. I am glad I've found you. Papa says you
may get out the ponies, and take me in my little new carriage," she
said, catching his hand. " But what's the matter, Tom ?—you look
sober"
" I feel bad, Miss Eva," said Tom, sorrowfully. " But I'll get the
horses for you."
" But do tell me, Tom, what is the matter ? I saw you talking to cross
old Prue."
Tom, in simple, earnest phrase, told Eva the woman's history. She
did not exclaim, or wonder, or weep, as. other children do. Her cheeks
grew pale, and a deep, earnest shadow passed over ber eyes. She laid
both hands on her bosom, and sighed heavily..
CHAPTER XIX.
JJ139 OPHELIA'S EXPEDIENCES AND OPINIONS CONTINUED.
" Tom, you needn't get me the horses. I don't want to go," she
said.
" Why not, Miss Eva ? "
" These things sink into my heart, Tom," said Eva; they sin* into
my heart," she repeated, earnestly. "I don't want to go;" ana she
turned from Tom, and went into the house. , .
A few days after, another woman came, in old Prue's place, to bring
the rusks; Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen.
" Lor!" said Dinah, " what's got Prue F "
" Prue isn't coming any more,® said the woman, tnysterioiisyv
z. a
148 CHCLE TOlI'S CABIN, OB
« Why not ? " said Dinah. " She an't dead, is.she ? * wnmaft
" We doesn't exactly know. She's down cellar, said the Womaft
gl AfMi^Optaken the rusks, Dinah Mowed the woman
to the door. „ „„ .
" What has got Prue, any how ? " she said. in
The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and answered in
a low, mysterious tone. , , . . ii,._
" Well, you mus'n't tell nobody. Prue, she got drunk agin—and they
had her down cellar—and thar they left her all day; and X heara em
Baying that the flies had got to Tier—and she's dead !' , ,,
Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her side the
spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large, mystic eyes dilated with horror,
and every drop of blood driven from her lips and cheeks.
" Lor bleSs us! Miss Eva's gwine to faint away 1 What got us all to
let her har such talk ? Her pa '11 be rail mad."
" I shan't faint, Dinah," said the child, firmly; "and why shouldn't
I hear it ? It an't so much for me to hear it, as for poor Prue to
suffer it."
" Lor sokes ! it isn't for sweet, delicate young ladies, like you—these
yer stories isn't; it's enough to kill 'em!"
Eva sighed again, and walked up stairs with a slow and melancholy step.
Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman's story. Dinah gave a
very garrulous version of it, to which Tom added the particulars which
he had drawn from her that morning.
" An abominable business—perfectly horrible!" she exclaimed, as she
entered the room where St. Clare lay reading his paper.
" Pray, what iniquity has turned up now ? " said he.
" What now ? why, those folks have whipped Prue to death !" said
Miss Ophelia, going on, with great strength of detail, into the story,
and enlarging fin its most shocking particulars.
" I thought it would come to that, some time," said St. Clare, going
on with his paper.
" Thought so!—an't you going to do anything about it ? " said Miss
Ophelia. " Haven't got any select men, or anybody to interfere and look
after such matters ? "
" It's commonly supposed that the property interest is a sufficient
guard in these cases. If people choose to ruin their own possessions, I
don't know what's to be done. It seems the poor creature was a thief
and a drunkard; and so there won't be much hope to get up sympathy
for her."
" It is perfectly outrageous—it is horrid, Augustine! It will cer¬
tainly bring down vengeance upon you."
" My dear cousin, I didn't do it, and I can't help it; I would, if I
could. If low-minded, brutal people will act like themselves, what am
I to do? Tbey have absolute control; they are irresponsible despots.
There would be no use in interfering; there is no law that amounts to
anything practically, for such a case. The best we can do is to shut our
eyes and ears, and let it alone. It's the only resource left us."
" How can you shut your eyes and ears ? How can you let such
things alone ? "
" My dear child, what do you expect ? Here is a whole class—
debased, uneducated, indolent, provoking—put, without any sort of
terms or conditions, entirely into the hands of such people as the
majority in o-.rr world are; people who ha^e neither consideration nor
LItfB AM02TG TH3 LOWLY 149
self-control, who haven't even an enlightened regard to tlieir own
intere-t—for that's the case with the largest half of mankind. Of course,
in a community so organized, what can a man of honourable and
humane feelings do, but shut his eyes all he can, and harden his heart ?
I can c buy every poor wretch I see. I can't turn knight-errant, and
undertake to redress every individual ca?e of wrong in such a city as
his. The most I can do is to try and keep out of the way of it."
St. Clare's fine countenance was for a moment overcast; he looked
nnoyed, but suddenly calling up a gay smile, he said—
" Come, cousin, don't stand there looking like one of the Fates ;
you've only seen a peep through the curtain—a specimen of what ia
going on the world over, in some shape or other. If we are to be pry¬
ing and spying into all the dismals o<" life, we should have no heart
to anything. 'Tis like looking too close into the details of Dinah's
kitchenand St. Clare lay back on the sofa, and busied himself with
his paper. ,
Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting-work, and sat
there grim with indignation. She knit, and knit, but while she mused
the fire burned ; at last she broke out—
" I tell you, Augustine, I can't get over things so, if you can. It's a
perfect abomination for you to defend such a system—that's my mind!"
" What now ?" said St. Clare, looking up. " At it again, eh ? "
" I say it's perfectly abominable for you to defend such a system! "
eaid Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth.
" I defend it, my dear lady P Who ever said I did defend it ? " said
St. Clare.
" Of course you defend it—you all do—all you Southerners. What
do you have slaves for, if you don't ? "
" Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose nobody in this world
ever does what they don't think is right ? Don't you, or didu't you
ever, do anything that you did not think quite right ?"
" If I do, I repent of it, I hope," said Miss Ophelia, rattling het-
needles 'with energy.
" So do I," said St. Clare, peeling his orange; "I'm repenting of it
all the time."
' What do you keep on doing it for ?"
" Didn't you ever keep on doing wrong after you'd repented, my
good cousin ? "
" Well, only when I've been very much tempted," said Miss Ophelia.
""Well, I'm very much tempted," 6aid St. Clare; "that's just my
difficulty."
" But I always resolve I won't, and try to break it off."
" Well I have been resolving I won't, off and on, these ten years,"
said St. Clare; " but 1 haven't, some how, got clear. Have you got clear
of all your sins, cousin ? "
" Cousin Augustine," said Miss Ophelia, seriously, and laying down
her knitting-work, " I suppose I deserve that you should reprove my
short-comings. I know ail you say is true enough—nobody else feeia
them more than I do; but it does seem to me, after all, there is some
difference between me and you. It seems to me that I would cut off my
right hand sooner than keep on, from day to day, doing what I thought
was wrong. But then my conduct is so inconsistent with my profession,
I don't wonder you reprove me."
" Oh, now, cousin," said Augustine, sitting down on the floor, and
ItyiQg fcis he£*d back in her lap, " don't tak^ o» so awfully serious! You
160 CTFCLB TOll'S CABIJT, OB
know what a good-for-nothing, saucy boy I always was. I loves
you up—that's all—just to see you get earnest. I do think you are
peratel.v, distressingly good ; it tires me to death to think ot it. . ..
" But this is a serious subject, my boy Auguste, said Miss upneua,
laying her hand on his forehead. ' „ . ,
" Dismally so," said he; " and I—well, I never want to talk seriously
in hot weather. "VVhat with mosquitoes and all, a fellow can t get him¬
self up to any very sublime moral flights; and I believe, said bt. Olare,
suddenly rousing himself up," there's a theory, now! I understand now
why northern nations are always more virtuous than southern ones I
Bee into that whole subject."
" Oh, Auguste, you are a sad rattlebrain !"
" Am I ? Well, so I am. I suppose; but for once I will be serious,
now; but you must hand that basket of oranges—you see you'll have to.
stay me with flagons and comfort me with apples,' if I'm going to make
this effort. Now," said Augustine, drawing the basket up, " I'll begin:
When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a feilow
to hold two or three dozen of his fellow worms in captivity, a decent
regard to the opinions of society requires "
I don't see that you are growing more serious," said Miss Ophelia.
"Wait—I'm coming on—you'll near. The short of the matter is,
cousin," said he, his handsome face suddenly settling into an earnest and
serious expression, " on this abstract question of slavery there can, as I
think, be but one opinion. Planters, who have money to make by it—
clergymen, who have planters to please—politicians, who want to rule
by it—may warp and bend language and ethics to a degree that shall
astonish the world at their ingenuity; they can press Nature and the
Bible, and nobody knows what else, into the service; but, after all, neither
they nor the world believe in it one particle the more. It comes from
the devil, that's the short of it; and, to my mind, if s a pretty respectable
specimen of what he can do in his own line."
Miss Ophelia stopped her knitting, and looked surprised; and St.
Clare, apparently enjoying her astonishment, went on:—
" Y ou seem to wonder; but if you will get me fairly at it, I'll make a
clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed of God and man,
what is it? Strip it of all its ornament, run it down to the root ana
nucleus of the whole, and what is it ? Why, because my brother
Quashy is ignorant and weak, and I am intelligent and strong—because
1 know how, and can do it, therefore I may steal all he has, keep it,
a:id give him only such and so much as suits my fancy. Whatever is
too hard, too dirty, too disagreeable for me, I may set Quashy to doing.
"Because I don't like work, Quashy shall work. Because the sun burns
me, Quashy shall stay in the sun. Quashy shall earn the money, and I
will spend it. Quashy shall lie down in every puddle, that I may walk
over dryshod. Quashy shall do my will, and not his, and all the days of
his mortal life, and have such a chance of getting to heaven, at last, as I
find convenient. This I take to be about what slavery is. I defy any¬
body on earth to read our slave-code, as it stands in our law books, and
make anything else of it. Talk of the abuses of slavery! Humbug! The
iking itself is the essence of all abuse ! And the only reason why the
land don't sink under it, like Sodom and Gomorrah, is because it is used
in a way infinitely better than it is. For pity's sake, for shame's sake,
because we are men born of women, and not savage beasts, many of us
not, and dare not—we would scorn to use the full power which our
savage laws put into our hands. And he who goes the furthest, and
ITFTU AMONG THE IOWLY. 151
doeetiie worst, only uses within limits the power that the law gives
St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when excited, was
walking with hurried steps up and down the floor. His fine face, classic
as that of a Greek statue, seemed actually to burn with the fervour of
his feelings. His large blue eyes flashed, and he .gestured with an un¬
conscious eagerness. Miss Ophelia had never seen him in this mood
before, and she sat perfectly silent.
" I declare to you," said he, suddenly stopping, before his cousin,
—it's no sort of use to talk or to feel on this subject—but I declare to
you, there have been times when I have thought, if the whole country
would sink, and hide all this injustice and misery from the light, I
would willingly sink with it. When I have been travelling up and
down on our boats, or about on my collecting tours, and reflected that
every brutal, disgusting, mean, low-lived fellow I met, was allowed by
our laws to become absolute despot of as many men, women, and chil¬
dren, as he could cheat, steal, or gamble money enough to buy—when I
have seen such men in actual ownership of helpless children, of' young
girls and women—1 have been ready to curse my country, to curse the
human race!"
" Augustine! Augustine !" said Miss Ophelia, " I'm sure you've
said enough. I never, in my life, heard anything like this: even at the
North."
" At the North," said St. Clare, with a sudden change of expression,
and resuming something of his habitual careless tone. " Pooh ! your
northern folks are cold-blooded; you are cool in everything! You
can't begin to curse up hill and down as we can when we get fairly at it."
" Well, but the question is—" said Miss Ophelia.
" O, yes, to be sure, the question is—and a deuce of a question it is [
How came you in this state of sin and misery ? Well, I shall answer in
the good old words you used to teach me, Sun clays. I came so by ordi¬
nary generation. My servants were my father's, and, what is more, my
mother's; and now they are mine, they and their increase, which bids
fair to bo a pretty considerable item. My father, you know, came first
from New England; and he was just such another man as your father
—a regular old Roman; upright, energetic, noble-minded, with an iron
will. Your father settled down m New England, to rule over rocks and
stones, and to force an existence out of Nature; and mine settled in
Louisiana, to rule over men and women, and force an existence out of
them. My mother," said St. Clare, getting up and walking to a picture
at the end of the room, and gazing upward with a face fervent with
veneration, " she was divine ! Don't look at me so!—you know what I
mean ! She probably was of mortal birth; but as far as ever I could
observe, there was no trace of any human weakness or error about her;
and everybody that lives to remember her, whether bond or free, servant,
acquaintance, relation, all say the same. Why, cousin, that mother has
been all that has stood between me and utter unbelief for years. She
was a direct embodiment and personification of the New Testament, a
living fact, to be accounted for, and to be accounted for in no other way,
than by its truth. O mother! mother!" said St. Clare, clasping his
hands, in a sort of transport; and then suddenly checking himself, he
came back, and seating himself on an ottoman, he went on
" My brother and I were .twins ; and they say, you know, that twins
ought to resemble each other; but we were in all points a contrast. He
baa black, fiery eyes, coal-bla^i hair, a strong, fine Eoman profile, ana
f52 TTNCLE TOMJS CABIN, OS
a rich brown complexion. I had blue eyes, golden hair, a GreeK outline,
and fair complexion. He was active and observing, I dreamy ana in¬
active. He was generous to his friends and equals, but proud, dominant,
overbearing to inferiors, and utterly unmerciful to whatever set itselt up
against him. Truthful we both were; he from pride and courage, 1 from
a sort of abstract ideality. We loved each other about as boys generally
do, off and on, and in general; he was my father's pet, and I my
mother's. _
" There was a morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feeling m me on
all possible subjects, of which he and my father had no kind of under¬
standing, and with which they could have no possible sympathy. But
mother did; and so, when I had quarrelled with Alfred, and father
looked sternly on me, I used to go off to mother's room, and sit by her.
I remember just how she used to look, with her pale cheeks, her deep,
soft, serious eyes, her white dress—she always wore white—and I used
to think of her whenever I read in Revelations about the saints that were
arrayed in fine linen, clean and white. She had a great deal of genius of
one sort or another, particularly in music, and she used to sit at her
organ, playing fine old majestic music of the Catholic Church, and sing¬
ing with a voice more like an angel than a mortal woman; and I would
lay my head down on her lap, and cry, and dream, and feel—oh, im¬
measurably !—things that I had no language to say !
" In those days, this matter of slavery had never been canvassed as it
has now; nobody dreamed of any harm in it.
"My father was a born aristocrat. I think, in some pre-existent
state, he must have been in the higher circles of spirits, and brought all
his old court pride along with him; for it was ingrain, bred in the bone,
though he was originally of poor and not in any way of noble family.
My brother was begotten in his image.
Now, an aristocrat, you know, the world over, has no human sym
pathies, beyond a certain line in society. In England the line is in one
place, in Burmah in another, and in America in another; but the aris¬
tocrat of all these countries never goes over it. What would be hard¬
ship and distress and injustice in his own class, is a cool matter of
course in another one. My father's dividing line was that of colour.
Among his equals, never was a man more just and generous; but he
considered the negro, through all possible gradations of colour, as an
intermediate link between man and animals, and graded all his ideas of
justice or generosity on this hypothesis. I suppose, to be sure, if any¬
body had asked him, plump and fair, whether they had human immor¬
tal souls, he might have hemmed and hawed, and said yes. But my
father was not a man much troubled with spiritualism ; religious senti¬
ment he had none, beyond a veneration for God, as decidedly the head
of the upper classes.
" Well, my father worked some five hundred negroes; he was an in¬
flexible, driving, punctilious business man; everything was to move by
system—to be sustained with unfailing accuracy and precision. Now, u
you take into account that all this was to be worked out by a set of lazy,
twaddling, shiftless labourers, who had grown up all their lives in the
absence of every possible motive to learn how to do an vthing but •'shirk,'
as you Vermonters say, and you'll see that there might naturally be oa
his plantation a great many things that looked horrible and distressing
to a sensitive child like me.
" Besides all, he had an overs " er—a great, tall, slab-sided two-fisted
renegade son of Vermqnt (begging your pardon), who had gone
1/IFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 153
through a regular apprenticeship in hardness and brutality, and taken
his degree to be admitted to practice. My mother never could endure
him, nor I; but he obtained an entire ascendancy over my father: find
this man was the absolute despot of the estate.
" a ^tle fellow then, but I had the same love that I have now
for ail kinds of human things—a kind of passion for the study of hu¬
manity, come in what shape it would. I was found in the cabins and
among the field-hands a great deal, and, of course, was a great favourite;
and all sorts of complaints and grievances were breathed in my ear, and
I told them to mother, and we, between us, formed a sort of committee
for a redress of grievances. We hindered and repressed a great deal of
cruelty, and congratulated ourselves on doing a vast deal of good, till,
as often happens, my zeal overacted. Stubbs complained to my father
that he couldn't manage the hands, and must resign his position.
Father was a fond, indulgent husband, but a man that never flinched
from anything that he thought necessary ; and so he put down his foot,
like a rock, between us and the field-hands. He told my mother, in
language perfectly respectful and deferential, but quite explicit, that
over the house servants she should be entire mistress, but that with the
field-hands he could allow no interference. He revered and respected
her above all living beings; but he would have said it all the same to
the Virgin Mary herself, if she had come in the way of his system.
KI used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases with him—1
endeavouring to excite his sympathies. He would listen to the most
pathetic appeals with the most discouraging politeness and equanimity.
It all resolves itself into this/ he would say; 'must I part with
Stubbs, or keep him ? Stubbs is the soul of punctuality, honesty, and
efficieacy, a thorough business hand, and as humane as the general run.
We can't have perfection; and if I keep him, I must sustain his admi¬
nistration as a whole, even if there are, now and then, things that are
exceptional. All government includes some necessary hardness. Gene¬
ral rules will bear hard on particular cases.' This last maxim my father
seemed to consider a settler in most alleged cases of cruelty. After he
had said that, he commonly drew up his feet 011 the sofa, like a man that
has disposed of a business, and betook himself to a nap or the news¬
paper, as tile case might be.
The facfc is, my father showed the exact sort of talent for a states¬
man. He could have divided Poland as easily as an orange, or trod on
Ireland as quietly and systematically as any man living. At last my
mother gave up, in despair. It never will be known, till the last
Account, what noble and sensitive natures like hers have felt, cast,
atterly helpless, into what seems to them an abyss of injustice and
cruelty, and which seems so to nobody about them. It has been an age
of long sorrow of such natures, in such a hell-begotten sort of world as
ours. What regained for her but to train her children in her own
views and sentiments ? Well, after all you say about training, children
will grow up substantially what they are by nature, and only that.
From the cradle, Alfred was an aristocrat; and as he grew up, instinc¬
tively, all his sympathies and all his reasonings were in that line, and all
mother's exhortations went to the winds. As to me, they sunk deep
into me. She never contradicted, in form, anything that my father
said, or seemed directly to differ from him; but she impressed, burnt
into my very soul, with all tue force of her deep, earnest nature, an
idea of the dignity and worth of the meanest human soul. I have
looked in Uer face with solemn awe, when she wpuld point up to th§
154 tTNCtB TOM'S CABIN, OB
stars in the evening, and say to mo, 'See there, August©! the poorest,
meanest soul on our place will bo living, when all these stars are gone
forever—will live as long as God lives!' _ . , ,
" She had some fine old paintings; one, in particular, of Jesus Heal¬
ing a blind man. They were very line, and used to impress me strongly.
' See there, Auguste,' she would say; ' the blind man was a beggar, poor
and loathsome; therefore he would not heal him afar off ! He called
him to him, and put his hands on Mm ! llemember this, my boy. If 1
had lived to grow up under her care, she might have stimulated me to
I know not what of enthusiasm. I might have been a saint, reformer,
martyr—but, alas! alas! I went from her when I was only thirteen,
and I never saw her again!"
St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not speak for some
minutes. After a while, he looked up, and went on—
" What poor, mean trash, this whole business of human virtue is ! A
mere matter, for the most part, of latitude and longitude, and geographical
position, acting with natural temperament. The greater part is nothing
but an accident! Your father, for example, settles in Veririont, in a town
where all are, in fact, free and equal; becomes a regular church member
and deacon, and in due time joins an Abolitionist Society, and thinks us
all little better than heathens. Yet he is, for all the world, in constitu¬
tion and habit, a duplicate of my father. I can see it leaking out in fifty
different ways—just that same strong, overbearing, dominant spirit. You
know very well how impossible it is to persuade some of the folks in
your village that Squire Sinclair does not feel above them. The i'aot is,
though he has fallen on democratic times, and embraced a democratic
theory, he is to the heart an aristocrat, as much as my father, who ruled
over five or six hundred slaves."
Miss Ophelia felt rather disposed to cavil at this picture, and was
laying down her knitting to begin, but St. Clare stopped her.
"Now, I know every word you are going to say. I do not oay they
were alike, in fact. One fell into a condition where everything acted
against the natural tendency, and the other where everything acted for
it; and so one turned out a pretty wilful, stout, overbearing old demo¬
crat, and the other a wilful, stout old despot. If both had owned planta¬
tions in Louisiana, they would have been as like as two old bullets cast
in the same mould."
" What an undutiful boy you are !" said Miss Ophelia.
" I don't mean them any disrespect," said St. Clare. " You know
reverence is not my forte. But, to go back to my history,—
"When father died, he left the whole property to us twin boys, to be
divided as we should agree. There does not breathe on God's earth a
nobler-souled, more generous fellow, than Alfred, in aJl that concerns
his equals; and we got on admirably with this property question, with¬
out a single unbrotherly word or feeling. We undertook to work tha
plantation together; and Alfred, whose outward life and capabilities bad
double the strength of mine, became an enthusiastic planter, and u
wonderfully successful one.
" But two years' trial satisfied me that I could not be a partner in that
matter. To have a great gang of seven hundred, whom I could not
know personally, or feel any individual interest in, bought and driven,
housed, fed, worked like so many horned cattle, strained up to mili¬
tary precision—the question of how little of life's commonest enjoy¬
ments would keep them in working order being a, constantly recurring
problem, the necessity of drivers and overseers, tie ever-necessary whip,
first, last, and only argument—the whole thing vr.s insufferably disgust-
£IFS A310N0 TIES IOWLY. 155
ing and loathsome to me; and when I thought of my mother's estimate
of one poor human soul, it became even frightful.'
"J/s all nonsense to talk to me about slaves enjoying all this! To
this day, I ha\ e no patience with the unutterable trash that some of your
patronizing Northerners have made up, as in their zeal to apologize for
our sins. _We all kuow better. Tell me that any man living wants to
work all his days, Ironi day-dawn till dark, under the constant eye of a
roaster, without the power of putting forth one irresponsible volition, on
the same dreary, monotonous, unchanging toil, and all for two pairs of
pantaloons and a pair of shoes a year, with enough food and shelter to
keep him in working order ! Any man M ho thinks that human beings
can, as a general thing, be made about as comfortable that way as any
other, I wish he might try ifc. I'd buy the dog, and work him, with a
clear conscience P"
"I always have supposed," said Miss Ophelia, "that you, all of you,
approved of these things, and thought them right — according to
Scripture."
"Humbug! We are not quite reduced to that yet. Alfred, who is
as determined a despot as ever walked, does not pretend to this kind of
defence; no, he stands high and haughty, on that good old respectable
ground, the right of the strongest; and he says, and I think quite sensibly,
that the American planter is ' only doing, in another form, what the
English aristocracy and capitalists are doing by the lower classes •' that
is, I take it, appropriating them, body and bone, soul and spirit, to their
use and convenience. He defends both—and I think, at least, consist¬
ently. He says that there can be no high civilization without enslave¬
ment of the masses, either nominal or real. There must, he says, be a
lower class, given up to physical toil and confined to an animal nature;
and a higher one thereby acquires leisure and wealth for a more expanded
intelligence and improvement, and becomes the directing soul of the
lower. So he reasons, because, as I said, he is born an aristocrat; so I
don't believe, because I was born a democrat."
"How in the world can the two things be compared?" said Miss
Ophelia. " The English labourer is not sold, traded, parted from his
family, whipped."
" He is as much at the will of his employer as if he were sold to him.
The slave-owner can whip his refractory slave to death—the capitalist
can starve him to death. As to family security, it is hard to say which
is the worst—to have one's children sold, or see them starve to death at
home."
" But it's no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it isn't worse
than some other bad thing."
" I didn't give it for one—nay, I'll say, besides, that ours is the mor
bold and palpable infringement of human rights. Actually buying
man up, like a horse—looking at his teeth, ci acking his joints, and tryin
his paces, and then paying down for him—having speculators, breeder
traders, and brokers in human bodies and souls—sets the thing befor
the eyes of the civilized world in a more tangible form, though the thing
done be, after all, in its; nature, the same ; that is, appropriating one set
of human beings to the use and improvement of another, without any
regard to their own."
I never thought of tl e matter in this light," said Miss Ophelia.
" Well, I've travelled in England some, and I've looked over a good
many documents as to the state of their lower classes; and I really think
there is no denying Alfred, when he says that his slaves are better oft
than a larpje class of <be population of England. You see, you must not
153 uncle tom's caeih, ob
infer, from what I have told you, that Alfred is what is called a b ard
for he isn't. He is despotic, and unmerciful to msubor(IinatioQ, flo
would shoot a fellow down with as little remorse as he would shoot a
buck, if he opposed him. But. in general, he takes a sort ol pnae m
having his slaves comfortably fed and accommodated. »
" When I was with him, I insisted that he should do something tor
their instruction ; and, to please me, he did get a chaplain, and useu to
have them catechized Sunday, though I believe, in his heart, toat ne
thought it would do about as much good to set a chaplain oyer bis aoga
and horses. And the fact is, that a mind stupified and annualized by
every bad influence from the hour of birth, spending the whole of every
week-day in unreflecting toil, cannot be done much with by a few hours
on Sunday. The teachers of Sunday-schools among the manufacturing
population of England, and among plantation-hands in our country,
could perhaps testify to the same result, there and here. Yet some
striking exceptions there are among; us, from the fact that the negro
is naturally more impressible to religious sentiment than the white."
" Well." said Miss Ophelia. " how came you to give up your plantation
life ?"
" Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred saw plainly that
1 was no planter, lie thought it absurd, after he had reformed, and
altered, and improved everywhere, to suit my notions, that I still
remained unsatisfied. The fact was, it was, after all, the thing that I
hated—the using these men and women, the perpetuation of all this
ignorance, brutality, and vice—just to make money for me!
" Besides, 1 was always interfering in the details. Being myself one
of the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too much fellow-feeling for the
lazy; and when poor, shiftless dogs put stones at the bottom of their
cotton-baskets to make them weigh heavier, or filled their sacks with
dirt, with cotton at the top, it teemed so exactly like what I should do if I
were they, I couldn't and wouldn't have them flogged for it. Well, of
course, there was an end of plantation discipline; and Alf and I came to
about the same point that 1 and my respected father did, years before.
So he toJ.d me that I was a womanish sentimentalist, and would never do
for business life; and advised me to take the bank-stock and the New
Orleans family mansion, and go to writing poetry, and let him manage
the plantation. So we parted, and I came here."
"But why didn't you free your slaves?"
" Well, I wasn't up to that. To hold them as tools for money-making,
I could not; have them to help spend money, you know, didn't look
quite so ugly to me. Some of them were old house-servants, to whom I
was much attached; and the younger ones were children to the old. All
were well satisfied to be as they were." lie paused, and walked reflectively
up and down the room.
" There was," said St. Clare, " a time in my life when I had plans and
hopes of doing something in this world, more than to float and drift. I
had vague, indistinct yearnings to be a sort of emancipator—to free my
native land from this spot and stain. All young men have had such
fever-fits, I suppose, some time—but then—"
"Why didn't you ?" said Miss Ophelia; "you ought not to put your
hand to the plough, and look back."
, "Oh, well, things didn't go with mo as I expected, and I got the
despair of living that Solomon did. I suppose it was a necessary incident
to wisdom in us both ; but, somehow or other, instead of being'aotor and
regenerator in society, I became a piece of drift-wood, and have been
Routing and eddying abosjt over snjqo, Alfred scold?, rse every timo
Ltl?B AAIOKG THE LOWLY. 157
fofefet, and he has the better of me, I grant; for he really does something,
ilis life is a logical result of his opinions, and mine is a contemptible
non sequitwr.
"My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way of spending
your probation ?" R
" Satisfied! Was I not just telling you I despised it ? Eut, then, to
come back to this point—we were on this liberation business. I don't
think my feelings about slavery are peculiar. I find many men who, in
their hearts, think of it just as I do. The land groans under it; and, bad
as it is for the slave, it is worse, if anything, for the master. It takes no
spectacles to see that a great class of vicious, improvident, degraded
people, among us, are an evil to us as well as to themselves. The capi¬
talist and aristocrat of England cannot feel that as we do, because they
do not mingle with the class they degrade as we do. They are in our
houses; they are the associates of our children, and they form their minds
faster than we can ; for they are a race that children always will cling to
and assimilate with. If Eva, now, was not more angel than ordinary,
she would be ruined. We might as well allow the small-pox to run
among them, and think our children would not take it, as to let them
be unmstructed and vicious, and think our children will not be affected
by that. Yet our laws positively and utterly forbid any efficient general
educational system, and "they do it wisely, too; for just begin and
thoroughly educate one generation, and the whole thing would be blown
6kv high. If we did not give them liberty, they would take it."
And what do you think will be the end of this ?" said Miss
Ophelia.
"I don't know. One thing is certain—that there is a mustering
among the masses, the world over; and there is a dies ira; coming on,
sooner or later. The same thing is working in Europe, in England, and
in this country. My mother used to tell me of a millennium that was
coming, when Christ should reign, and all men should be free and happy.
And she taught me, when I was a boy, to pray,' Thy kingdom come.'
Sometimes I think all this sighing, and groaning, and stirring among
the dry bones foretells what she used to tell me was coming. But who
may abide the day of His appearing ?"
"Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the kingdom,"
said Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting, and looking anxiously at
her cousin.
" Thank you for your good opinion ; but it's up and down with me —
up to heaven's gate in theory, down in earth's dust in practice. Bub
there's the tea-bell—do let's go—and don't say, now, I haven't had one
downright serious talk for once in my life."
At table, Marie alluded to the incident of Prue. "I suppose you'll
think, cousin," she said, "thatwe are all barbarians."
" I think that's a barbarous thing," said Miss Ophelia, " but I don't
think you are all barbarians."
"Well, now," said Marie, " I know it's impossible to get along with
some of these creatures. They are so bad they ought not to live. I don't
feel a particle of sympathy for such cases. If they'd only behave them¬
selves, it would not happen."
"But, mamma," said Eva, "the poor creature was unhappy; that s
what made her drink."
" Oh, fiddlestick ! as if that were any excuse! I'm unhappy, very
often. I presume," she said pensively, " that I've bad greater trials than
ever she had. It's just because they are so bad. There's some of them
that you oannot break in by any kind of severity. I remember father had
188 tJHCLE TOJi'a CABIN, 6&
a man that was so lazy he would run away just to get rid
and lie round in the .swamps, stealing and doing all sorts 01 uorria
things. That man was caught and whipped, time and ^ain, ana n
never did him any good; and the last time he crawled on, thou^n
couldn't but just go, and died in the swamp. There was no sort ol
reason for it, for father's hands were always treated kindly.
"I broke a fellow in once," said St. Clare, "that all the overseers ana
masters had tried their hands on in vain."
"You!" said Marie; "well, I'd be glad to know when you ever did
anything of the sort." . , , ...
" Well, he was a powerful, gigantic fellow—a native-born African;
and he appeared to have the rude instinct of freedom in him to an un¬
common degree. He was a regular African lion. They called him
Scipio. Nobody could do anything with him; and he was sold round
from overseer to overseer, till at last Alfred bought him, because he
thought he could manage him. "Well, one day he knocked down the
overseer, and was fairly off into the swamps. I was on a visit to Alf's
plantation, for it was after we had dissolved partnership. Alfred was
greatly exasperated, but I told him that it was his own fault, and laid
him any wager that I could break the man; and filially it was agreed
that, if I caught him, I should have him to experiment on. So they mus¬
tered out a party of some six or seven, with guns and dogs, for the hunt.
People, you know, can get up just as much enthusiasm in hunting a
man as a deer, if it is only customary; in fact, I got a little excited my¬
self, though I had only put in as a sort of mediator, in case he was
caught..
" Well, the dogs bayed and howled, and we rode and scampered, and
finally we started him. lie ran and bounded like a buck? and kept us
well in the rear for some time; but at last he got caught m an impene¬
trable thicket of cane; then he turned to bay, and I tell you he fought
the dogs right gallantly. He dashed them to right and left, and actually
killed three of them with only his naked lists, when a shot from a gun
brought him down, and he fell, wounded and bleeding, almost at my
feet. The poor fellow looked up at me with manhood and despair both
in his eyes. I kept back the dogs and the party, as they came pressing
up, and claimed him as my prisoner. It was all I could do to keep them
from shooting him, in the flush of success; but I persisted in my bar¬
gain, and Alfred sold him to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in one
fortnight I had him tamed down as submissive and tractable as heart
could desire."
" What in the world did you do to him ?" said Marie.
"Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my own room,
had a good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, and tended him my*
self, until he got fairly on his feet again. ■ And in process of time I had
free papers made out for him, and told him he might go where he
liked."
" And did he go ?" said Miss Ophelia.
"No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and absolutely refused
to leave me. I never nad a braver, better fellow—trusty and true as
steel. He embraced Christianity afterwards, and became as gentle as a
child. He used to overseer my place on the lake, and did it capitally,
too. I lost him the first cholera season. In fact, he laid down his life
for me. Tor I was sick, almost to death; and when, through the panic,
everybody else fled, Scipio worked for me like a giant, and actually
brought me back into life again. But, poor fellow! he was taken, right
after, and there was no saving him. I usver felt anybody's lose more.*'
fcLF-E AMONG TKB LOWLY. 159
®va had corue gradually nearer and nearer to her father, as he told
the story—her small lips apart, her eyes wide and earnest with absorb-
.ng interest.
As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst
nto tears, and sobbed convulsively.
" Eva, dear child ! what is the matter ?" said St. Clare, as the child's
small frame trembled and shook with the violence of lier feelings. " This
jhild," he added, "ought not to hear any of this kind of thing—she's
aervous."
"No, papa, I'm not nervous," said Eva, controlling herself suddenly
with a strength of resolution singular in such a child. "I'm not ner¬
vous, but these things sink into my heart."
" What do you mean, Eva
" I can't tell you, papa. I think a great many thoughts. Perhaps
some day I shall tell you."
" Weli, think away, dear—only don't cry and worry your papa," said
St. Clare. "Look here—see what a beautiful peach I have got for
you!"
Eva took it, and smiled, though there was still a nervous twitching
about the corners of her mouth.
" Come, look at the gold-fish," said St. Clare, taking her hand and
stepping on to the verandah. A few moments, and merry laughs were
heard through the silken curtains, as Eva and St. Clare were pelting
each other with roses, and chasing each other among the alleys of the
court.
There is danger that our humble friend Tom be neglected amid the
adventures of the higher born; but if our readers will accompany us up
to a little loft over the stable, they may, perhaps, learn a little of his
affairs. It was a decent room, containing a bed, a chair, and a small,
rough stand, where lay Tom's Bible and hymn-book: and where he sits,
at present, with his slate before him, intent on something that seems to
cost him a great deal of a,nxious thought.
The fact was, that Tom's home-yearnings had become so strong, that
he had begged a sheet of writing-paper of Eva: and, mustering up all
his small stock of literary attainment acquired by Mas'r George's in¬
structions, he conceived the bold idea of writing a letter; and he was
busy now, on his slate, getting out his first draft. Tom was in a good
deal of trouble, for the forms of some of the letters he had forgotten
entirely, and of what he did remember he did not know exactly which
to use. And while he was working, and breathing very hard in his ear¬
nestness, Eva alighted, like a bird, on the round of his chair behind him,
and peeped over his shoulder.
" O Uncle Tom ! what funny things you are making there!"
1 " I'm trying to write to my poor old woman, Miss Eva, and my little
J chil'en," said Tom, drawing the back of his hand over his eyes; " but,
somehow, I'm feard I shan't make it out."
" I wish I could help you, Tom! I've learnt to write some. Last year
oould make all the letters, but I'm afraid I've forgotten."
So Eva put her little golden head close to his, and the two com¬
menced a grave and anxious discussion, each one equally earnest, and
about equally ignorant; and, with a deal of consulting and advising over
every word, the composition began, as they both felt very sanguine, to
look auite like writing. ,
« yeSj Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful," said Eva, gazing
l&b *;i;clE Ton's CAEiif, ofit
delighted on it. "How pleased your wife '11 be, and the poo? littiS
children! Oh, it's a shame you ever had to go away from them . i mean
to ask papa to let you go back, some time."
" Missis said that she would send down money for me, as soon as they
could got it together," said Tom. "I'm 'spectm' she will. loung
Mas'r George, he said he'd come for me; and he gave me this yer
Aollar as a sign and Tom drew from under his clothes the precious
dollar.
" Oh, he'll certainly come, then !" said Eva. I m so glad.
"And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let 'em know whar T
was, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off, 'cause she felt so drefful,
poor soul!"
" I say, Tom !" said St. Clare's voice, coming in at the door at this
moment.
Tom and Eva both started.
"What's here ?" said St. Clare, coming up and looking at the slate.
"Oh, it's Tom's letter. I'm helvjing himto write it," said Eva;
" isn't it nice ?"
" I wouldn't discourage either of you," said St. Clare, "but I rather
think, Tom, you'd better get me to write your letter for you. I'll do it,
when I come home from my ride."
" It's very important he should write," said Eva, " because his mistress
is going to send down money to redeem him, you, know, papa; he told
me they told him so."
St. Clare thought in his heart that this was probably only one of
those things which good-natured owners say to their servants to alleviate
their horror of being sold, without any intention of fulfilling the expec¬
tation thus excited. But he did not make any audible comment upon it
—only ordered Tom to get the horses out for a ride.
Tom's letter was written in due form for him that evening, and safely
lodged in the post-oflice.
Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labours in the housekeeping line.
It was universally agreed among all the household, from Dinah down to
the youngest urchin, that Miss Ophelia was decidedly " curis "—a term
by which a southern servant implies that his or her betters don't exactly
suit them.
The higher circle in the family—to wit, Adolph, Jane, and Rosa-
agreed that she was no lady; ladies never kept working about as shp
did; that she had no air at all; and they were surprised that shi
should be any relation of the St. Clares. Even Marie declared that it
was absolutely fatiguing to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And,
in fact, Miss Ophelia's industry was so incessant as to lay some foun¬
dation for the complaint. She sewed and stitched away, from daylight
to dark, with the energy of one who is pressed on by some immediate
urgency, and then, when the light faded, and the work was folded away,
with one turn out came the ever-ready knitting-work, and thare she
was again, going on as briskly as ever. It really was a labour to
her.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY.
CHAPTER XX.
TOPSY.
One morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some of her domestic
cares. St. Clare's voice was heard calling her at the foot of the stairs.
" Come down here, cousin; I've something to show you."
" What is it ?" said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with her sewing in
her hand.
" I've made a purchase for your department—see here," said St. Clare;
find, with the word, he pulled along a little negro girl, about eight or
nine years of age.
She was one of the blackest of her race; and her round, shining eyes,
glittering as glass beads, moved with quick and restless glances over
everything in the room. Her mouth, half open with astonishment at the
wonders of the new masVs parlour, displayed a white and brilliant set
of teeth. Her woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails, which stuck
out in every direction. The expression of the face was an odd mixture
of shrewdness and cunning, over which was oddly drawn, like a kind of
veil, an expression of the most doleful gravity and solemnity. She was
dressed in a single filthy, ragged garment, made of bagging; and stood
with her hands demurely folded before her. Altogether, there was
something odd and goblin-like about her appearance — something, as
Miss Ophelia afterwards said, " so heathenish," as to inspire that good
ladv with utter dismay; and turning to St. Clare, she said—
Augustine, what in the world have you brought that thing here
for ?"
" For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way she should go.
I thought she was rather a funny specimen in the Jim Crow line. Here,
Topsy," he added, giving a whistle, as a man would to call the attention
of a dog, " give us a song, now, and show us some of your dancing."
The black, glassy eyes glittered with a kind of wicked drollery, and
the thing struck up, in a clear shrill voice, an odd negro melody, to
which she kept time with her hands and feet, spinning round, clapping
her hands, knocking lier knees together, in a wild, fantastic sort of time,
and producing in her throat all those odd guttural sounds which
distinguish the native music of her race ; and finally, turning a summer¬
set or two, and giving a prolonged closing note, as odd and unearthly
as that of a steam-whistle, she came suddenly down on the carpet, and
stood with her hands folded, and a most sanctimonious expression of
meekness and solemnity over her face, only broken by the cunning
glances which she shot askance from the corners of her eyes.
Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with amazement.
St. Clare, like a mischievous fellow as he was, appeared to enjoy her
astonishment; and, addressing the child again, said—
" Topsy, this is your new mistress. I'm going to give you up to her;
see, now, that you behave yourself." _ .
Yes, mas'r," said Topsy, with a sanctimonious gravity, her wicked
syes twinkling as she spoke, ., „
« You're going to be good, Topsy, you understand, said St. Clare.
tr»2 uwcus toii'a cabin, oh
•' Oli, yes, mas'r," said Topsy, with another twinkle, her hands still
devoutly folded. , . „ „„ n
"Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for ? said Mifs Ophelia
" Your house is so full of these little plagues, now, tnat a body can t set
their foot down without treading on 'em. I get up m the morning, and
find one asleep behind the door, and see one black head poking out irom
under the table, one lying on the door-mat; and they are mopping, and
mowing, and grinning between all the railings, and tumbling over the
kitchen floor! What on earth did you want to bring this one for ? _
"For you to educate—did'nt I tell you ? You're always preaching
about educating. I thought I would make you a present of a fresh-
caught specimen, and let you try your hand on her, and bring her up in
the way she should go."
" I don't want he?, I am sure; I have more to do with 'cm now than
I want to."
" That's you Christians, all over ! You'll get up a society, and get
some poor missionary to spend all his days among just such heathen.
But let me see one of you that would take one into your house with you,
and take the labour of their conversion on yourselves. No ; when it
comes to that, they are dirty and disagreeable, and it's too much care,
and so on."
" Augustine, you know I did'nt think of it in that light," said Miss
Ophelia, evidently softening. " Well, it might be a real missionary
work," said she, looking rather more favourably on the child.
St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia's conscientious¬
ness was ever on the alert. " But," she added, " I really didn't see the
need of buying this one—there are enough now, in your house, to take
all my time and skill."
"Well, then, cousin," said St. Clare, drawing her aside, "I ought to
beg your pardon for my good-for-nothingspeeches. You are so good,
after all, that's there's no sense in them. Why, the fact is, this concern
belonged to a couple of drunken creatures that kept a low restaurant
that I have to pass by every day, and I was tired of hearing her scream¬
ing, and them beating and swearing at her. She looked bright and
funny, too, as if something might be made of her; so I bought her, and
I'll give her to you. Try, now, and give her a good orthodox New
England bringing up, and see what it '11 make of her. You know I
haven't any gift that way, but I'd like you to try."
" Well, I'll do what I can," said Miss Ophelia; and she approached
her new subject very much as a person might be supposed to approach
a black spider, supposing him to have benevolent designs toward it.
" She's dreadfully dirty, and half naked," she said.
"Well, take her down stairs, and make some of them clean and
clothe her up."
Miss Ophelia carried her to the kitchen regions.
"Don't see what Mas'r St. Clare wants of 'nottier nigger!" said
Dinah, surveying the new arrival with no friendly air. ." Won't have
her round under my feet, J know!"
"Pah!" said Eosa ana Jane, with supreme disgust; "let her keep
out of our way! WTiat in the world mas'r wanted another of these
low niggers for, I can't see I"
"You go long! No more nigger dan you be, Miss Eosa," said
Dinah, who felt this last remark a reflection on herself. " You seem to
tink yourself white folks. You an't nerry one, black nor white. I'd like
to be ono or turrer."
Miss Ophelia saw that there was nobody in the camp that would
1.1EB AMONG THE LOWLT. 163
undertake to oversee the cleansing and dressing of tlie new arrival; end
so she was forced to do it herself, with some very ungracious and
reluctant assistance from Jane.
It is not for ears polite to hear the particulars of the first toilet of
a neglected, abused child. In fact, in this world, multitudes must live
and die in a state that it would be too great a shock to the nerves of
their fellow-mortals even to hear described. Miss Ophelia had a good,
gtrong, practical deal of resolution; and she went through all the dis¬
gusting details with heroic thoroughness, though it must be confessed,
with no very gracious air—for endurance was the utmost to which her
principles could bring her. When she saw on the back and shoulders
of the child, great welts and calloused spots, ineffaceable marks of th3
system under which she had grown up thus far, her heart became pitiful
within her.
"See there!" said Jane, pointing to the marks, "don't that show
I she's a limb? We'll have fine works with her, I reckon. I hate these
nigger young uns! so disgusting! I wonder that mas'r would buy her !"
The "young un" alluded to heard all these comments with the sub¬
dued and doleful air which seemed habitual to her, only scanning, with
a, keen and furtive glance of her flickering eyes, the ornaments which
Jane wore in her ears. When arrayed at last in a suit of decent and
whole clothing, her hair cropped short to her head, Miss Ophelia, with
some satisfaction, said she looked more Christian-like than she did, and
in her own mind began to mature some plans for her instruction.
Sitting down before her, she began to question her.
" How old are you, Topsy ?"
" Dun no, missis, said the image, with a grin that showed all her
teeth.
" Don't know how old you are ? Didn't anybody ever tell you ?
Who was your mother ?"
" Never had none!" said the child, with another grin.
"Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where were you
born ?"
" Never was born!" persisted Topsy, with another grin, that looked
so goblin4ike, that, if Miss Ophelia had been at all nervous, she might
have fancied that she had got hold of some sooty gnome from the land
of diablerie ; but Miss Ophelia was not nervous, but plain and business¬
like, and she said, with some sternness—
" You mustn't answer me in that way, child; I'm not playing with
you. Tell me where you were born, and who your father and mother
were."
" Never was born," reiterated the creature, more emphatically,1
"never had no father nor mother, nor nothin'. I was raised by a
speculator, with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used to takecar on us."
The child was evidently sincere; and Jane, breaking into a short
laugh, said—
" Laws, missis, there's heaps of 'em. Speculators buys 'em up chea?,
when they's little, and gets'em raised for market." _
" How long have you lived with your master and mistress?
" Dun no, missis."
" Is it a year, or more, or less ? "
"Dun no, missis." „ ,, , ,, ,, ,
" Laws, missis, those low negroes—they cant tell; they dont know
anything about time," said Jane: " they don t know what a year is. they
don't know their own ages." owem p "
" Have you ever heard anything about God, lopay r
M 2
164 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, Oft
The child looked bewildered, but grinned, as usual.
" Do you know who made you ? "
"Nobody, as I knows on," said the child, with a short laugh. .
The idea appeared to amuse her considerably; for her eyes twinkled,
id she added—
" I spect I grow'd. Don't think nobody never made me.
" Do you know how to sew ? " said Miss Ophelia, who thought she
would turn her inquiries to something more tangible.
"No, missis."
" What can you do ? — what ^ did you do for your master and
mistress ? "
"Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and wait on folks."
" Were they good to you ? "
" Spect they was," said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia cunningly.
Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy. St. Clare was
leaning over the back of her chair.
" You find virgin soil there, cousin; put in your own ideas—you won't
find many to pull up."
Miss Ophelia's ideas of education, like all her other idea9, were very
set and definite, and of the kind that prevailed in New England a
century ago, and which are still preserved in some very retired and
unsophisticated parts, where there are no railroads. As nearly as could
be expressed, they could be comprised in very few words: to teach them
to mind when they were spoken to; to teach them the catechism,
sewing, and reading; and to whip them if they told lies. And though,
of course, in the flood of light that is now poured on education, these
are left far away in the rear, yet it is an undisputed fact that our
grandmothers raised some tolerably fair men and women under this
regime, as many of us can remember and testify. At all events.
Miss Ophelia knew of nothing else to do, and therefore applied her mind
to her heathen with the best diligence she could command.
The child was announced and considered in the family as Miss
Ophelia's girl; and, as she was looked upon with no gracious eye in the
kitchen, Miss Ophelia resolved to confine her sphere of operation and
instruction chiefly to her own chamber. With a self-sacrifice which some
of .our readers will appreciate, she resolved, instead of comfortably makng
her own bed, sweeping and dusting her own chamber—which she had
hitherto done, in utter scorn of all offers of help from the chambermaid
of the establishment—to condemn herself to the martyrdom of instructing
Topsy to perform these operations. Ah, woe the day ! Did any of our
readers e?ftr do the same, they will appreciate the amount of her self-
sacrifice.
Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her chamber, the
first morning, and solemnly commencing a course of instruction in the
art and mystery of bed-making.
Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all the little braided tails
wherein her heart had delighted, arrayed in a clean gown, with well-
starched apron, standing reverently before Miss Ophelia, with an
expression of solemnity well befitting a funeral.
Now, Topsy, I'm going to show you just how my bed is to be made.
I am very particular about my bed. You must learn exactly how to
do it."
" Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face of woeful
earnestness.
"Now, Topsy, look here: this is the hem of the sheet—this is the
right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong: will you remember ? "
LIFB AMONG THE tOWIX Ifift
" Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with another sigh.
"Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over the holster—so—
and tuck it clear down under the mattress nice and smooth—so: do
you see ? "
"Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, with profound attention.
" But the upper sheet," said Miss Ophelia, "must be brought down in
^his way, and tucked under firm and smooth at the foot—so—the narrow
ttern at the foot."
"Fes, ma'am," said Topsy, as before; but we will add, what Miss
Ophelia did not see, that, during the time when the good lady's back
was turned, in the zeal of her manipulations, the young disciple had
contrived tx> snatch a pair of gloves and a ribbon, which she had adroitly
slipped into her sleeves, and stood with her hands dutifully folded, as
be l ore.
" Now, Topsy, let's see you do this," said Miss Ophelia, pulling off the
clothes, and seating herself.
Topsy, with great gravity and' adroitness, went through the exercise
completely to Miss Ophelia's satisfaction; smoothing the sheets, patting
out every wrinkle, and exhibiting, through the whole process, a gravity
and seriousness with which her instructress was greatly edified. By an
unlucky slip, however, a fluttering fragment of the ribbon hung out of
one of her sleeves, just as she was finishing, and caught Miss Ophelia's
attention. Instantly she pounced upon it. "What's this? You
naughty, wicked child—you've been stealing this!"
The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy's own sleeve, yet was she not in
the least disconcerted; she only looked at it with an air of the most
surprised and unconscious innocence.
" Laws! why, that ar's Miss Feely's ribbon, an't it ? How could it a
got in my sleeve P "
" Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie—you stole that
ribbon!"
"Missis, I declar fort, I didn't; never seed it till dis yer blessed
minnit."
" Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, "don't you know it's wicked to tell lies?"
" I never tells no lies, Miss Feely," said Topsy, with virtuous gravity ;
" it's jist the truth I've been a telling now, and an't nothin' else."
" Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so."
" Law, missis, if you's to whip all day, couldn't say no other way,"
said Topsy, beginning to blubber. " I never seed dat ar, it must a got
caught in my sleeve. Miss Eeely must have left it on the bed, and it
got caught in the clothes, and so got in my sleeve."
Miss Ojihelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that she caught
the child and shook her.
" Don't you tell me that again."
The shake brought the gloves on to the floor, from the other sleeve.
" There, you!" said Miss Ophelia, "will you tell me now you didn't
steal the ribbon P"
Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted m denying the
" Now, Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, " if you'll confess all about it, I
won't whip you this time." Thus adjured, Topsy confessed to the ribbon
and gloves, with woeful protestations of penitence.
" Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other tilings since
you liave'been in the house, for I let you run about all day yesterday.
Now, tell me if you took anything, and I shan't whip you."
w laws. missis} J took Miss Java's red thing she wars on her neck.
166 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
"You did, you naughty child! "Well, what else f
" I took Eosa's yer-rings—them red ones." w
" Go bring them to me this minute, both of em.
" Laws, missis, I can't—they's burnt up !" .
" Burnt up ?—what a story! Go get 'em, or 111 whip you.
Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, declared tnat
she could not. " They's burnt up—they was."
" What did you burn 'em up for ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" Cause I's wicked—I is. I's mighty wicked, any now. I can t
help it."
Just at this moment Eva came innocently into the room, with the
identical coral necklace on her neck.
" Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" Get it ? Why, I've had it on all day," said Eva.
" Did you have it on yesterday ?"
"Yes; and what is funny, Aunty, I had it on all night. I forgot to
take it off when I went to bed."
Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered; the more so as Eosa at
that instant came into the room, with a basket of newly-ironed linen
poised on her head, and the coral ear-drops shaking in her ears.
" I'm sure I can't tell anything what to do with such a child ! " she
said, in despair. " What in th® world did you tell me you took those
things for, To]3sy?"
" Why, missis said I must 'fess; and I couldn't think of nothin' elss
to 'fess," said Topsy, rubbing her eyes.
" But, of course, I didn't want you to confess things you didn't do,"
said Miss Ophelia; " that's telling a lie, just as much as the other."
" Laws, now, is it ?" said Topsy, with an air of innocent wonder.
" La, there an't any such thing as truth in that limb," said Eosa, look¬
ing indignantly at Topsy. " If I was Mas'r St. Clare, I'd whip her till
the blood run, I would f I'd let her catch it!"
" No, no, Eosa," said Eva, with an air of command, which the child
could assume at times; " you musn't talk so, Eosa. I can't bear to
hear it."
" La, sakes! Miss Eva, you's so good, you don't know nothing
how to get along with niggers. There's no way but cut 'em well up, I
tell ye."
" Eosa," said Eva, " hush! Don't you say another word of that
sort." And the eye of the child flashed, and her cheek deepened in
colour,
Eosa was cowed in a moment.
" Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, that's plain. She can
speak for all the world just like her papa," she said, as she passed out
of the room.
Eva stood looking at Topsy.
There stood the two children, representatives of the two extremes of
society. _ The fair, high-bred child, with her golden head, her deep eyes,
her spiritual, noble brow, and prince-lilce movements; and her black,
keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute neighbour. They stood the represen¬
tatives of their races. The Saxon, born of a^es of cultivation, com¬
mand, education, physical and moral eminence ; the Afrio, born of ages
of oppression, submission, ignorance, toil, and vice!
Something, perhaps, of such thoughts struggled through Eva's
mind. But a child's thoughts are rather dim, undefined instincts; and
in Eva's noble nature many such were yearning and working, for which
she had no power of utterance. When Miss Ophelia oypatiated oa
IiTFB AMONG- T2E LOWLY. igj,
Tops^s naughty, wicked conduct, the child looked perplexed rind sor ¬
rowful, but said, sweetly—
" Poor Topsy. why need you steal ? You're going to be taken good
care of now. I m sure I'd rather give you anything of mine than have
you steal it."
It was the first word of kindness the child had ever heard in-her life;
and the sweet tone and manner struck strangely on the wild, rude heart,
and a sparkle of something like a tear shone in the keen, round, glitter¬
ing eye; but it was followed by a short laugh and habitual grin. No !
the ear that has never heard anything but abuse is strangely incredulous
of anything so heavenly as kindness; and Topsy only thought Eva's
speech something funny and inexplicable—she did not believe it.
But what was to be done with Topsy ? Miss Ophelia found the case
a puzzler ; her rules for bringing up didn't seem to apply. She thought
she would take time to think of it; and, by the way of gaining time, and
in hopes of some indefinite moral virtues supposed to be inherent in
dark closets, Hiss Ophelia shut Topsy up in one till she had arranged
her ideas further on the subject.
" I don't see," said Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, " how I'm going to
manage that child, without whipping her."
" Well, whip her, then, to your heart's content; I'll give you full
power to do what you like."
" Children always have to be whipped," said Miss Ophelia; " I neve,
heard of bringing them up without."
" Oh, well, certainly," said St. Clare; " do as you think best. Only
I'll make one suggestion: I've seen this child whipped with a poker,
knocked down with the shovel or tongs, whichever came handiest;
and, seeing that she is used to that style of operation, I think your
whippings will have to be pretty energetic to make much impression."
" What is to be done with her, then ? " said Ophelia.
" You have started a serious question," said St. Clare; "I wish you'd
answer it. What is to be done with a human being that can be governed
only by the lash—that fails—it's a very common state of things down
here."
" I'm sure I don't know; I never saw such a child as this."
" Such children are very common among us; and such men and
women, too. How are they to be governed ? " said St. Clare.
" I'm sure it's more than I can say," said Miss Ophelia.
" Or I either," said St. Clare. " The horrid cruelties and outrages
that once and a while find their way into the papers—such cases as
Prue's, for example—what do they come from ? In many cases, it is a
gradual hardening process on both sides—the owner growing more and
more cruel, as the servant more and more callous. Whipping and abuse
are like laudanum; you have to double the dose as the sensibilities
decline. I saw this very early when I became an owner; and I resolved,
never to begin, because I did not know when I should stop; and I re¬
solved, at least, to protect my own moral nature. The consequence is,
that my servants act like spoiled children; but I think that better than
for us both to be brutalized together. You have talked a great deal
about our responsibilities in educating, cousin. I really wanted you to
try with one child, who is a specimen of thousands among us."
" It is your system makes such children," said Miss Ophelia.
" I know it; but they are made—they exist—and what is to be done
with them ?" ,, . ., .,
" Well, I can't say I thank you for the experiment. But then, as it
appears to be a duty, I shall persevere and try, and do the best. I can,
!'38 UNCLE TOM'S CAWS, OS
said Miss Ophelia; and Miss Ophelia, after this, did labour, with a com¬
mendable degree of zeal and energy, on her new subject. She instituted
iv "'"Jar hours and employments for her, and undertook to teach her to
reau to sew. , , ,,
In tiuj former art the child was quick enough. She learned her letters
as if by magic, and was very soon able to read plain reading; but the
sewing was a more difficult matter. The creature was as lithe as a cat,
and as active as a monkey, and the confinement of sewing was her abo¬
mination; so she broke her needles, threw them slily out of windows,
or down in chinks of the walls; she tangled, broke, or dirtied her thread,
or, with a sly movement, would throw a spool away altogether. Her
motions were almost as c[uick as those of a practised conjurer, and her
command of her face quite as great; and though Miss Ophelia cou!d not
help feeling that so many accidents could not possibly happen in succes¬
sion, yet she could not without a watchfulness which would leave her
110 time for anything else, detect her.
Topsy was soon a notea character in the establishment. Her talent
for every species of drollery, grimace, and mimicry—for dancing, tum¬
bling, climbing, singing, whistling, imitating eve/y sound that hit her
fancy—seemed inexhaustible. In her play-hours she invariably had
every child in the establishment at her heels, open-mouthed with ad¬
miration and wonder,—not excepting Miss Eva, who appeared to be
fascinated by her wild diablerie, as a dove is sometimes charmed by a
glittering serpent. Miss Ophelia was uneasy that Eva should fancy
Topsy's society so much, and implored St. Clare to forbid it.
Poh! let the child alone," said St. Clare; " Topsy will do her good."
" But so depraved a child—are you not afraid she will teach her some
mischief ? "
" She can't teach her mischief; she might teach it to some children,
but evil rolls off Eva's mind like dew off a cabbage-leaf—not a drop
sinks in."
" Don't be too sure," said Miss Ophelia. " I know I'd never let a
child of mine play with Topsy."
" "Well, your children needn't," said St. Clare, "but mine may; if Eva
could have been spoiled, it would have been done years ago."
Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the upper servants :
they soon found reason to alter their opinion. It was very soon disco¬
vered that whoever cast an indignity on Topsy was sure to meet with
some inconvenient accident shortly after—either a pair of ear-rings or
some cherished trinket would be missing, or an article of dress would be
■suddenly found utterly ruined, or the person would stumble accidentally
into a pail of hot water, or a libation of dirty slop would unaccountably
deluge them from above when in full gala dress; and on all these occa¬
sions, when infestigation was made, there was nobody found to stand
sponsor for the indignity. Topsy was cited, and had up before all the
domestio judicatories, time and again; but always sustained her exami¬
nations with most edifying innocence and gravity of appearance. No¬
body in the world ever doubted who did the things; but not a scrap
of direct evidence could be found to establish the suppositions, ana
Miss Ophelia was too just to feel at liberty to proceed to any lengths
without it.
The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, as further to
shelter the aggressor. Thus, the times for revenge on Eosa and Jane,
the two chambermaids, were always chosen in those seasons when (as not
unfrequently happened) they were in disgrace with their mistress, when
anv complaint from them would of course meet with no sympathy. Io
LIFE AMONG THE IOWLY. 169
short, Topsy soon made the household understand the propriety of letting
her alone; and she was let alone accordingly.
Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual operations, learning
everything that was taught her with surprising quickness. With a few
lessons she had learned the proprieties of Miss Ophelia's chamber in a
way with which even that particular lady could find no fault. Mortal
hands could not lay spread smoother, adjust pillows more accurately,
sweep, and dust, and arrange more perfectly than Topsy, when she chose
—but she didn't very often choose. If Miss Ophelia, after three or four
days of careful and patient supervision, was so sanguine as to suppose
that Topsy had at last fallen into her way, could do without overlooking,
and so go off and busy herself about something else, Topsy would hold
a perfect carnival of confusion for some one or two hours. Instead of
making the bed, she would amuse herself with pulling off the pillow¬
cases, butting her woolly head among the pillows, till it would"some¬
times be grotesquely ornamented with feathers sticking out in various
directions ; she would climb the posts, and hang head downward from
the tops; flourish the sheets and spreads all over the apartment; dress
the bolster up in Miss Ophelia's night-clothes, and enact various scenic
Eerformances with that—singing and whistling, and making grimaces at
erself in the looking-glass; in short, as Miss Ophelia phrased it,
" raising Cain " generally.
On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her very best scarlet
India Canton crape shawl wound round her head for a turban, going
on with her rehearsals before the glass in great style—Miss Ophelia
having with carelessness most unheard of in her, left the key for once
in her drawer.
" Topsy!" she would say, when at the end of all patience, " what
does make you act so ? "
" Dun no, missis—I spects cause I's so wicked!"
" I don't know anything what I shall do with you, Topsy."
" Law, missis, you must whip me; my old missis allers whipped me.
I an't used to workin' unless I gets whipped."
" "Why, Topsy, I don't want to whip you. Tou can do well, if you've
a mind to ; what is the reason you won't ? "
" Laws, missis, I's used to whippin'; I spects it's good for me."
Miss Ophelia tried the recipe, and Topsy invariably made a terrible
commotion, screaming, groaning, and imploring; though half an hour
afterwards, when roosted on some projection of the balcony, and sur¬
rounded by a flock of "young uns, she would express the utmost con¬
tempt of the whole affair.
" Law, Miss Feely whip ! — wouldn't kill a skeeter, her whippins.
Oughter see how old mas'r made the flesh fly; old mas'r know'd how!"
Topsy always made great capital of her own sins and enormities, evi¬
dently considering them as something peculiarly distinguishing.
" Law, you niggers," she would say tofsome of her auditors, " does
you know you's all sinners ? Well, you is, everybody is. _ AVhite_ folks
is sinners, too—Miss JFeely says so; but I spects niggers is the biggest
ones; but lor ! ye an't any on ye up to me. I's so awful wicked there
can't nobody do nothin' with me. I used to keep old missis a swearin'
at me half de time. I spects I's the wickedest crittur in the world;"
and Topsy would cut a summerset, and come up brisk and shining on
to a higher perch, and evidently plume herself on the distinction.
Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sundays, teaching
Topsy the catechism. Topsy had an uncommon verbal memory, ana
committed with a fluepcy that greatly encouraged her instructress.
179 tTISTLE TOM®0 CABIN, OB
" What good do you expect it is going to do her ? " said St. Clare.
" Why, it always has done children good. It's what children always
have to learn, you know," said Miss Ophelia.
" Understand it or not ?" said St. Clare. _ , ; m j _
" Oh, children never understand it at the time; but after they are
grown up it '11 come to them." „
" Mine hasn't come to me yet," said St. Clare, though 111 bear
testimony that you put it into me pretty thoroughly when I was a boy.
" Ah, you were always good at learning, Augustine. I used to have
great hopes of you," said Miss Ophelia.
" Well, haven't you now ? " said St. Clare.
" I wish you were as good as you were when you were a boy,
Augustine."
" So do I, that's a fact, cousin," said St. Clare. " Well, go ahead,
and catechise Topsy; maybe you'll make out something yet."
Topsy, who had stood like a black statue during this discussion,
with hands decently folded, now, at a signal from Miss Ophelia, went
on
" Our first parents, being left to the freedom of their own will, fell
from the state wherein they were created."
Tops/s eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly.
" What is it Topsy ? " said Miss Ophelia.
" Please, missis, was dat ar state Kintuck?"
" What state, Topsy?"
" Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear mas'r tell how we came
down from Kintuck."
St. Clare laughed.
" You'll have to give her a meaning, or she'll make one," said he.
" There seems to be a theory of emigration suggested there."
"Oh, Augustine, be still'," said Miss Ophelia; "how can I do any¬
thing if you'll be laughing ? "
" Well, I won't disturb the exercises again, on my honour;" and St.
Clare took his paper into the parlour, and sat down till Topsy had
finished her recitations. They were all very well, only that now and
then she would oddly transpose some important words, and persist in the
mistake, in spite of every effort to the contrary; and St. Clare, after all
his promises of goodness, took a wicked pleasure in these mistakes^
calling Topsy to him whenever he had a mind to amuse himself, ana
getting her to repeat the offending passages, in spite of Miss Ophelia's
remonstrances.
" How do you think I can do anything with the child, if you will
go on so, Augustine ? " she would say.
" Well, it is too bad, I won't again; but I do like to hear the droll
little image stumble over those big words J"
" But you confirm her in the wrong way."
" What's the odds P One word is as good as another to her."
" You wanted me to bring her up right; and you ought to remember
she is a reasonable creature, and be careful of your influence over her."
" Oh, dismal! so 1 ought: but, as Topsy herself says,' I's so wicked!'"
In very much this way Topsy s training proceeded, for a year or two
—Miss Ophelia worrying herself, from day to day, with her, as a kind
of chronic plague, to whose inflictions she became, in time, as accus¬
tomed as persons sometimes do to the neuralgia or sick headache.
St. Clare took the same kind of amusement in the child that a man
might in, the tricks of a parrot or a pointer. Topsy, whenever her sina
brought her into disgrace in other quarters, always took refuge behind
RIFE AMOK® THE LCWLT.
171
performers.
p..m i,; ' r—; —*ux ""ici, viuuiu inaxe peace lor tier,
t rom him she got many a stray picayune, which she laid out in nuts and
candies, and distributed, with careless generosity, to all the children in
the iamily; for Tppsy, to do her justice, was good-natured and liberal,
and only spiteful m self-defence. She is fairly introduced into our corps
de ballet, and will figure, from time to time, in her turn, with other
CHAPTER XXL
KENTUCK.
Otje readers may not be unwilling to glance back, for a brief interval,
at Uncle Tom's Cabin, on the Kentucky farm, and see what has been
transpiring among those whom he had left behind.
It was late in the summer afternoon, and the doors and windows of
the large parlour all stood open, to invite any stray breeze that might
feel in a good humour to enter. Mr. Shelby sat in a large hall, open¬
ing into the room, and running through the whole length of the house
to a balcony on either end. Leisurely tipped back in one chair, with
his heels in another, he was enjoying his after-dinner cigar. Mrs.
Shelby sat in the door, busy about some fine sewing; she seemed like
one who had something on her mind, which she was seeking an oppor¬
tunity to introduce.
"Do you know," she said, " that Chloe has had a letter from Tom ?"
" Ah ! has she ? Tom's got some friend there, it seems. How is the
old boy?"
" He has been bought by a very fine family, I should think," said Mrs.
Shelby, " is kindly treated, and has not much to do."
" Ah! well, I'm glad of it—very glad," said Mr. Shelby, heartily
" Tom, I suppose, will get reconciled to a southern residence—hardly
want to come up here again."
" On the contrary, he inquires very anxiously" said Mrs. Shelby,
" when the money for his redemption is to be raised"
" I'm sure J don't know," said Mr. Shelby. Once get business
running wrong, there does seem to be no e.nd to it. It's like jumping
from one bog to another, all through a swamp; borrow of one to pay
another, and then borrow of another to pay one—and these confounded
notes falling due before a man has time to smoke a cigar and turn
round—dunning letters and dunning messages—all scamper and hurry-
scurry."
" Tt does seem to me, my dear, that something might be done to
straighten matters. Suppose we sell off all the horses, and sell one of
your farms, and pay up square ?" L 1
" Oh, ridiculous, Emily ! You are the finest woman in Kentucky,
but still you haven't sense to know that you don't understand business;
and squaring my affairs, as Chloe
know anything about business, 11
And Mr. Shelby, not knowing '
172 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OS
raised his vooice; a mode of arguing very convenient and convincing,
when a gentleman is discussing matters of business with his wife.
Mrs. Shelby ceased talking, with something of a sigh. The fact was,
that though, as her husband had stated, she was a woman, she had a
clear, energetic, practical mind, and a force of character every way
superior to that of her husband; so that it would not have been so
very absurd a supposition to have allowed her capable of managing,
as Mr. Shelby supposed. Iter heart was set upon performing her pro¬
mise to Tom and Aunt Chloe, and she sighed as discouragements
thickened around her.
" Don't you think we might in some way contrive to raise that money ?
Toor Aunt Chloe ! her heart is so set on it!"
"I'm sorry if it is. I think I was premature in promising. I'm not
sure, now, but it's the best way to tell Chloe, and let her make up her
mind to it. Tom '11 have another wife in a year or two, and she had
better take up with somebody else."
" Mr. Shelby, I have taught my people that their marriages are £3
sacred as ours. I never could think of giving Chloe such advice."
" It's a pity, wife, that you have burdened them with a morality above
their condition and prospects. I always thought so."
"It'sonly the morality of the Bible, Mr. Shelby."
" Well, well, Emily, I don't pretend to interfere with your religious
notions, only they seem extremely unfitted for people in that con¬
dition.
"They are, indeed," said Mrs. Shelby; "and that is why, from my
soul, I bate the whole thing. I tell you, my dear, I cannot absolve my¬
self from the promises I make to these helpless creatures. If I can get
the money no other way, I will take music scholars; I could get enough,
I know, and earn the money myself."
"You wouldn't degrade yourself that way, Emily? I never could
consent to it."
" Degrade!—would it degrade me as much as to break my faith with
the helpless ? No, indeed."
"Well, you are always heroic and transcendental," said Mr. Shelby ;
" but I think you had better think before you undertake such a piece of
Quixotism."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Aunt
Chloe at the end of the verandah.
"If you please, missis," said she.
" Well, Chloe, what is it ?" said her mistress, rising and going to the
end of the balcony.
" If missis would come and look at dis yer lot o' poetry."
Chloe had a particular fancy for calling poultry poetry, an application
of language in which she always persisted, notwithstanding frequent
corrections and advisings from the young members of the family.
"La, sakes!" she would say, "I can't see; one jis good as tnrrv,
poetry suthin good, any howand so, poetry Chloe continued to
call it.
Mrs. Shelby smiled as she saw a prostrate lot of chickens and ducks,
over which Chloe stood, with a very grave lace of consideration.
" I'm a thinkin whether missis would be a ha via a chicken pie o'
dese yer."
"Really, Aunt Chloe, I don't much care; serve them any way
you like."
handling them over, abstractedly; it was quite evident
were not what she was thinking of. At last, with the
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 173
short laugh with which her tribe often introduce a doubtful proposal, she
said—
" Laws me, missis ! what should mas'r and missis be a troublin' their-
selves 'bout de money, and not a usin' what's right in der hands ?" and
Chloe laughed again.
"I don't understand you, Chloe," said Mrs. Shelby, nothing doubting,
from her knowledge of Chloe's manner, that she had heard every word
of the conversation that had passed between her and her husband.
" Why, laws me, missis 1" said Chloe, laughing again, " other folks
hires out der niggers, and makes money on 'em! Don't keep sich a tribe
eatin' 'em out of house and home."
" Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire out ?"
" Laws! I an t a proposin' nothin'; only Sam, he said der was one of
dese yer perfectioners, dey calls 'em, in Louisville, said he wanted a good
hand at cake and pastry, and said he'd give four dollars a-week to one, he
did."
"Well, Chloe."
" Well, laws, I's a tliinkin,' missis, it's time Sally was put along to be
doin' something. Sally's been under my care, now, dis some time, and
she does most as well as me, considerin'; and if missis would only let me
go, I would help fetch up de money. I an't afraid to put my cake, nor
pies nother, 'long side no perfectioner's."
" Confectioner's, Chloe."
" Law sakes, missis! 'tan't no odds; words is so curis, can't never get
'em right!"
" But Chloe, do you want to leave your children ?"
" Laws, missis, de boys is big enough to do day's works; dey does well
enough; and Sally, she'll take de baby—she's such a peart young un, she
won't take no lookin' arter."
" Louisville is a good way off."
" Law sakes ! who's afcard ? it's down river, somer near my old man,
{terhaps ?" said Chloe, speaking the last in the tone of a question, and
ooking at Mrs. Shelby.
" No, Chloe; it's many a hundred miles off," said Mrs. Shelby.
Chloe's countenance fell.
" Never mind; your going there shall bring you nearer, Chloe. Yes,
you may go; and your wages shall every cent of them be laid aside for
your husband's redemption."
As when a bright sunbeam turns a dark cloud to silver, so Chloe's dark
face brightened immediately,—it really shone.
" Laws! if missis isn't too good ! I was thinkin' of dat ar very thing;
cause I shouldn't need no clothes, nor shoes, nor nothin'. I could save
every cent. How many weeks is der in a year, missis ?"
" fifty-two," said Mrs. Shelby.
" Laws ! now, der is ? and four dollars for each on 'em. Why, how
much'd dat ar be ?"
" Two hundred and eight dollars," said Mrs. Shelby.
"Why-e," said Chloe, with an accent of surprise'and delight; "andhow
long would it take me to work it out, missis ?"
" Some four or five years, Chloe; but then you needn't do it all; I
shall add something to it."
" I wouldn't hear to missis' givin' lessons, nor nothin'. MasYs quite
right in dat ar; 'twouldn't do noways. I hope none our family ever be
brought to dat ar, while I's got hands."
"Don't fear, Chloe; I'll take care of the honour of the family," said
Mrs. Shelby, smiling. " But when do you expect to go ?"
174 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, 08
" Well, I wara't spectin' nothin'; only Sam, he's a gwme to de river
with some colts, and he said I could go 'long with him; so I jes put my
things together. If missis was willin' I'd go with Sam to-morrow morn¬
ing, if missis would write my pass, and write me a commendation.
Well, Chloe, I'll attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has no objections.
I must speak to him."
Mrs. Shelby went up stairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted, went out to
her cabin, to make her preparation. _ .
"Law sakes, Mas'r George! ye didn't know I's a gwme to Louisville
to-morrow !" she said to George, as, entering her cabin, he found her
busy in sorting over her baby's clothes. "I thought I'd,lis look over
Sis's things, ana get 'em straightened up. But I'm gwine, Mas'r George
—gwine to have four dollars a-week; and mihsis is gwine to lay it all up,
to buy back my old man agin !"
" Whew !" said George, " here's a stroke of business, to be sure!
How are you going?"
"To-morrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas'r George,I knows you'll jia
sit down and write to my old man, and tell him all about it—won't ye ?"
" To be sure," said George; " Uncle Tom '11 be right glad to hear from
us. I'll go right in the house for paper and ink; and then, you know,
Aunt Chloe, 1 can tell about the new colts and all."
" Sartin, sartin, Mas'r George; you go 'long, and I'll get ye up a bit o'
chicken, or some sich: ye won t have many more suppers wid your
poor old aunty."
CHAPTER XXII.
"the grass witheeeth—the floweb fadeth."
Life passes, with us all, a day at a time; so it passed with our friend
Tom, till two years were gone. Though parted from all his soul held
dear, and though often yearning for what lay beyond, still was h# never
positively and consciously miserable; for, so well is the harp of human
feeling strung, that nothing but a crash that breaks every string can
wholly mar its harmony; and on looking back to seasons which in
review appear to us as those of deprivation and trial, we can remember
that each nour, as it glided, brought its diversions and alleviations, so
that, though not happy wholly, we were not, either, wholly miserable.
Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had " learned, in
whatsoever state he was, therewith to be content." It seemed to liim
good and reasonable doctrine, and accorded well with the settled and
thoughtful habit which he had acquired from the reading of that buine
book.
_ His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter, was in due
time answered by Master George, in a good, round, schoolboy hand, that
Tom said might be read "most acrost the room." It contained variuus
refreshing items of home intelligence, with which our reader is fully
acquainted; stated how Aunt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner
in Louisville, where her skill in the pastry line was gaining wonderful
Bums of money, all of which, Tom was informed, was to be laid up to go
to make up the sum of his redemption-money; Mose and Pete were
thriving, and the baby was trotting all about tho house, under the care
of Sally and the family generally.
Tom's cabin was shut up for the present; but George expatiated
brilliantly on ornaments and additions to be made to it when Tom
saioeback.
tJFE AMONG- THE lOWfrF, 1^8
the rest of this letter gave a list of George's school studies, each one
Beaded by a flourishing capital; and also told the names or four new
colts that appeared on the premises since Tom left; and stated, in the
same connection, that father and mother were well. The style of the
letter was decidedly concise and terse ; but Tom thought it the most
wonderful specimen of composition that had appeared in modern times.
He was never tired of looking at it, and even held a council with Eva
on the expediency of getting it framed, to hang up in his room. Nothing
but the difficulty of arranging it so that both sides of the page would
show at once, stood in the way oi this undertaking.
The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the child'a
growth. It would be hard to say what place she held in the soft, im¬
pressible heart of her faithful attendant. He loved her as something
frail and earthly, yet almost worshipped her as something heavenly and
divine. He gazed on her as the Italian sailor gazes on his image of the
child J esus—with a mixture of reverence and tenderness; and to humour
her graceful fancies, and meet those thousand simple wants which invest
childhood like a many-coloured rainbow, was Tom's chief delight. In
the market, at morning, his eyes were always on the fiower-stalls for
rare bouquets for her, and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into
his pocket to give to her when he came back; and the sight that pleased
him most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his distant
approach, and her childish question, "Well, Uncle Tom, what have you
got for me to-day ?"
Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though a child,
she was a beautiful reader; a fine musical ear, a quick poetic fancy,ana
an instinctive sympathy with what is grand and noble, made her such a
reader of the Bible as Tom had never before heard. At first, she read to
please her humble friend; but soon her own earnest nature threw out
its tendrils, and wound itself around the majestic book; and Eva loved
it, because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim emotions,
such as impassioned, imaginative children love to feel.
The parts that pleased her most were the Revelation and the Prophe¬
cies — parts whose dim and wondrous imagery and fervent language
impressed her the more, that she questioned vainly of their meaning;
and she and her simple friend, the old child and the young one, felt just
alike about it. All that they knew was, that they spoke of a glory to be
revealed—a wondrous something yet to come, wherein their soul rejoiced,
yet knew not why; and though it be not so in the physical, yet in moral
science, that which cannot be understood is not always profitless. For the
soul awakes, a trembling stranger, between two dim eternities — the
eternal past, the eternal future. The light shines only on a small space
around her; therefore she needs must yearn towards the unknown; and
the voices and shadowy movings which come to her from out the cloudy
pillar of inspiration have each one echoes and answers in her own ex¬
pecting nature. Its mystic imageries are so many talismans and gems
inscribed with unknown hieroglyphics; she folds them in her bosom,
and expects to read them when she passes beyond the veil.
At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment is, for the
time being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchartrain. The heats of
summer had driven all who were able to leave the sultry and unhealthy
citv, to seek the shores of the lake, and its cool sea-breezes. .. , ,
St Clare's villa was an East-Indian cottage, surrounded by light
verandahs of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides into gardens arid
nleasuro-u rounds. The common sitting-room opened on to a large
garden fragrant with every picturesque plant and flower of the tropics,
where winding Jaths ra/ Sown to the very shores of the lake, w&ose
17fl tJiCl/B TOMS CABiiT, OB
• • ofilling in the sunbeams—ft
livery slieet of water lay there, ri®m& y ^our more beautiful,
picture never for an hour the same; 3■ ^ sunsets which kindles the
It is now one of those "^era^ly gand makes the water another sky.
whole horizon into one blaze of glOTT, where white-winged vessels
The lake lay in rosy or golden streaks irits and little golden stars
glided hither and thither, hke so P kL Pdown at themselves as they
twinkled through the glow, and looked uow
trembled in the water. . mossy seat, in an arbour at the
Tom and Eva were ^^rdav evening and Eva's bible lay open ou
foot of the garden. It was bunday eveuuig, ^ : „1() ^th firp "
hw knee She read, " And I saw a sea of glass, mingled witn nre.
"Torn,'' said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the lake
" there 'tis."
" What, Miss Eva? .
" Don't yon see—there ? said the child, pointing to the glassy water,
w bi.ch, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden glow of the sky. " There's
' a sea of glass, mingled with fire.'"
" True enough, Miss Eva," said Tom; and Tom sang —
" Oh, had I the wing's of the morning,
I'd fly away to Canaan's shore;
Bright angels should convey me home,
To the new Jerusalem."
w Where do you suppose New Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom ?" said Java.
" Oh, up in the clouds, Miss Eva."
" Then I think I see it," said Eva. " Look in those clouds! they look
like great gates of pearl; and you can see beyond them—far, far off-
it's all gold. Tom, sing about' spirits bright.'"
Tom sang the words of a well-known Methodist hymn—
" I see a band of spirits bright,
That taste the glories there;
They all are robed in spotless white,
And conquering1 palms they bear."
"Uncle Tom, I've seen them" said Eva.
Tom had no doubt of it at all; it did not surprise him in the least.
If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he would have thought it
entirely probable.
" They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits;" and Eva'a
eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low voice—
•
" They all are robed in spotless white,
And conquering palms they bear."
" Uncle Tom," said Eva, " I'm going there."
" Where, Miss Eva ? "
The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky; the glow ol
evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with a kind of unearthly
radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly on the skies.
" I'm going there" she said, "to the spirits bright, Tom; I'm going
before long." '
The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust; and Tom thought how
often he had noticed, within six months, that Eva's little hands had
grown thinner, and her skin more transparent, and her breath shorter •
and how, when she ran or played in the garden, as she osice could for
hours, she became soon so tired and languid. He had heard Miss
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 177
Ophelia speak often of a cough that all her medicaments could not cure -
and even now that fervent cheek and little hand were burning with
hactio fever; and yet the thought that Eva's words suggested had never
come to him till now.
Has there ever been a child like Eva? Yes, there have been; but
their names are always on gravestones, and their sweet smiles, their
heavenly eyes, their singular words and ways, are among the buried
treasures of yearning hearts. In how many families do you hear the
legend that all the goodness and graces of the living are nothing to the
eculiar charms of one who is not! It is as if Heaven had an especial
and of angels, whose office it was to sojourn for a season here, and
endear to them the wayward human heart, that they might bear it up¬
ward with them in their homeward flight. When you see that deep,
spiritual light in the eye—when the little soul reveals itself in words
sweeter and wiser than the ordinary words of children—hope not to
retain that child; for the seal of Heaven is on it, and the light of im¬
mortality looks out from its eyes.
Even so, beloved Eva ! fair star of thy dwelling ! Thou art passing
awav; but they that love thee dearest know it not.
The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hasty call
from Miss Ophelia.
" Eva—Eva!—why, child, the dew is falling; you musn't be out
there!"
Eva and Tom hastened in.
Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. She was
from New England, and knew well the first guileful footsteps of that
soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so many of the fairest and
loveliest, and, before one fibre of life seems broken, seals them irrevo¬
cably for death.
She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek;
nor could the lustre of the eye and the airy buoyancy born of fever
deceive her.
She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threw back
her suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his usual careless
good-humour.
" Don't be croaking, cousin—I hate it!" he would say; " don't you
see that the child is only growing ? Children always lose strength when
they grow fast."
" But she has that cough !"
" Oh, nonsense of that cough—it is not anything! She has taken a
little cold, perhaps."
" Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and Ellen and
Maria Sanders."
" Oh, stop these hobgoblin nurse-legends! You old hands get so
wise, that a child cannot cough or sneeze, but you see desperation and
ruin at hand. Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air,
and don't let her play too hard, and she'll do well enough."
So St. Clare said; but he grew nervous and restless. He watched Eva
feverishly day by day. as might be told by the frequency with which he
repeated over that the child was quite well"—that there wasn't any¬
thing in that cough—it was only some little stomach affection, such as
children often had. Eut he kept by her more than before, took her
oftener to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt or
strengthening mixture—"not, he said, "that the child needed it, but
then it would not do her any harm."
If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to his heart
JT
178 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OE
than anything else was the daily-increasing maturity of the child s
and feelings. "While still n-trimins? all a child's ftinciful graces yet sne
often dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach 9 • J '
strange unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an 1 P • , .
such times. St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and cl^p ^r m Ins
arms, as i/that fond clasp could save her - and his he-rt rose up wim
wild determination to keep her, never to let her go- ■, » ,
The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed m works ot love
and kindness. Impulsively generous she had always been,, bu t there was
a touching and womanly thoughtfulness about her now that every one
noticed. She still loved to jHay with Topsy and the various coloured
children; but she now seemed rather a spectator than an actor ol their
plays, and she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at the odd
tricks of Topsy—and then a shadow would seem to pass across her face,
her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were afar.
' " Mamma," she said suddenly to her mother, ore day, "why don't
we teach our servants to read ? "
" What a question, child! People never do."
" Why don't they P " said Eva.
" Because it's no use for them to read. It don't help them to work
anv better, arid they are not made for anything else."
But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God's will."
" Oh, they can get that read to them all they need."
" It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to read them¬
selves. They need it a great many times when there is nobody to
read it."
" Eva, you are an odd child," said her mother.
" Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read," continued Eva.
" Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the worst crea¬
ture I ever saw !"
" Here's poor Mammy!" said Eva. " She ioves the Bible so much,
and wishes so she could read! And what will she do when I can't read
to her ?"
Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as she an¬
swered,—
" Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other things to think
of, besides reading the Bible round to servants. Not but that is very
proper; I've done it myself, when I had health. But when you come to
be dressing and going into company, you won't have time. See here.'"
she added, "these jewels I'm going to give you when you come out. I
wore them to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a sensation."
Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond necklace. Her
large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but her thoughts were elsewhere,
i ' How sober you look, child!" said Marie.
" Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma?"
" To be sure they are. Father sent to Prance for them. They are
worth a small fortune."
" I wish I had them," said Eva, "to do what I pleased with!"
" What would you do with them ?"
" I'd sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take all our
people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read and write."
Eva was cut short by her mother's laughing.
" Set up a boarding-school! Wouldn't you teach them to play on the
piano, and paint on velvet ?"
I'd teach them to read their own Bible, and write their own letters
and read letters that are written to them," said Eva, steadily " I knoT*
LiFB AMOJJtr THH X.OWI.T. y#
mamma, it does come very hard on them, that they can't do theisa
tilings. Tom ieols it, Mammy does, many do. I think it's wrong."
" Come, come, Eva; you are only a child! You know nothing about
these things," said Marie; " besides, your talking makes my head ache."
Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversation that did
not exactly suit her. Eva stole away; but after that, she assiduously
gave Mammy reading-lessons.
CHAPTER XXIII.
henrique.
About this time, St. Clare's brother Alfred, with his eldest son, a boy
of twelve, spent a day or two with the family at the lake.
No sight could be more singular and beautiful than that of these twin
brothers. Nature, instead of instituting resemblances between them,
had made them opposites on every point; yet a mysterious tie seemed
to unite them in a closer friendship than ordinary.
They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys and walks
of the garden—Augustine, with his blue eyes and golden hair, his
ethereally flexible form and vivacious features; and Alfred, dark-eyed,
with haughty Eoman profile, firmly-knit limbs, and decided bearing.
They were always abusing each other's opinions and practices, and yet
never a whit the less absorbed in each other's society; in fact, the very
contrariety seemed to unite them.
Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed, princely
boy, full of vivacity and spirit; and, from the first moment of introduc¬
tion, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by the spirituelle graces of his
cousin Evangeline.
Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. _ It was easy as a
cradle, and as gentle as its little mistress; and this pony was now
brought up to the back verandah, by Tom, while a little mulatto boy of
about thirteen led along a small black Arabian, which had just been im¬
ported, at a great expense, for Henrique.
Henrique had a boy's pride in his new possession; and, as he ad¬
vanced and took the reins out of the hands of his little groom, he looked
carefully over him, and his brow darkened.
" What's this, Dodo, you little lazy dog! you haven't rubbed my horso
down, this morning."
" Yes, mas'r," said Dodo, submissively; "he got that dust on his own
self."
, " I ou rascal, shut your mouth!" said Henrique, violently raising his
i riding-whip. How dare you s^eak ?"
1 The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mujatto, of just Henrique's
size, and his curling hair hung round a high, bold forehead. He had
white blood in his veins, as could be seen by the quick flush in his cheek
and the sparkle of his eye, as he eagerly tried to speak.
" Mas'r Henrique!—" he began. ...
Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip, and, seizing
one of his arms, forced him on to his knees, and beat him till he was out
of breath. , , , , ,
" There, you impudent dog! Now will you learn not to answer bacls
when I speak to you ? Take the horse back, and clean him proper^.
I'll teach you your place J"
Jf 2
180 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
" Y oung mas'r," said Tom, " I specs what he was gwine to say was
that the horse would roll when he was bringing him up from the sta ;
he's so full of spirits—that's the way he got that dirt on him; 1 looivei
to his cleaning." . , , -rr ■
" You hold your tongue till you're asked to speak ! said Henrique,
turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to speak to ±jva, wno stood
in her riding-dress. „ i,„
" Dear cousin, I'm sorry this stupid fellow has kept you waiting, he
said. " Let's sit down here, on this seat, till they come. \Y hat s the
matter, cousin ?—you look sober."
" How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo ? said Jjva.
" Cruel—wicked!" said the boy with unaffected surprise. What do
you mean, dear Eva?"
" I don't want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so, said Eva.
" Dear cousin, you don't know Dodo; it's tho only way to manage
him, he's so full of lies and excuses. The only way is to put him
down at once — not let him open his mouth; that's the way papa
manages."
" But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never tells what isn't
true."
" He's an uncommon old nigger then !" said Henrique. " Dodo will
lie as fast as he can speak."
" You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so."
" Why, Eva, you've really taken such a fancy to Dodo, that I shall
be jealous."
" But you beat him, and he didn't deserve it."
" Oh, well, it may go for some time when he does, and clon't get it.
A few cuts never come amiss with Dodo—he's a regular spirit, I can tell
you; but I won't beat him again before you, if it troubles you."
Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make her hand¬
some cousin understand her feelings.
Dodo soon appeared with the horses.
" Well, Dodo, you've done pretty well this time," said his young
master, with a more gracious air. " Come, now, and hold Miss Eva's
horse, while I put her on to the saddle."
Doao came and stood by Eva's pony. His face was troubled; his
eyes looked as if he had been crying.
Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroitness in all
matters of gallantry, soon had his fair cousin ia the saddle, and, gather¬
ing the reins, placed them in her hands.
But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo was stand¬
ing, and said, as he relinquished the reins—" That's a good boy, Dodo-
thank you !"
Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face; the blood
rushed to his cheeks and the tears to his eyes.
" Here, Dodo," said his master, imperiously.
Dodo sprang and held the horse while his master mounted.
" There's a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo," said Henrique;
" go get some.
And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo stood look¬
ing after the two children. One had given him money; and one had
«iven him what he wanted far more—a kind word kindly spoken. Dodo
had been only a few months away from his mother. His master had
bought him at a slave-warehouse, for his handsome face, to be a match
to the handsome pony; and he was now getting his breaking in, at the
fessds of bis young master,
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 181
The scene of the boating had been witnessed by the two brothers S\L-
Clare, from another part of the garden.
Augustine's cheek Hushed; but he only observed, with his usual sar¬
castic carelessness, " 1 suppose that's what we may call republican edu¬
cation, Alfred?"
" Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood's up,1' said Alfred,
carelessly.
" I suppose you consider this an instructive practice for him ? " said
Augustine, drily.
" I couldn't help it if I didn't. Henrique is a regular little tempest—
his mother and I have given him up long ago. But, then, that JDodo is
a perfect sprite—no amount of whipping can hurt him."
"And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse of a republi¬
can's catechism, ' All men are born free and equal!'"
" Poh !" said Alfred ; " one of Tom JeiTerson's pieces of French sen¬
timent and humbug. It's perfectly ridiculous to have that going the
rounds among us to this day."
" I think it is," said St. Clare, significantly.
" Because," said Alfred, "we can see plainly enough that all men are
not born free, nor born equal; they are born anything else. For my
part? I think half this republican talk sheer humbug. It is the educated,
the intelligent, the wealthy, the refined, who ought to have equal rights,
and not the canaille."
"If you can keep the canaille of that opinion," said Augustine.
" They took their turn once, in France."
" Of course, they must be kept down, consistently, steadily, as 1
should," said Alfred, setting his foot hard down, as if he were standing
on somebody.
" It makes a terrible slip when they get up," said Augustine—" in St.
Domingo, for instance."
"Poh!" said Alfred, "we'll take care of that in this country. We
must set our face against all this educating, elevating talk that is getting
about now; the lower class must not be educated."
" That is past praying for," said Augustine ; " educated they will be,
and we have only to say how. Our system is educating them in bar¬
barism and brutality. We are breaking all humanizing ties, and making
them brute beasts; and, if they get the upper hand, such we shall find
ihem."
" They shall never get the upper hand!" said Alfred.
"That's right," said St. Clare; "put on the steam, fasten down the
escape-valve, and sit on it. and see where you'll land."
"Well," said Alfred, we will see. I'm not afraid to sit on thf
escape-valve, as long as the boilers are strong, and the machinery worki
well."
" The nobles in Louis XYI.'s time thought just so; and Austria and
Pius IX. think so now; and, some pleasant morning, you may all be
caught up to meet each other m the air, when the boilers burst"
" Dies declaralit" said Alfred, laughing.
" I tell you," said Augustine, " if there is anything that is revealed
with the strength of a divine law in our times, it is that the masses are
to rise, and the under class become the upper one."
" That's one of your red republican humbugs, Augustine! Why
didn't you ever take to the stump ? You'd make a famous stump orator!
Well, I hope I shall be dead before this millennium of your greasy
masses comes on."
" Greasy or not sres-sy, they wil' govern you, when thssr time oomes,
182 UNCLE TOM'S CABIH, OB
said Augustine: tt and they will be just such rulers as you make
The French noulesse chose to have the people sans culottes, ana
had ' saws calotte' governors to their hearts' content. The people ot
H"Oh, come, Augustine ! as if we hadn't enough of that abominable,
contemptible Hayti! The Haytians were not Anglo-Saxons; u tney
had been, there would have been another story, ihe Anglo-Saxon is
the dominant race of the world, and is to be so."
" Well, there is a pretty fair infusion of Anglo-Saxon blood among
our slaves, now," said Augustine. " There are plenty among them who
have only enough of the African to give a sort of tropical warmtn and
fervour to our calculating firmness and foresight. If ever the San Do¬
mingo hour comes, Anglo-Saxon blood will lead on the day. Sons of
white fathers, with all our haughty feelings burning in their veins, will
not always be bought and sold and traded. They will rise, and raise"
with them their mother's race."
" Stuff!—nonsense!"
"Well," said Augustine, " there goes an old saying to this effect:
' As it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be; they ate, they drank,
they planted, they builded. and knew not till the flood came and took
them.'"
" On the whole, Augustine, I think your talents might do for a circuit
rider," said Alfred, laughing. " Never you fear for us! possession is our
nine points. We've got the power. This subject race, said he, stamp¬
ing firmly, " is down, and shall stay down! We have energy enough to
manage our own powder."
" Sons trained like your Henrique will be grand guardians of your
powder-magazines," said Augustine, " so cool and self-possessed! The
proverb says. ' Tney that cannot govern themselves cannot govern
others.'"
" There is a trouble there," said Alfred, thoughtfully; " there's no
doubt that our system is a difficult one to train children under. It gives
too free scope to the passions, altogether, which, in our climate, are hot
enough. I find trouble with Henrique. The boy is generous and
warm-hearted, but a perfect fire-cracker when excited. I believe I
shall send him north for his education, where obedience is more fashion¬
able, and where he will associate more with equals, and less with de¬
pendants."
" Since training children is the staple work of the human race," said
Augustine, " I should think it something of a consideration that our
system does not work well there."
" It does not for some things," said Alfred ; " for others, again, it does.
It makes boys manly and courageous; and the very vices of an abject
race tend to strengthen in them the opposite virtues. I think, Henrique,
now, has a keener sense of the beauty of truth, from seeing lying and
deception the universal badge of slavery."
" A Christian-like view of the subject, certainly!" said Augustine.
"It's true, Christian-like or not; and is about as Christian-like aa
most other things in the world," said Alfred.
" That may be," said St. Clare.
Well, there's no use in talking, Augustine. I believe we've been
round and round this old track five hundred times, more or less. What
do you say to a gamo of backgammon ?"
The two brothers ran up the verandah steps, and were soon seated at
& light bamboo stand, with the backgammon board between them. Am
they were setting their men, Alfred said'-
LIFE iMONG THE LOWLY. 183
" I tell you, Augustine, if I thought as you do, I should do some¬
thing."
" I dare say you would—you are one of the doing sort; but what ? "
Why, elevate your own servants, for a specimen," said Alfred, with
a half-scornful smile.
" You might as well set Mount iEtna on them flat, and tell them to
stand up under it, as tell jne to elevate my servants under all the super¬
incumbent mass of society upon them. One man can do nothing,
against the whole action ox a community. Education, to do anything,
must be a state education; or there must be enough agreed in it to make
it current."
" You take the first throw," said Alfred; and the brothers were soon
lost in the game, and heard no more till the scraping of horses^ feet was
heard under the verandah.
" There come the children," said Augustine, rising. " Look here,
Alf! Did you ever see anything so beautiful?" And. in truth, it was
a beautiful sight. Henrique, with his bold brow, and aark, glossy curls,
and glowing cheek, was laughing gaily, as he bent towards his fair
cousin, as they came on. She was dressed in a blue riding-dress, with
a cap of the same colour. Exercise had given a brilliant hue to her
cheeks, and heightened the effect of her singularly transparent skin and
golden hair.
" Goodheavens, what perfectly dazzling beauty!" said Alfred. " I tell
you, Augustine, won't she make some hearts aclie, one of the?e days."
" She will, too truly—God knows, I'm afraid so!" said St. Clare,
in a tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried down to take her off her
horse.
" Eva, darling! you're not much tired ? " he said, as he clasped her
in his arms.
" No, papa," said the child; but her short hard breathing alarmed her
father.
" How could you ride so fast, dear ? You know it's bad for you."
" I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot."
St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlour, and laid her on the
sofa.
" Henrique, you must be careful of Eva,"-said'he; "you mustn't rids
fast with her."
" I'll take her under my care," said Henrique, seating himself by ths
sofa, and taking Eva's hand.
Eva soon found herself much better. Her father and uncle resumed
their game, and the children were left together.
" Do you know, Eva, I'm so sorry papa is only going to stay two
days here, aud then I shan't see you again for ever so long ! If I stay
wi'lhvou, I'd try to be good, and not be cross to Dodo, and soon. ?
don't" mean to treat Dodo ill; but, you know, I've got such a quicli
temper. I'm not really bad to him, though. I give him a picayune, now
and then; and you see ho dresses well. I think, on the whole, Dodo's
pretty well off."
" Would you think you were well off, if there were not one creature
in the world near you to love you ?"
"I? "Well, of course not."
" And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he ever had,
ind now he has not a creature to love him: nobody can bo good that
V'iy."
" Well, I can't help it, as I know of. I can't get his mother, and I
can't love him myself, nor anybody else S31 know of."
184 tTNCLE TOUTS CASTS, Ofi
" Why can't you ?" said Eva. , ,
" Love Dodo! Why, Eva, you wouldn't have me ! . 1 nifty like him
well enough; but you aon't love your servants."
** I do, indeed."
"How odd!"
" Don't the Bible say we must love everybody ? .
"Oh, the Bible! To be sure, it says a great many such things;
but, then, nobody ever thinks of doing them—you know, Eva, nobody
does"
Eva did not speak; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful, for a few
moments. . ,
" At any rate," she said, " dear cousin, do love poor Dodo, and be kind
to him, for my sake !" . m
" I could love anything, for your sake, dear cousin; for I really think
you are the loveliest creature that I ever saw!" And Henrique spoke
with an earnestness that flushed his handsome face. Eva received it
with perfect simplicity, without even a change of feature; merely
saying, " I am glad you feel so, dear Henrique! I hope you wil)
remember."
The dinner-bell put an end to the interview.
CHAPTER XXIV.
FOBESHADOWIKGS.
Two days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine parted; and Eva,
who had been stimulated by the society of her young cousin to exertions
beyond her strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was at last willing
to call in medical advice, a thing from which he had always shrunk,
because it was the admission of an unwelcome truth. But for a day o
two Eva was so unwell as to be confined to the house, and the doctor
was called.
Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's gradually decaying
health and strength, because she was completely absorbed in studying
out two or three new forms of disease, to which she believed she herself
was a victim. It was the first principle of Marie's belief that nobody
ever was or could be so great a sufferer as herself; and therefore she
always repelled, quite indignantly, any suggestion that any one aro nd
her could be sick. She was always sure in such a case that it was
nothing but laziness or want of energy; and that if they had had the
suffering she had, they would soon know the difference.
Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her maternal fears
about Eva, but to no avail.
" I don't see as anything ails the child," she would say; " she runs
about and plays."
" But she has a cough."
" Cough! you don't need to tell me about a cough. I've always bee®
subject to a cough all my days. When I was of Eva's age, they thought
I was in a consumption. N ight after night, Mammy used to sit up ith
me. Oh, Eva's cough is not anything!
"But she gets weak, and is short-breathed."
"Law! I've had tkat years and years; ifs only a nervous affeo*
tion."
LIFE Aifojra 2ns LOWLY. IS§
" But she sweats so, nights!"
" Well, I have these ten years. Very often, niglit after night, my
clothes will be wringing wet. There won't be a dry thread in my night-
clothes, and the sheets will be so that Mammy has to hang them up to
dry ! Eva doesn't sweat anything like that!"
Miss Ophelia shut her mouth for a season. But now that Eva was
fairly and visibly prostrated, and a doctor called, Marie all on a sudden
took a new turn.
She knew it, she said, she always felt it, that she was destined to
be the most miserable of mothers. Here she was, with her wrciched
health, and her only darling child going down to the grave before her
eyes! And Marie routed up Mammy at nights, and rumpussed and
pcolded with more energy than ever all day, on the strength of this new
misery.
" My dear Marie, don't talk so!" said St. Clare. " Tou ought not to
give up the case so, at once."
" Tou have not a mother's feelings, St. Clare! You never could
understand me!—you don't now."
" But don't talk so, as if it were a gone case! "
"I can't take it as indifferently as you can, St. Clare. If you don't
feel when your only child is in this alarming state, /do. It's a blow too
much for me, with all I was bearing before."
"It's true," said St. Clare, "that Eva is very delicate, that I always
knew; and that she has grown so rapidly as to exhaust her strength;
and that her situation is critical. But just now she is only prostrated
by the heat of the weather, and by the excitement of her cousin's visit,
and the exertions she made. The physician says there is room for
hope."
Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray do; il's a
mercy if people haven't sensitive feelings in this world. I am sure I
wish I didn't feel as I do—it only makes me completely wretched! I
wish I could be as easy as the rest of you!"
And the " rest of them " had good reason to breathe the same prayer,
for Marie paraded her new misery as the reason and apology for all
sorts of inflictions on every one about her. Every word that was
spoken by anybody, everything that was done or was not done every¬
where, was only a new proof that she was surrounded by hard-hearted,
insensible beings, who were unmindful of her peculiar sorrows. Poor
Eva heard some of those speeches; and nearly cried her little eyes out
in pity for her mamma, and in sorrow that she should make her so
much distress.
In a week or two there was a great improvement of symptoms—one
of those deceitful lulls by which her inexorable disease so often beguiles
the anxious heart, even on the verge of the grave. Eva's step was again
in the garden—in the balconies; she played and laughed again; and her
father, in a transport, declared that they should soon have her as hearty
as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone felt no encourage¬
ment from this illusive truce. There was one other heart, too, that felt
the same certainty, and that was the little heart of Eva. What is it
that sometimes speaks in the soul so calmly, so clearly, that its earthly
time is short ? Is it the secret instinct of decaying nature, or the soul's
impulsive throb, as immortality draws on ?_ Be it what it may, it rested
in the heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty that Heaven was
near; calm as the light of sunset, sweet as the bright stillness of autumn,
there her little heart refosed, only troubled by sorrow for those who
loved her so dearly.
186 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OE
For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life was un¬
folding before her with every brightness that lovo and wealth coula
give, had no regret for herself in dying.
In that Book which she and her simple old friend had read so much
together, she had seen and taken to her young heart the image of one
who loved the little child; and as she gazed and mused, he had ceased
to be an image and a picture of the distant past, and came to bo a living,
all-surrounding reality. His love enfolded her childish heart wittt more
than mortal tenderness; and.it was to Him, she said, she was going, and
to his home.
But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that she was to
leave behind—her father most; for Eva, though she never distinctly
thought so, had an instinctive perception that she was more in his heart
than any other. She loved her mother because she was so loving a
creature, and all the selfishness that she had seen in her only saddened
and perplexed her; for she had a child's implicit trust that her mother
could not do wrong. There was something about her that Eva never
could make out; and she always smoothed it over with thinking that,
after all, it was mamma, and she loved her very dearly indeed.
She folt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she was a.= day¬
light and sunshine. Children do not usually generalize; but Eva vt us
an uncommonly mature child, and the things that she had witnessed of
the evils of the system under which they were living had fallen, one by
one, into the depths of her thoughtful, pondering heart. She hiid vague
longings to do something for them—to bless and save not only them,
but all in their condition—longings that contrasted sadly with the fee¬
bleness of her little frame.
" Uncle Tom," she said, one day, when she was reading to her friend,
" I can understand why Jesus wanted to die for us."
"Why, Miss Eva?"
" Because I've felt so, too."
" What is it. Miss Eva ?—I don't understand."
'"I can't tell you; but when I saw those poor creatures on the boat,
you know, when you came up and I, some had lost their mothers, and
Bome their husbands, and some mothers cried for their little children;
and when I heard about poor Prue—oh, wasn't that dreadful ?—and a
great many other times, I've felt that I would be glad to die, if my
dying could stop all this misery. I would die for them, Tom, if I
could," said th^-ejiild, earnestly, laying her little thin hand on his.
Tom lookecf at the child with awe; and when she, hearing her
father's voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times as he looked
after'lier.
"It's jest no use try in'to keep Miss Eva here," he said to Mammy,
whom he met a moment after. " She's got the Lord's mark in her fore¬
head."
"Ah, yes, yes," said Mammy, raising her hands, " I've allers snid so
She wasn't never like a child that's to live—there was allers something
deep in her eyes. I've told missis so many the time; it's a comin' true
—we all sees it—dear little, blessed lamb!"
Eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. It was lato
in the afternoon, and the rays of the sun formed a kind of glory behind
her, as she came forward in her white dress, with her golden hair and
glowing cheeks, her eyes unnaturally bright with the slow fever that
burned in her veins.
St. Clare had called her to show a statuette that he had been buying
for her; but her appearance, as she came on, impressed him suddenly
and painfully. There is a kind of beauty so intense, yet so fragile, thst
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 187
we cannot bear to look at it. Her father folded her suddenly in his
arms, and almost forgot what he was going to tell her.
^ Eva, dear, you are better now-a-days, are you not ?"
"Papa," said Eva, with sudden firmness, "I've had things I wanted
to say to you a great while. X want to say them now, before I get
weaker."
St. Clare trembled ab Eva seated herself in his lap. She laid her head
on his bosom, and said,—
" It's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The time is
coming that I am going to leave you. I am going, and never to coma
back !" and Eva sobbed.
" Oh, now, my dear little Eva !" said St. Clare, trembling as he spoke,
but speaking cheerfully, "you've got nervous and low-spirited; you
mustn't, indulge such gloomy thoughts. See here, I've bought a sta¬
tuette for you !"
" No, papa," said Eva, putting it gently away, "don't deceive your¬
self ! I am not any better—I know it perfectly well; and I am going
before long. I am not nervous—I am not low-spirited. If it were not
for you, papa, and my friends, I should be perfectly happy. I want to
go—I long to go!"
" Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so sad ? You
have had everything to make you happy that could be given you ?"
" I had rather be in heaven, though—only for my friends' sake I
would be willing to live. There are a great many things here that
make me sad, that seem dreadful to me. I had rather be there; but I
don't want to leave you—it almost breaks my heart!"
" What makes you sad, and seems dreadful, Eva?"
" Oil, things that are done, and done all the time. I feel sad for our
?oor people ; they love mo dearly, and they are all good and kind to me.
wish, papa, they were all free."
" Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are well enough off now ?"
"Oh, out, papa, if anything should happen to you, what would
become of them? There are very few men like you, papa. Uncle
Alfred isn't like you, and mamma isn't; and then think of poor old
Prue's owners ! What horrid things people do, and can do!" and Eva
shuddered.
" My dear child, you are too sensitive. I'm sorry I ever let you hear
such stories."
"Oh, that's what troubles me, papa. You want me to live so
oappy, and never to have any pain, never suffer anything, not even hear
a sad story, when other poor creatures have nothing but pain and sorrow
all their lives; it seems selfish. I ought to know such things—I ought
to feel about them. Such things always sunk into my heart, they went
down deep; I've thought and thought about them. Papa, isn't there
any way to have all slaves made free ?"
" That's a difficult question, dearest. There's no doubt that this way
is a very bad one—a great many people think so; I do myself. I heartily
wish that there were not a slave in the land ; but then I don't know
what is to be done about it."
" Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble, and kind, and you
always have a way of saying things that is so pleasant; couldn't you go
all round and try to persuade people to do right about this ? When I
am dead, papa, then you will think of me, and do it for my sake. I
would do it if I could."
" When you are dead, Eva!" said St. Clare, passionately. Oh, child
don't talk to me so ! You are all I have on earth."
" Poor old Prue's child was all that she had; and yet sne had to heal
Igg UMCL2 Toil's CABIN, Oft
it crying, and she couldn't help it! Papa^ these
their children as much as you do me. Oh, do something^ior them.
There's poor Mammy loves her children; I ve seen her cry when she
talked about them. And Tom loves his children: and it's dreadful papa,
that such things are happening all the time I . „
" There, there, darling," said St. Clare, soothingly, only don t
distress yourself, and don't talk of dying, and X will do anything you
W "And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom
as soon as—" she stopped, and said, in a hesitating tone,—" I am
cone!iy
"Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world—anything you could
ask me to." .
" Dear papa," said the child, laying her burning cheek against his,
" how I wish we could go together !"
" Where, dearest?" said St. Clare.
" To our Saviour's home; it's so sweet and peaceful there—it is all so
loving there \ " The child spoke unconsciously, as of a place where she
had often been. " Don't you want to go, papa ?" she said.
St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent.
" T ou will come to me," said the child, speaking in a voice of calm cer¬
tainty, which she often used unconsciously.
" I shall come after you. I shall not forget you."
The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them deeper and
deeper, as St. Clare sat silently holding the little frail form to his bosom.
He saw no more the deep eyes, but the voice came over him as a spirit-
voice ; and, as in a sort of judgment vision, his whole past life rose in a
moment before his eyes—his mother's prayers and hymns—his own
early yearnings and aspirings for good; and, between them and this
hour, years of worldliness and scepticism, and what man calls respectable
living. We can think much, very much, in a moment. St. Clare saw
and felt many things, but spoke nothing; and, as it grew darker, he took
his child to her bedroom; and when she was prepared for rest, he sent
away the attendants, and rocked her in his arms, and sung to her till
she was asleep.
CHAPTER XXV.
the little evangelist.
It was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a bamboo
lounge in the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay
reclined on a sofa, opposite the window opening on the verandah,
closely secluded, under an awning of transparent gauze, from the
outrages of the mosquitoes, and languidly holding in her hand an
elegantly-bound prayer-book. She was holding it because it was
Sunday, and she imagined she had been reading it—though, in fact,
she had been only taking a succession of short naps, with it open in
her hand.
Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up a small
Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, with Tom as
driver, to attend it, and Eva had accompanied them.
" I say, Augustine," said Marie, after dozing a while, " I must send
to the city after my old doctor, Posey: I'm sure I've got the complaint
of tbe h8axt."
riTK AMONG THE LOWLY. 189
" Well; why need you send for him ? TIais doctor that attends Eva
seems skilful.
" I would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie, " and I think I
may say mine is becoming so! I've been thinking of it these two or
three nights past; I have such distresssing pains, and such strange
feelings."
" O Marie, you are blue: I don't believe it's heart-complaint."
" 1 dare say you don't," said Marie; "I was prepared to expect that.
You can be alarmed enough if Eva coughs, or has the least thing the
matter with her; but you never think of me."
*'* If it's particularly agreeable to you to have heart-disease, why,
I'll try and maintain you have it," said St. Clare: " I didn't know it
was."
" Well, I only hope you won't be sorry for this when it's too late !"
said Mane ; "but believe it or not, my distress about Eva, and the exer¬
tions I have made with that dear child, have developed what I have
long suspected."
What the exertions were which Marie referred to, it would have
been difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this commentary to him¬
self, and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man, as he
was, till a carriage drove up before the verandah, and Eva and Miss
Ophelia alighted.
Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to put away
her bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before she spoke a
word on any subject; while Eva came, at St. Clare's call, and was
sitting on his knee, giving him an account of the services they had
heard.
They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia's room (which,
like the one in which they were sitting, opened to the verandah), and
violent reproof addressed to somebody.
"What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing?" asked St. Clare.
" That commotion is of her raising, I'll be bound !"
And, in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation, came
dragging the culprit along.
" Come out here, now!" she said. " I will tell your master !"
" What's the case now?" asked Augustine.
" The cace is, that I cannot be plagued with this child any longer!
It's past all bearing ; flesh and blood cannot endure it! Here, I locked
her up, and gave her a hymn to study; and what does she do, but spy
out where I put my key, and has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet-
trimming, and cut it all to pieces to make doll's jackets ! I never saw
anything like it in my life."
"I told you, cousin," said Marie, "that you'd find out that these
creatures can't be brought up without severity. If I had my way,
now," she said, looking reproachfully at St. Clare, "I'd send that child
out. and have her thoroughly whipped; I'd have her whipped till she
couldn't stand!"
" 1 don't doubt it," said St. Clare. " Tell me of the lovely rule or
woman! I never saw above a dozen women that wouldn't half kill a
horse, or a servant, either, if they had their own way with them, let
alone a man."
"There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. Clare!"
said Marie. " Cousin is a woman of sense, and she sees it now as plain
as I do."
Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that belongs to
the thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had been pretty actively
190 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
roused by the artifice and wastefulness of the child; in fact, many of
my lady readers must own that they should have felt just so in her cir¬
cumstances ; but Marie's words went beyond her, and she felt less heat.
"I wouldn't have the child treated so for the world," she said;
"but I am sure, Augustine, I don't know what to do. I've taught
and taught, I've talked till I'm tired, I've whipped her, I ve punished
her in every way I can think of; and still she s just what she was at
first." .
" Come here, Tops, you monkey !" said St. Clare, calling the child up
to him.
Topsy came up; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking with a
mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery.
" What makes you behave so ?" said St. Clare, who could not help
being amused with the child's expression.
" Spects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely; " Miss Feely
says so."
" Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you ? She says
she has done everything she can think of."
" Lor, yes, mas'r! old missus used to say so, too. She whipped me a
heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock my head agin the
door; but it didn't do me. no good! I spects, if they's to pull every
spear o' har out o' my head it wouldn't do no good neither—I's so
wicked! Laws! I's nothin' but a nigger, no ways!"
"Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss C^Jielia; "I can't
have that trouble a,ny longer."
" Well, I'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare.
" What is it ?"
"Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen
child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what's the use of
sending one or two poor missionaries olf with it among thousand of just
such ? I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what thousands of
your heathen are."
Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer; and Eva, who had
stpod a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy
to follow her. There was a little glass-room at the corner of the veran¬
dah, which St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room; and Eva and
Topsy disappeared into this place.
What's Eva going about, now?" said St. Clare; "I mean to see."
And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the
glass-door, and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his lips,
e made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There
sat the two children on the floor, with their side faces towards them— i
Topsy with her usual air of careless drollery and unconcern; but,
opposite to her, Eva, her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in
her large eyes.
" What does make you so bad, Topsy ? Why won't you try and be
good ? Don't you love anybody, Topsy ?"
"Donno nothing 'bout love; I loves candy and sich, that's ail," said
Topsy.
" But you love your father and mother ?"
" Never had none, ye know. 1 telled ye that, Miss Eva."
"Oh, I know," said Eva, sadly; "but hadn't you any brother, or
sister, or aunt, or—"
" No, none on 'em—never had nothing nor nobody."
"But, Topsy, if you'd only try to be good, you might—"
" Couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger, if I was ever so good," said
Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white I'd try then,"
UFE AMOKS THE LOWLY. 19!
"But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia
would love you if you were good."
Topsy pve the short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of ex¬
pressing incredulity.
" J)on't you think so ?" said Eva.
" No ; she can't bar me, 'cause I'm a nigger !—she'd's soon have a
toad touch her. There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do
nothin. I don't care " said Topsy, beginning to whistle.
" 0 Topsy, poor child, I love you!" said Eva, with a sudden burst of
feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy's shoulder, " I
love you, because you haven't had any father, or mother, or friends—
because you've been a poor, abused child! I love you, and I wa,nt
you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan't live
a great while; and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty.
I wish you would try to be good fc-r my sake; it's only a little while I
shall be with you."
The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears;
large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the
little white hand. Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of
heavenly love, had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul! She
laid her head down between her knees, and wept and sobbed; while the
beautiful child, bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright
an^el stooping to reclaim a sinner.
" Poor Topsy!" said Eva, " don't you know that Jesus loves all alike ?
He is just as willing to love you as me. He loves you just as I do,
only more, because he is better. He will help you to be good, and you
can go to heaven at last, and be an angel for ever, just as much as if
you were white. Only think of it, Topsy, you can be one of those spirits
bright Uncle Tom sings about."
" O dear Miss Eva! dear "Miss Eva!" said the child, " I will try! I
will try ! I never did care nothin' about it before."
St. Clare at this instant dropped the curtain. " It* puts me in mind
of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. " It is true what she told me: if
we want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ
did—call them to us, and put our hands on them."
" I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss Ophelia;
" and it's a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me; but I
didn't think she knew it."
"Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; "there's no keeping
it from them. But I believe that all the trying in the world to benefit
a child, and all the substantial favours you can do them, will never ex¬
cite one emotion of gratitude while that feeling of repugnance remains
in the heart; it's a queer kind of fact, but so it is."
"I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia: "they are
disagreeable to me—this child in particular. How can I help feeling
so?"
"Eva does, it seems." , , „
"Well, she's so loving! After all, though, she's no more than
Christ-like," said Miss Ophelia; " I wish I were like her. She might
teach me a lesson." .
" It wouldn't be the first time a little child had been used to instruct
an old disciple, if it were so," said St. CVre.
CKCLE TOil'S CA.B1H 03>
CHAPTEB, XXVI.
DEATH.
Eva's bedroom was a spacious apartment, which, like ail the other
rooms in the house, opened on to the broad verandah. The room com¬
municated, on one side,with her father and mother's apartment; on the
ot^er, with that appropriated to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified
his own e\ e and ta^te, m furnishing this room in a stjle that had a
peculiar keeping with the character of her for whom it was intended.
The windows were liung with curtains of rose-coloured and white
muslin ; the floor was spread with a matting which had been ordered in
Paris, to a pattern of his own device, having round it a border of rose¬
buds and leaves, and a centre-piece with full-blown roses. The bed¬
stead, chairs, and lounges were of bamboo, wrought in peculiarly graceful
and fanciful patterns. Over the head of the bed was an alabaster
bracket, on which a beautiful sculptured angel stood, with drooping
wings, holding out a crown of myrtle-leaves. From this depended, over
the bed, liuht curtains of rose-coloured gauze, striped with silver,
supplying that protection from mosquitoes which is jm indispensable
addition to all sleeping accommodation in that climate. The graceful
bamboo lounges were amply supplied with cushions of rose-coloured
damask, while over them, depending from ti.e hands of sculptured
figures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. A light fanciful
bamboo table stood in the middle of the room, where a Parian vase,
wrought in the shape of a white lily, with its buds, stood, ever filled
with flowers. On this table lay Eva's books and little trinkets, with an
elegantly-wrought alabaster writing-stand, which her father had supplied
to her when he saw her trying to improve herself in writing. Ihere
was a fireplace in the room, and on the marble mantel above stood a
neautifully-wrought statuette of Jesus receiving little children, and on
61fr r,Side marhle vases, for which it was Tom's pride and delight to
°£-ij bouquets every morning. Two or three exquisite paintings of
n ln var'ous attitudes, embellished the wall. In short, the eye
and f f" nov>^ere without meeting images of childhood, of beauty,
without'f1l^ose little eyes never opened, in the morning light,
beautiful thou<»htsSOmetllinS suSgested to the heart soothing and
was Vas^p^si^ ®^rensth which had buoyed Eva up for a little while
heard in the vemru^i, se^?m and more seldom her light footstep wa.i
on a little lounge bv a oftener and oftener she was fouud reclined
B it IESoSSS? ^ onvm°w-her larse'deep eyes w oa the
the leaves—a<;wfi>eni'ller littfe°tran« af(erno°n, as she was so reclining—
the verandah 17,116 heard her^onf n>g6rS ■lyin? listlessl>' between
" What now. you baggaKe - ♦ °thers™">e, m sbarP toneS'm
been picking tke flowers at ,
slap. ' eh ? and £.)a ^ of mischief ? You ve
the sound of a smart
liiSE LM.ONQ THE LOWS,?. 199
" w Law, missis! they's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice says which she
knew belonged to Topsy.
"Miss Eva ! A prc\;iy excuse; you suppose she wants yow flowery
you good-for-nothing digger ! Get alon^ off with you!"
In a moment Eva was off from her lounge and in the verandah.
" Oh, don't, mother! I should like the flowers; do give them to me:
I want thein I"
" W h}', Eva, your room is full no v."
" I can't have too many," said Eva. " Topsy, do bring them here."
Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, now came up
and offered her flowers. She did it with a look of hesitation and basa-
fulness, quite unlike the eldri^H boldness and brightness which was
usual with her.
" It's a beautiful bouquet!" said Eva Poking at it.
_ it was' rather a singular one—a bri.ilant scarlet geranium, and one
single white japonicu,, with its glossy leaves. It was tied up with an
evident eye to the contrast of colour, and the arrangement of every leaf
had carefully been studied.
Topsy looked pleased as Eva said, " Topsy, you arrange flowers very
prettily. Here," she said, " is this vase, I haven't any flowers; I wish
you'd arrange something every day for it."
" Well, that's odd !" said Marie. " What in the world do you want
that for ?"
"Never mind, mar.ma; you'd as lief as not Topsy should do it—had
you not ?"
" Of course, anything you please, dear! Topsy, you hear your young
mistress sde that you mind."
Top^j made a short curtsey, and looked down; and, as she turned
awny, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek.
" You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do something for
me." said Eva to her mother.
Oh, nonsense! it's only because she likes to do mischief. She
knows she mustn't pick flowers—so she does it; that's all there is to it.
But, if you fancy *o have her pluck them, so be it."
" Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to be; she's
tr>itig to be a good girl."
She'll have to try a good while before she gets to be good, said
Marie, with a careless laugh.
" W ell, you know, mamma, poor Topsy! everything has always been
against Inr."
"Not since she's been here, I'm sure. If she hasn't been talked to,
and preached to, and every earthly thing done that anybody could do;
and she's just so ugly, and always will be, you can't make anything of
the creature !" ,
"But, mamma, it's so different to be brought up as I've been, with
so many friends, so many things to make me good and happy ; and to be
brought up as she's been, all the time, till she came here!"
" Most likely," said Marie, yawning. " Dear me, how hot it is !"
" Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could become an angel,
as well as any of us, if she were a Christian ?
" Topsy ! what a ridiculous idea! Nobody but you would ever think
of it. I suppose she could, though."
" Butj mamma, isn't God her father, as much as ours ? Isn't Jesus
her Saviour?"
" Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody," said Mari®
k -^Qxere is my smelling-bottle ?"
1&4 T0ilr8 CABrS, ©A
"it's a pity—oh! such a pity!" said Eva, looking out oa tiiu
distant lake, and speaking half to herself.
"What's a pity ?" said Marie.
"Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live with
angels, should go all down, down, down, and nobody help them ! Oh,
dear!" . ,
" Well, we can't help it; it's no use worrying, Eva! J don t
know wnat's to be done; we ought to be thankful for our owa,
advantages." , ^ ,
" I hardly can be," said Eva, "I'm so sorry to think of poor fo*£S tnat
haven't any."
"That's odd enough," said Marie; "I'm sure my religion makes me
thankful for my advantages."
" Mamma," said Eva, I want to have some of my hair cut ofF— a good
deal of it."
" Wrhat for ?" said Marie.
" Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while I am able
to give it to them myself. Won't you ask aunty to come and cut it
for me?"
Mari9 raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia from the other room.
The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and. shaking down
her long golden-brown curls, said, rather playfully, 'Come, aunty,
shear the sheep ! "
" What's that ?" said St. Clare, who had just then entered with some
trait he had been out to get for her.
"Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair; there's too
much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I want to give some of
tt away."
Miss Ophelia came with her scissors.
" Take care, don't spoil the looks of it!" said her father; " cut under¬
neath, where it won't show. Eva's curls are my pride."
O, papa !" said Eva, sadly.
" Yes, and I want them kep's handsome against the time I take you
up to your uncle's plantation, to see Cousin Henrique," said St. Clare,
in a gay tone.
" I shall never go there, papa; I am going to a better country. Oh,
do believe me! Don't you see papa, that I get weaker every day ?"
"Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing, Eva?"
said her father.
"Only because it is true, papa; and if you will believe it now, per¬
haps you will get to feel about it as I do."
bt. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eyeing the long, beautiful
curls, which, as they were separated from the child's head, were laid,
one by one, m her lap. She raised them up, looked earnestly at them,
twined them around her thin fingers, and looked, from time to time,
anxiously at ner father.
wIt's just what I've been foreboding," said Marie; "it's just what
has been preying on my health from day to day, bringing me downward
to the grave, though nobody regards it. I have seen this long. St.
G'lare, you will see, after a while, that I was right."
" Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt!" said St. Clare,
in a dry, bitter tone.
Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with her cambrio
iandkerchief.
Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other. It
was the calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from its earthly
Lll'fi AMONG tHK LOWLT. 1'Ja
bonds; it was evidont sh* saw, felt, and appreciated the difference
between the two.
She beckoned with her hand to her father. lie came, and sat down
by her.
"Papa, my strength fades away ev^ry day, and I know I must go.
There are some things I want to say and do, that I ought to do; and
you are so unwilling to have me speak a word on this subject. But it
must come; there's no putting it off. Do be willing I should speak
now?"
" My child, I am willing," said St. Clare, covering his eyes with one
hand, and holding up Eva's hand with the other.
" Then I want to see all our people together. I have some things I
must say to them," said Eva.
" Well!" said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance.
Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the vthole of the
servants were convened in the room.
Eva lay back on her pillows, her hair hanging loosely about her face,
her crimson cheeks contrasting painfully with the intense whiteness of
her complexion and the thin contour of her limbs and features, and her
large, soul-like eyes fixed earnestly on every one.
The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The spiritual face,
the long locks of haircut off and lying by her, her father's averted face
and Marie's sobs, struck at once upon the feelings of a sensitive and
impressible race; and, as they came in, they looked one on another,
sighed, and shook their heads. There was a deep silence, like that of a
funeral.
"Sva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round at every one.
All looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the women hid their faces
in their aprons.
" I sent for you aih my dear friends," said Eva, " because I love you.
I love you all; and I have something to say to you, which I want you
always to remember I am going to leave you. In a few more
weeks you will see me no more—"
Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs, and
lamentations, which broke from all present, and in which her slender
voice was lost entirely. She waited a moment, and then, speaking in a
tone that checked the sobs of all, she said—
" If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen to what I
say. I want to speak to you about your souls Many of you. J
am afraid, are very careless. You are thinking only i lout this world.
I want you to remember that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is.
I am going there, and you oan go there; it is for you, as much as me.
But if you want to go th^-re, you must not live idle, careless, thought¬
less lives; you must be Christians. You must remember that each one
of you can become angels, and be angels for ever If you wan
to be Christians, Jesus will help you. You must pray to him; you
must read—" , ,
The child checked herself, looked p'tse^W ?-t them, and said
sorrowfully,—
"Oh, dear! you can't read. Poor souls!" and she hid her face m
the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob from those shs
was addressing, who were kneeling c,n the floor, aroused her.
"Never mind," she said, raising her face and smiling brighVly through
her tears, "I have prayed for you; and I know Jesus wih help you,
®veo if you can't read. Try all to do the best you can; pray every day ;
O 2
196 tfNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OU
ask Him to help you, and get the Bible read to you whenever yoil o&a;
and I think I shall see you all in heaven."
"Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom ana
Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the Methodist
church. The younger and mors thoughtless ones, for the time com¬
pletely overcome, were sobbing, with their heads bowed upon their
knees.
" I know," said Eva, " you all love me."
"Yes; oh, yes! indeed we do. Lord bless her!" was the invo¬
luntary answer of all.
"Yes, I know you do. There isn't one of you that hasn't always
been very kind to me; and I want to give you something that, when
you look at, you shall always remember me. I'm going to give all of
you a curl of my hair; and, when you look at it, think that I loved you
arid am gone to heaven, ana that I want to see you all there."
It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and sobs, they
gathered round the little creature, and took from her hands what
<?eomed to them a last mark of her love. They fell on their knees;
•fe ;v sobbed, and prayed, and kissed the hem of her garment; and the
I .er ones poured forth words of endearment, mingled in prayers and
h issings, after the manner of their susceptible race.
As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was apprehensive for
? e efleet of all this excitement on her little patient, signed to each one
£ pass out of the apartment.
At last, all were gone but Tom and Mammy.
" Here, Uncle Tom," said Eva, " is a beautiful one for you. Oh,
I am so happy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see you in heaven, for
I'm sure I shall; and Mammy—dear, good, kind Mammy!" she said,
fondly throwing her arms round her old nurse, " I know you'll be
there, too."
" 0 Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no how!" said the
faithful creature. " Tears like it's just taking everything off the place
to oncet!" and Mammy gave way to a passion of grief.
Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the apartment, and
thought they were all gone; but, as she turned, Topsy was standing
there.
" Where did you start up from P" she said, suddenly.
" I was here," said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes. " O Miss
Eva, I've been a bad girl; but won't you give me one too ?"
"Yes, poor Topsy! to be sure, I will. There — every time you
look at that, think that I love you, and wanted you to be a good
girl!"
" O Miss Eva, I is tryin !" said Topsy, earnestly; " but, Lor, it's so
lard to be good ! 'Pears like I an't used to it, no ways!"
" Jesus knows it, Topsy; he is sorry for you; he will help you."
Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passed from the
apartment by Miss Ophelia; but, as she went, she hid the precious curl
in her bosom.
All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy lady had
wiped away many tears of her own, during the scene, but concern for
the consequence of such an excitement to her young charge was upper¬
most in her mind.
St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his har.d
shading his eyes, in the same attitude. When they wera all gone, he
sat so still. '
" Papa!" said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 1U7
He gave a sudden start and shiver, but made no answer.
J Dear papa!" said Eva.
"I cannot," said St. Clare, rising," I cannot have it so! The Almighty
hath dealt very bitterly with me!" and St. Clare pronounced these
words with a hitter emphasis indeed.
" Augustine! has not God a right to do what he will with his own ?"
Baid Miss Ophelia.
"Perhaps so; but that doesn't make it any easier to bear," said he,
with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned away.
" Papa, you break my heart!" said Eva, rising and throwing herself
into his arms; " you must not feel so !" and the child sobbed and wept
with a violence which'alarmed them all, and turned her father's thoughts
at once to another channel.
" There, Eva — there, dearest! Hush! hush! I was wrong; I
was wicked. I will feel any way, do any way — only don't distress
yourself; don't sob so. I will be resigned; I was wicked to speak as
I did."
Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father's arms; and he,
bending over her, soothed her by every tender word he could think of.
Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her own,
when she fell into violent hysterics.
" You didn't give me a curl, Eva," said her father, smiling sadly.
" They are all yours, papa," said she, smiling — yours and
mamma's; and you must give dear aunty as many as she wants. I
only gave them to our poor people myself, because you know, papa,
they might be forgotten when I am gone, and because I hoped it
might help them remember You are a Christian, are you not
papa?" said Eva, doubtfully.
Why do you ask me ?"
" I don't know. You are so good, I don't see how you car;
help it."
" What is being a Christian, Eva ?"
" Loving Christ most of all, said Eva.
"Do you, Eva?"
" Certainly I do."
" You never saw him," said St. Clare.
" That makes no difference," said Eva. " I believe him, and in a
few days I shall see himand the young face grew fervent, radiant
with joy.
St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seen before in
his mother; but no chord within vibrated to it.
Eva after this declined rapidly; there was no more any doubt of the
event; the fondest hope could not be blinded. Her beautiful room was
avowedly a sick-room; and Miss Ophelia day and night performed the
duties of a nurse—and never did her friends appreciate her value more
than in that capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect
adroitness and practice in every art that could promote neatness and
comfort, and keep out of sight every disagreeable incident of sickness—
with such a perfect sense of time, such a clear, untroubled head, such
exact accuracy in remembering every prescription and direction of the
doctors — she was everything to him. They who had shrugged their
shoulders at her little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike the careless
freedom of southern manners, acknowledged that now she was the exact
person that was wanted.
Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered much from
nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her to be carried; and it was
198 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OS
Tom's greatest delight to carry her little frail form in his arms, resting
on a pillow, now up and down her room, now out into the verandah;
and when the fresh sea-breezes blew from the lakeland the child felt
freshest in the morning, he would sometimes_ walk with .her under the
orange-trees in the garden, or, sitting down in some of their old seats,
sing to her their favourite old hymns.
Her father often did the same thing; but his frame was slighter, and
When he was weary, Eva would say to him—
" O papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! it pleases him • and you
know it's ail he can do now, and he wants to do something!"
" So do I, Eva," said her father.
"Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to me. Tou
read to me—you sit up nights—and Tom has only this one thing, and
his singing; and I know, too, he does it easier than you can. He carries
me so strong!"
The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every servant
in the establishment showed the same feeling., and in their way did what
they could.
Poor Mammy's heart yearned towards her darling; but she found no
opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that the state of her mind
vras such, it was impossible for her to rest; and, of course, it was against
her principles to let any one else rest. Twenty times in a night, Mammy
would be roused to rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket-
handkerchief, to see what the noise was in Eva's room, to let down a
curtain because it was too light, or to put it up because it was too dark;
and, in the daytime, when she longed to have some share in the nurs¬
ing of her pet, Marie seemed unusually ingenious in keeping her busy
anywhere and everywhere all over the house, or about her own person:
so that stolen interviews and momentary glimpses were all she coula
obtain.
" I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself, now," she would
say, " feeble as I am, and with the whole care and nursing of that dear
child upon me."
" Indeed, my dear," said St. Clare;" I thought our cousin relieved you
of that."
" You talk like a man, St. Clare—just as if a mother could be relieved of
the care of a child in that state; but then it's all alike—no one ever
knows what 1 feel! I can't throw things off, as you do."
St. Clare smiled. You must excuse him, he couldn't help it—for St.
Clare could smile yet. For so bright and placid was the farewell voyage
of the little spirit—by such sweet and fragrant breezes was the small
bark borne towards the heavenly shores—that it was impossible to
realize that it was death that was approaching. The child felt no pain—
only a tranquil, soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly increasing:
and she was so beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so happy, that one coula
not resist the soothing influence of that air of innocence and peace
which seemed to breathe around her. St. Clare found a strange calm
coming over him. It was not hope—that was impossible; it was not
resignation ; it was only a calm resting in the present, which seemed so
oen utiful that he wished to think of no future. It was like that hush of
spirit which we feel amid the bright, mild woods of autumn, when the
blight heelic Hash is on the trees, and the last lingering flowers by the
brook; and we joy in it all the more because we know that soon it, will
all pass aw ay.
The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and foreshadow-
■S&ES was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said what she woulcj not
LIFE AMOKG THE LOWLY. 199
disturb her father by saying. To him she imparted those mysterious
intimations which the soul feels, as the cords begin to unbind ere it
leaves its clay for ever.
Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night in the
outer verandah, ready to rouse at every call.
" Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere and
evex*ywhere, like a dog, for ?" said Miss Ophelia. " I thought you were
one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie in bed in a Christian way."
" I do, Miss Feely," said Tom, mysteriously. " I do, but now—"
"Well, what now ?"
"We mustn't speak loud; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear on't; but Miss
Feely, you know there must be somebody watching for the bride¬
groom."
" What do you mean, Tom ?"
" You know it says in Scripture, 'At midnight there was a great cry
made, Behold the bridegroom cometh.1 That's what I'm spectin' now,
every night, Miss Feely—and I couldn't sleep out o' hearin' no ways."
" Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so ? "
" Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his messenger in the
soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for when that ar blessed child gees
into the kingdom, they'll open the door so wide, we'll all get a look in at
the glory. Miss Feely."
" Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than usual to¬
night ?"
' No; but she telled me this morning she was coming nearer—thar's
them that tell's it to the child, Miss Feely. It's the angels—' it's the
trumpet sound afore the break o' day,'" said Tom, quoting from a fa¬
vourite hymn.
This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, between ten
and eleven one evening, after her arrangements had all been made for
the night, when, on going to bolt her outer door, she found Tom
stretched along by it, in the outer verandah.
She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn, heartfelt manner
struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful that afternoon,
and had sat raised in her bed, and looked over all her little trinkets and
precious things, and designated the friends to whom she would have
them given ; and her manner was more animated, and her voice more
natural, than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in
in the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more like her former self
than ever she had done since her sickness; and when he kissed her for th«
night, he said to Miss Ophelia, " Cousin, we may keep her with us, after
all; sne is certainly betterand he had retired with a lighter heart in
his bosom than he had had there for weeks.
But at midnight—Strang^ mystic hour, when the veil between thti
frail present and the eternal future grows thin—then came the mes¬
senger !
There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who stepped quickly.
It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all night with her little
charge, and who, at the turn of the night, had discerned what expe¬
rienced nurses significantly call "a change." The outer door waa
quickly opened, and Tom, who was watching outside, was on the alert
in a moment.
" Go for the doctor, Tom! lose not a moment," said Miss Ophelia; and,
stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare's door.
' Cousin," she said, " I wish you would come."
Those words fell on bis heart like clods upon a coffin. Why die)
200 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
tliey ? He was up and in the room in an instant, and bending over
Eva, who still slept.
What was it he saw that made his heart stand still ? Why was no
word spoken between the two ? Thou canst say, who hast seen that
same expression on the face dearest to thee—that look, indescribable,
hopeless, unmistakeable, that says to thee that thy beloved is no longer
thine.
On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly imprint—
only a high and almost sublime expression—the overshadowing pre¬
sence of spiritual natures, the dawning of immortal life in that childish
soul.
They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the ticking of
the watch seemed too loud. In a few moments Tom returned with the
doctor. He entered, gave one look, and stood silent as the rest.
" When did this change take place ?" said he, in a low whisper, to
Miss Ophelia.
" About the turn of the night," was the reply.
Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared hurriedly from
the next room.
"Augustine! Cousin!—Oh!—what?" she hurriedly began.
" Hush!" said St. Olare, hoarsely ; " she is dying!"
Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. The
house was soon roused—lights were seen, footsteps heard, anxious faces
thronged the verandah, and looked tearfully through the glass doors ;
but St. Clare heard and said nothing—he saw only that look on the face
of the little sleeper.
" Oh, if she would only wake, and speak once more!" he said j and,
stooping over her, he spoke in her ear—" Eva, darling !"
The large blue eyes unclosed—a smile passed over her face; she tried
to raise her head, and to speak.
" Do you know me, Eva ?"
" Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, throwing her arms
about his neck. In a moment they dropped again; and, as St. Clare
raised his 1 ,ead, he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face—she
struggled ,br breath, and threw up her little hands.
"O GcJ. this is dreadful!" he said, turning away in agony, and
wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing. " O Tom,
my boy. it is killing me
Tom aad his master's hands between his own ; and, with tears stream¬
ing down his dark cheeks, looked up for help where he had always been
Used to look.
" Pray that this may he cut short!" said St. Clare, " this wrings my
heart!"
" Oh bless the Lord! it's over—it's over, dear master!' said Tom;
" look at her."
The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted—the large clear
eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those eyes that spoke so much
of Heaven ? Earth was passed, and earthly pain; but so solemn, so
mysterious, was the triumphant brightness of that face, that it checked
even the sobs of sorrow. They pressed around her, in breathless
Btillness.
" Eva!" said St. Clare, gently.
She did not hear.
" O Eva, tell us what you see ! What is it ?" said her father.
A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she sai<\
LIFE AMONG THB liOWLY. 201
brokenly—" Oh! love—joy—peace!" gave one sigh, and passed from
death unto life !
Farewell, beloved child ! the bright, eternal doors have closed after
thee; we shall see thy sweet face no more. Oh, woe for them who
watched thy entrance into heaven, when they shall wake and find only
the cold e;ray sky of daily life, and thou gone for ever.
CHAPTEB XXVII.
The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded in white
napkins, and only bushed breathings and muffled footfalls were heard
there, and the light stole in solemnly through windows partially darkened
by closed blinds.
The bed was draped in white; and there, beneath the drooping angel
figure, lay a little sleeping form—sleeping never to waken !
There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she had been
wont to wear vhen living; the rose-coloured light through the curtains
cast over the icy coldness of death a warm glow. The heavy eyelas es
drooped softly on the pure cheek ; the head was turned a little to on
side, as if in natural sleep, but there was diffused over every lineament
of the face thftt high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture and
repose, which showed it was no earthly or temporary sleep, but the long,
sacred rest which " He giveth to his beloved."
There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva.' neither darkness nor
shadow of death ; only such a bright fading as when the morning star
fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the victory without the battle—the
crown without the conflict.
So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there gazing. Ah !
who shall say what he did think ? for, from that hour that voices had
said, in the dying chamber, " She is gone," it had been all a dreary mist,
a heavy " dimness of anguish." He had heard voices around him; he
had had questions asked, and answered them; they had asked him when
he would have the funeral, and where they should lay her; and he had
answered impatiently, that he cared not.
Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber; volatile, fickle, and
childish as they generally were, they were soft-hearted and full of feel¬
ing ; and, while Miss Ophelia presided over the general details of order
and neatness, it was their hands that added those soft, poetic touches to
the arrangements, that took from the death-room the grim and ghastly
air which too often marks a New England funeral.
There were still flowers on the shelves—all white, delicate, and frt
grant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva's little table, covered wit
white, bore on it her favourite vase, with a single white moss-rosebud i
it. The folds of the drapery, the fall of the curtains, had been arrange
and re-arranged, by Adolph and Rosa, with that nicety of eye whio
characterizes their race. Even now, while St. Clare stood there thinkin
little Rosa tripped softly into the chamber with a basket of white flower
She stepped back when she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully; but,
seeing that he did not observe her, she came forward to pla them
around the dead. St. Clare saw her as in a dream, while she placed in
the small hands a fair cape jessamine, and, with admirable taste, disposed
other flowers around the couch.
The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled *ith crying,
202 CTNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
appeared, holding something under her apron. Rosa made a quic&i
forbidding gesture; but she took a step into the room. . „
" You must go out," said Rosa, in a sharp, positive whisper; yon
haven't any business here!" , . „ •,
"Oh, do let me! I brought a flower—such a pretty one. saia
Topsy. holding up a half-blown tea-rosebud. " Do let me put just ona
there/'
" Get along !" said Eosa, more decidedly. ... « cu
"Let her stay !" said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his foot. ©he
shall come."
Eosa suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid her oner-
rag at the feet of the corpse; then suddenly, with a wild and bitter cry,
ghe threw herself on the floor alongside the bed, and wept and moaned
aloud. .
Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and silence
her; but m vain.
" O Miss Eva! O Miss Eva ! I wish I's dead, too—I do !"
There was a piercing wildness in the cry; the blood flushed into
St. Clare's white, marble-like face, and the first tears he had shed since
Eva died stood in his eyes.
" Get up, child," said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice; " don't cry so;
Miss Eva is gone to heaven ! she is an an^el."
" But I can't see her!" said Topsy. " I never shall see her!" and she
sobbed again.
They all stood a moment in silence.
" She said she loved me," said Topsy—" she did! Oh, dear! oh, dear!
there ain't nobody left now—there ain't!"
"That's true enough," said St. Clare; "but do," ho said, to Hiss
Ophelia, " see if you can't comfort the poor creature."
"I jist wish I hadn't never been born," said Topsy. "I didn't ^ant
to be born, noways; and I don't see no use on't."
Miss Ophelia raised her gently, but firmly, and took her from the
room ; but, as she did so, some tears fell from her eyes.
" Topsy, you poor child," she said, as she led her into her room, "don't
give up ! I can love you, though I am not like that dear little child. I
hope I've learnt something of the love of Christ from her. 1 can love
you; I do, and I'll try to help you to grow up a good Christian girl."
Miss Ophelia's voice was more than her words, and, more than that,
were the honest tears that fell down her face. From that hour, she
acquired an influence over the mind of the destitute child that she never
■ost.
" O my Eva, whose little hour on earth did so much of good," thought
St. Clare, " what account have I to give for my long years ?"
There were, for a while, soft whisperings and footfalls in the chamber,
as one after another stole in, to look at the dead; and then came the little
coffin; and then there was a funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and
strangers came, and were seated; ana there were white scarfs and ribbons,
and crape bands, and mourners dressed in black crape; and there were
words read from the Bible, and prayers offered; and St. Clare lived, and
walked, and moved, as one who has shed every tear. To the last, he saw
only one thing, that golden head in the coffin; but then he saw the cloth
spread over it, the lid of the coffin closed; and he walked, when he was
put beside the others, down to a little place at the bottom of the garden,
aud there, by the mossy seat where she and Tom had talked, and sung!
&ad read so often, was the little gr^v«j. St, Clare stood beside it—looked
TJFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 203
Vacantly down; he saw them lower the little coffin; he heard, dimly, the
solemn words," I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that believeth
in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;" and, as the earth was cast
iD, and filled up the little grave, he could not realize that it was his Eva
that they were hiding from his sight.
Nor was it!—not Eva, but only the frail seed of that bright, immortal
form with which she shall yet come forth, in the day of the Lord Jesus!
And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to the place
which should know her no more; and Marie's room was darkened, and.
she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning in uncontrollable grief, ari
calling every moment for the attentions of all her servants. Of course,
they had no time to cry—why should they ? the grief was her grief, and
she was fully convinced that nobody on earth did, could, or would feel it
as she did.
" St. Clare did not shed a tear," she said ;"he didn't sympathize with
her; it was perfectly wonderful to think how hard-hearted and unfeeling
he was, when he must know how she suffered."
So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that many of the
servants really thought that missis was the principal sufferer in the case,
especially as Marie began to have hysterical spasms, and sent for the
doctor, and at last declared herself dying ; and, in the running and scam
pering, and bringing up hot bottles, and heating of flannels, and chafing,
and fussing, that ensued, there was quite a diversion.
Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart that drew him to his
master. He followed him wherever he walked, wistfully and sadly; and
when he saw him sitting, so pale and quiet, in Eva's room, holding before
his eyes her little open Bible, though seeing no letter or word of what
was in it, there was more sorrow to Tom in that still, fixed, tearless eye,
than in all Marie's moans and lamentations.
In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the city ;
Augustine, with the restlessness of grief, longing for another scene, to
change the current of his thoughts. So they left the house and garden,
with its little grave, and came back to New Orleans; and St. Clare
walked th«* streets busily, and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart
with hurry and bustle, and change of place ; and people who saw him in
the street, or met him at the cafe, knew of his loss only by the weed on
his hat; for there he was smiling and talking, and reading the news¬
paper, and speculating on politics, and attending to buisness matters;
and who could see that all this smiling outside was but a hollow shell
over a heart that was a dark and silent sepulchre p
" Mr. St. Clare is a singular man," said Marie to Miss Ophelia, in a
complaining tone. " I used to think, if there was anything in the world
he did love, it was our dear little Eva ; but he seems to be forgetting her
very easily. I cannot ever get him to talk about her. I really did think
he would show more feeling." .
" Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me," said Miss Ophelia
oracularly. . , ,
" Oh, 1 don't believe in such things ; it s all talk. If people have
feeling, they will shcpw it—they can't help it; but, then, it's a great mis¬
fortune to have feeling. I'd rather have been made like St. Clare. My
feelings prey upon me so !"
" Sure, missis, Mas'r St. Clare is gettin' thin as a shadder. They say
he don't never eat nothin'," said Mammy. " I know he don't forget
Miss Eva ; I know there couldn't nobody—dear, little, blessed «*etur!"
she added, wiping her eyes.
204 TNCLB TOM'S CABIN, OB
" Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me," said Marie;
" he hasn't suoken one word of sympathy, and he must know how much
more a mother feels than any man can."
" The heart knoweth its own bitterness," said Miss Ophelia, gravely.
" That's just what I think. I know just what I feel—nobody else
seems to. Eva used to, but she's gone!" and Marie lay Dack on her
lounge, and began to sob disconsolately.
Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals, in whose
eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which it never had m
possession. Whatever she had, she seemed to survey only to pick flaws
m it; but, once fairly away, there was no end to her valuation of it.
While this conversation was taking place in the parlour, another was
going on in St. Clare's library.
Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about, had seen
him go to his library, some hours before; and, after vainly waiting for
him to come out, determined, at last, to make an errand in. He entered
softly. St. Clare lay on his lounge, at the further end of the room. He
was lying on his face, with Eva's Bible open before him, at a little dis¬
tance. Tom walked up, and stood by the sofa. He hesitated; and,
while he was hesitating, St. Clare suddenly raised himself up. The
honest face, so full of grief, and with such an imploring expression of
affection and sympathy, struck his master. He laid his hand on Tom's,
and bowed down his forehead on it.
" Oh, Tom, my boy, the whole world is as empty as an egg-shell."
" I know it, mas'r—I know it," said Tom. " But, oh, if mas'r could
only look up—up where our dear Miss Eva is—up to the dear Lord
Jesus!"
" Ah ! Tom! I do look up; but the trouble is, I don't see anything
when I do. I wish I could."
Tom sighed heavily.
" It seems to be given to children, and poor honest fellows like you,
to see what we can't," said St. Clare. " How comes it ? "
" Thou hast ' hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto
babes,'" murmured Tom: "' even so, leather, for it seemed good in thy
sight.'"
" Tom, I don't believe—I can't believe; I've got the habit of doubt¬
ing," said St. Clare. " I want to believe this Bible, and I can't."
' Dear mas'r, pray to the good Lord—' Lord, I believe; help thou my
unbelief.'"
" Who knows anything about anything ?" said St. Clare, his eyes
wandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. " Was all that beautiful
love and faith only one of the ever-shifting phases of human feeling,
having nothing real to rest on, passing away with the little breath ? And
is there no more Eva—no heaven—no Christ—nothing ? "
" O, dear mas'r, there is! I know it; I'm sure of it," said Tom, fall¬
ing on his knees. " Do, do, dear mas'r, believe it!"
' How do you know there's any Christ, Tom ? You never saw the
Lord."
" Felt him in my soul, mas'r—feel him now! O, mas'r, when I
was sold away from my old woman and the children, I was jest a'most
broke up. I felt as if there warn't nothin' left; and then the good Lord,
he stood by me, and he says. ' Fear not, Tomand he brings light ana
joy into a poor feller's soul—makes all peace; and I's so happy, and
loves everybody, and feels willin' jest to be the Lord's, and have the
Lord's wiU done, and be jest where the Lord wants to put rao. I know
SiTFB AMONG THE LOWLY. 265
It couldn't come from me, 'cause I's a poor, complainin' cretur; it comes
from the Lord; and I know he's willing to do for mas'r."
Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St. Clars
leaned his head on his shoulder, and wrung the hard, faithful, black
hand.
" Tom, you love me," he said.
" I's willin' to lay down my life, this blessed day, to seemas'r a Cliri-tian."
" Poor, foolish boy !" said St. Clare, half-raising himself. " i'm not
worthy the love of one good, honest heart, like yours."
" O mas'r, dere's more than me loves you—the blessed Lord Jesus
loves you."
" How do you know that Tom ? " said St. Clare.
"Peels it in my soul. O mas'r! 'the love of Christ, that passetb
knowledge.'"
" Singular !" said St. Clare, turning away, " that the story of t msn
that lived and died eighteen hundred years a?o can afreet people so jet.
But he was no man," he added, suddenly. "No man ever had suoii long
and living power! Oh, that I could believe what my mother taught
me. and pray as I did when I was a boy !"
If mas'r pleases," said Tom, " Miss Eva used to read this so beauti¬
fully. I wish mas'r'd be so good as read it. Don't get no readin',
hardly, now Miss Eva's gone."
The chapter was the eleventh of John—the touching account of the
raising of Lazarus. St. Clare read it aloud, often pausing to wrestle
down feelings which were aroused by the pathos of the story. Tom knelt
before him, with clasped hands, and with an absorbed expression of
love, trust, adoration on his quiet face.
" Tom," said his master, " this is all real to you !"
u I can jest fairly see it, mas'r," said Tom.
" I wish I had your eyes, Tom."
" I wish to the dear Lord mas'r had!"
'* But, Tom, you know that 1 have a great deal more knowledge than
you. What if I should tell you that I don't believe this Bible ? "
" O mas'r!" said Tom, holding up his hands, with a deprecating
Restore.
" Wouldn't it shake your faith some, Tom ? "
" Not a grain," said Tom.
" Why, Tom, you must know I know the most."
" O mas'r, haven't you jest read how he hides from the wise and
prudent, arid reveals unto babes ? But mas'r wasn't in earnest, for sar-
tin. now ? " said Tom, anxiously.
No, Tom, I was not. I don't disbelieve, and I think there is reason
to believe; and still I don't. It's a troublesome bad habit I've got, Tom."
" If mas'r would only pray ! "
" How do you know I don't, Tom ? "
" Does mas'r ? "
" I would, Tom, if there was anybody there when I pray; but it's all
speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come, Tom, you pray, now, and
show me how."
Tom's heart was full; he poured it out in prayer, like waters that
have been long suppressed. One thing was plain enough; Tom thought
there was somebody to hear, whether there were or not. In fact, St.
Clare felt himself borne, on the tide of his faith and feeling, almost to
the gates of that heaven he seemed so vividly to conceive. It seemed to
bring him nearer to Eva.
sh>0 ttkclb TOM'S cabih OB
"Thank you, my boy," said St. Clare, when Tom rose. " I like ta
hear you, Tom; but go, now, and leave me alone; some other time, 111
talk more."
Tom silently left the room.
CHAPTEE XXVIII.
beunion.
Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, and the waves
o» life settled back to their usual flow where that little bark had gone
down. For how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one's feeling,
does tH hard, oold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on!
Still mast we eat, and drink, and sleep and wake again—still bargain,
buy, sell, ask and answer questions—pursue, in short, a thousand
shadows, though all interest in them be over; the cold mechanical habit
of living remaining, after all vital interest in it has fled.
All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had unconsciously wound
themselves around this child. It was for Eva that he had managed his
property; it was for Eva that he had planned the disposal of his time;
and, to do this and that for Eva—to buy, improve, alter, and arrange, or
dispose something for her—had been so long his habit, that, now she was
gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to be done.
True, there was another life—a life which, once believed in, stands
as a solemn, significant figure before the otherwise unmeaning ciphers of
time, changing them to orders mysterious, untold value. St. Clare
knew this well; and often in ma .y a weary hour, he heard that slender,
childish voice calling him to the skies, and saw that little hand pointing
to him the way of life; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay on him—he
could not rise. He bad one of those natures which could better and
more clearly conceive of religious things from its own perceptions and
instincts, than many a matter-of-fact and practical Christian. The
gift to appreciate and the sense to feel the finer shades and relations of
moral things, often seems an attribute of those whose whole life shows
a careless disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, often speak
words more wisely descriptive of the true religious sentiment than an¬
other man whose whole life is governed by it. In such minds, disregard
of religion is a more fearful treason—a more deadly sin.
St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any religious
obligation; and a certain fineness of nature gave him such an instinctive
view of the extent of the requirements of Christianity, that he shrank,
by anticipation, from what he felt would be the exactions of his own
conscience, if he once did resolve to assume them. For, so inconsistent
is human nature, especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing
at all seems better than to undertake and come short.
Still St. Clare was in many respects another man. He read his little
Eva's Bible seriously and honestly; he thought more soberly and prac¬
tically of his relations to his servants—enough to make him extremely
dissatisfied with both his past and present course; and one thing he did,
soon after his return to New Orleans, and that was to commence the
legal- steps necessary to Tom's emancipation, which was to be perfected
as soon as he could get through the necessary formalities. Meantime
he attached himself to Tom more and more, every day. In all the wide
world, there was nothing that seemed to remind him so much of Eva:
sad be would "^sirt cr keeping him constant^ sbout fcisa, fes*i«
li?a AMONG THB LOWIY. 297
dious and unapproachable as he was with regard to his deeper feelings,
he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor would any one have wondered
at it, who had seen the expression of affection and devotion with which
Tom continually followed his young master.
" Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced the
legal formalities for his enfranchisement, " I'm going to make a free
man of you; so, have your trunk packed, and get ready to set out fur
Kentuck."
The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he raised his hands
to heaven, his emphatic Bless the Lord !" rather discomposed St. Clare •.
he did not like it that Tom should be so ready to leave him.
" You haven't had such very had times here, that you need be in
su ;h a rapture, Tom," he said, drily.
" No, no, mas'r! 'tan't that—it's bein' a free man ! That's what I ^
joyin' for."
" Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you've been better
off than to be free ?"
" No, indeed!, Mas'r St. Clare." said Tom, with a flash of energy. " No.
indeed!"
" Why, Tom, you couldn't possibly have earned, by your work, such
clothes and such living a® 1 have given you."
" Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare; mas'r's been too good; but, mas'r,
I'd rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor everything, and have 'em
mine, than have the best, and have 'em any man's else ! I had so, mas'r;
I think it's natur, mas'r!"
" 1 suppose so, Tom; and you'll be going off and leaving me, in a
month or so," he added, rather discontentedly. " Though why you
shouldn't, no mortal knows," he said, in a gayer tone; and, getting up,
he began to walk the floor.
" Not while mas'r is in troable," said Tom. " I'll stay with mas'r as
long as he wants me—so as I can be any use."
" Not while I'm in trouble, Tom?" said St. Clare, looking sadly out
of the window. " And when will my trouble be over ? "
" When Mas'r St. Clare's a Christian," said Tom.
" And you really mean to stay by till that day comes ? '* said St. Clare,
half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid his hand on
Tom's shoulder. " Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy ! I won't keep you
till that day. Go home to your wife and children, and give my love
to all."
" I's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom, earnestly, and 7»iti>
tears in his eyes ; " the Lord has a work for mas'r."
" A work, eh ? " said St. Clare. " Well now, Tom, give me your Tiews
on what sort of a work it is; let's hear."
" Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord ; and
Mas'r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends—how much ho
might de for the Lord !"
" Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done for him,"
said St. Clare, smiling.
" We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs," said Tom.
"Good theology, Tom; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare swear,"
said St. Clare.
The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of some
visitors.
Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could feel any¬
thing ; and as she was a woman that had a great faculty of making
psarybody unhappy when sha was, her immediate attendants had still
208 tftfciE Tours cabin, oa
stronger reason to regret the loss of their youncr mi^rw, whose winning
ways and gentle intercessions had so often been a shield to taera ironi
the tyrannical and selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old Mammy,
in particular whose heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, naa
consoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost heart-broKen.
She cried day and night, and was, from excess ot sorrow, less siuliul ana
alert in her ministrations on her mistress than usual, which drew down
a, constant storm of invectives on her defenceless head.
Miss Ophelia felt the loss ; but, in her good and bonest heart, it bore
fruit unto everlasting life. She was more softened, more gentle; and,
though equally assiduous in every duty, it was with a chastened and
quiet air, as one who communed with her own heart not in vain. She
was more diligent in teaching Topsy—taught her mainly from the Bible
—did not any longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an ill-repressed
disgust, because she felt none. She viewed her now through the softened
medium that Eva's hand had first held before her eyes, and saw in her
only an immortal creature, whom God had sent to be led by her to glory
and virtue. Topsy did not become at once a saint; but the life and
death of Eva did work a marked change in her. The callous indifference
was gone; there was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving for
good—a strife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed
again.
One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she came,
hastily thrusting something into her bosom.
" What are you doing there, you limb ? You've been stealing some¬
thing, I'll be bound," said the imperious little Rosa, who had been sent
to call her, seizing her, at the same time, roughly by the arm.
"You go 'long, Miss Rosa!" said Topsy, pulling from her; " 'tan't
none o' your business !"
" None o' your sa'ce !" said Rosa. " I saw you hiding something—I
know yer tricks;" and Rosa seized her arm, and tried to force her hand
into her bosom ; while Topsy, enraged, kicked and fought valiantly for
what she considered her rights. The clamour and confusion of '.he battle
drew Miss Ophelia and St. Clare both to the spot.
" She's been stealing!" said Rosa.
" I han't, neither !" vociferated Topsy, sobbing with passion
" Give me that, whatever it is 1" said Miss Ophelia, firmly.
Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of her bosom a
little parcel done up in the foot of one of her own old stockings.
Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, which had
been given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse of Scrip! n»-e,
arranged for every day in the year, and in a paper the curl of hair tl>:it
she had given her on that memorable day when she had taken her last
farewell.
St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it; the little bo^
had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from the funeral
weeds.
" What did you wrap this round the book for ?" said St. Clare, hold¬
ing up the crape.
" 'Cause—'cause—'cause 'twas Miss Eva. Oh, don't take 'em away,
please !" she said; and sitting flat down on the floor, and putting her
apron over her head, she began to sob vehemently.
It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous—the little
old stocking—black crape—text-book—fair, soft curl—and Topsy's utter
distress.
St. Clare smiled; but there were tears in his eyes, as he said
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 209
" Come, come—don't cry; you shall have them !" and, putting them
together, he threw them into her lap, and drew Miss Ophelia with him
into the parlour.
" I really think you can make something of that concern," he said,
pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. "Any mind that
is capable of a real sorrow is capable of good. You must try and do
something with her."
" The child has improved greatly," said Miss Ophelia. " I have j
great hopes of her; but, Augustine," she said, laying her hand on his
arm, " one thing I want to ask; whose is this child to be ?—yours or
mine ? "
" Why, I gave her to you" said Augustine.
" But not legally; I want her to be mine legally," said Miss Ophelia.
" Whew ! cousin," said Augustine; " what will the Abolition Society
think P They'll have a day of fasting appointed for this backsliding, i*{
you become a slaveholder!"
" Oh, nonsense ! I want her mine, that I may have a right to take
her to the free States, and give her her liberty; that all I am trying to do
be not undone."
" Oh, cousin, what an awful 1 doing evil that good may come !' I
can't encourage it."
" I don't want you to joke, but to reason," said Miss Ophelia.
" There is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian child, un¬
less I save her from all the chances and reverses of slavery ; and, if you
really are willing I should have her, I want you to give me a deed of
gift, or some legal paper."
" Well, well," said St. Clare, " I will;" and he sat down, and unfolded
a newspaper to read.
" But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia.
' What's your hurry ?"
" Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing in," said
Miss Ophelia. " Come, now, here's paper, pen, and ink; just write
a paper."
St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated the pre¬
sent tense of action generally; and, therefore, he was considerably
annoyed by Miss Ophelia's downrightness.
"Why, what's the matter?" said he. "Can't you take my word?
One would think you had taken lessons of the Jews, coming at a
fellow so !"
"I want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia. "You may die, or
fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite of all I can do."
Eeally, you are quite provident. Well, seeing I'm in the hands of
a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede;" and St. Clare rapidly
wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was well versed in the forms of law,
he could easily do, and signed his name to it in sprawling capitals, cou
eluding by a tremendous flourish.
" There, isn't that black and white, now, Miss Vermont," he said, as
he handed it to her.
" Good boy," said Miss Ophelia, smiling. " But must it not be
witnessed?" ,
" Oh, bother !—yes. Here," he said, opening the door into Marie s
apartment, " Marie, cousin wants your autograph; just put your name
down here."
"What's this ?" said Marie, as she ran over the paper, liiaiculous !
I thought cousin was too pious for such horrid things," she added, as she
V '
210 uncle TOSI'S CABIN, OB
carelessly wrote lier name; " but if she has a fancy for that article, I in
sure she's welcome.' . , A- ^
" There, now she's yours, body and soul, said St. Clare, handing the
^ ^No more mine now than she was before," said^ Miss Ophelia.
" Nobody but God has a ri ,ht to give her to me; but I can protect
^ Well, she's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. Clare, as he
turned back into the parlour, and sat down to his paper.
Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company, tallowed bnn
to the parlour, having first carefully laid away the paper.
•' Augustine," she said suddenly, as she sat knitting, have you ever
made any provision for your servants, in case of your death ?"
•' No," said St. Clare, as he read on.
" Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great cruelty by-
and-by."
St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but he answered
negligently—
Well, I mean to make a provision by-and-by."
" When ? " said Miss Ophelia.
" Oh, one of these days."
' What if you should die first ?" _
"Cousin, what's the matter?" said St. Clare, laying down his paper,
and looking at her. " Do you think I show symptoms of yellow fever
or cholera, that you are making post mortem arrangements with such
zeal ?"
" ' In the midst of life we are in death,' " said Miss Ophelia.
St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly walked to the
door that stood open on the verandah, to put an end to a conversation
that was not agreeable to him. Mechanically he repeated the last word
again—" Death /"—and, as he leaned against the railings and watched
the sparkling water, as it rose and fell in the fountain, and, as in a dim and
dizzy haze, saw the flowers and trees and vases of the courts, he repeated
again the mystic word, so common in every mouth, yet of such fearful
power—" Death !" ' Strange that there should be such a word," he
said, "and such a thing, and we ever forget it: that one should be living,
warm and beautiful, full of hopes, desires, and wants one day, and the
next be gone, utterly gone, and for ever!"
It was a warm, golden evening; and, as he walked to the other end of
the verandah, he saw Tom busily intent on his Bible, pointing as he did
so, with his finger, to each successive word, and whispering them to him
scif, wiih an earnest air.
" Want me to read to you, Tom ?" said St. Clare, seating himself care*
essly by him.
" If mas'r pleases," said Tom, gratefully; " mas'r makes it so much
plainer."
St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and began reading
one of the passages which Tom had designated by the heavy marks
around it. It ran as follows:—
"When the Son of Man shall come in his glory, and all his holy
angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and
before him shall be gathered all nations; and he shall separate them
one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats."
St. Clare read on in an animated voice, till he came t the last ol the
verses.
" Then shall the King say unto them on his left hand, Depart from
LIFE AMONG- THE LOWLY. 2U
mo, ye cursed, into everlasting fire: for I was an hungered, and ye gava
me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger,
and ye took me not in : naked, and ye clothed me not: I was sick, and
in prison, and ye visited me not. Then shall they answer unto Kim,
Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked,
or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee? Then shall
he say unto them,' Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these
my brethren, ye (lid it not to me."
St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read it twice—
the second time slowly, and as if he were revolving the words in his
mind.
" Tom," he said, " these folks that get such hard measure seem to have
been doing just what I have—living good, easy, respectable lives, and not
troubling themselves to inquire how many of their brethren were hungry
or athirst, or sick, or in prison."
Tom did not answer.
St,. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the verandah,
seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts; so absorbed was he,
that Tom had to remind him twice that the tea-bell had rung, before he
could get his attention.
St. Clare wuz absent and thoughtful all tea-time. After tea, ha
and Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the parlour, almost in
silence.
Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito curtain,
and wns soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently busied herself with
her knitting. St. Clare sat down to the piano, and began playing a soft
and melancholy movement with the /Eolian accompaniment. Ho
seemed in a deep reverie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music.
After a little, he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music-book
whose leaves were yellow with age, and began turning it over.
"There," he said to Miss Ophelia, "this was one of my mother's
books, and here is her handwriting—come and look at it. She copied
and arranged this from Mozart's Requiem." Miss Ophelia came ac¬
cordingly.
"It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. "I think
I can hear her now."
lie struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that grand old
Latin piece, the "Dies Inc."
Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn by the
sound to the very door, where he stood earnestly. He did not under¬
stand the words, of course; but the music and manner of singing
appeared to afi'ect him strongly, especially when St. Clare sang the more
pathetic parts. Tom would have sympathized more heartily, if he ha/
known the meaning of the beautiful words:—
" Reconkire, Jcsu pie,
Quod sum causa tu£e vis?v
Ne me perdas iKa die:
Quacrer.s me sedisti lassufj
Redemisti crucem passus;
Tantus labor non sit cm in."*
• Tb-e&c lines hir.ve been thus rather inadequately translated :—
" Think, O Jesus, for what reason
Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason,
Nor me lose, in that aifad season :
Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted,
On the cross thy soul death tasted;
fjgt not all these toils be wasted."
3? 3
212 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the wor^
shadowy vale of years seemed drawn away, and he 1,->
motffi voice leading his. Voice, and instrument ^emed both hvmg
and threw out with vivid sympathy those strains which the etnereal
Mozart first conceived as his own dying req,ul1®°^- v- j 11T)nTl
When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head upon his
hand a few moments, and then began walking up and down the floor.
"What a sublime conception is that of a, last judgment! said he.
" A righting of all the wrongs of ages !—a solving of all moral problems,
by an unanswerable wisdom! It is, indeed, a wonderful image.
" It is a fearful one to us " said Miss Ophelia. .
" It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare, stopping thought- 1
fully. " I was reading to Tom this afternoon that chapter in Matthew
that gives an account of it, and I have been quite struck with it. One
should have expected some terrible enormities charged to those who are
excluded from heaven, as the reason; but no—they are condemned for
not doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm."
" Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, " it is impossible for a person who does
no good not to do harm."
" And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but with deep
feeling, " what shall be said of one whose own heart, whose education,
and the wants of society, have called in vain to some noble purpose;
who has floated on, a dreamy, neutral spectator of the struggles, agonies,
and wrongs of man, when he should have been a worker ?"
" I should say," said Miss Ophelia, " that he ought to repent, and
begin now."
' Always practical and to the point!" said St. Clare, his face breaking
out into a smile. " You never leave me any time for general reflections,
cousin; you always bring me short up against the actual present; you
have a kind of eternal now, always in your mind."
" Now is all the time I have anything to do with," said Miss Ophelia.
"Dear little Eva—poor child!" said St. Clare, "she had set her little
simple soul on a good work for me."
It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever said as many
words as these of her, and he spoke now evidently repressing very strong
feeling.
" My view of Christianity is such," he added, " that I think no man
can consistently profess it without throwing the whole weight of his
being against this monstrous system of injustice that lies at the founda-
fion of all our society ; and, if need be, sacrificing himself in the battle.
That is, I mean that I could not be a Christian otherwise, though I
have certainly had intercourse with a great many enlightened and
Christian people who did no such thing; and I confess that the apathy
of religious people on this subject, their want of perception of wrongs
that filled me with horror, have engendered in me more scepticism than
any other thing."
'If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia^ "why didn't you do it?"
"Oh, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which con¬
sists in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy for not being
martyrs and confessors. One can see, you know, very easily, how others
ought to be martyrs."
Well, are jou going to do differently now?" said Miss Ophelia.
" God only knows the future," said St. Clare. " I am braver than I
aas, because I have lost all; and he who has nothing to lose can aii'ord
kll risks."
"And what are you going to do?"
IlFE AMONG THE tOWIiY. 218
u My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as 1 find it out,"
taid St. Clare, " beginning with my own servants, for whom I have yet
done nothing; and perhaps at some future day, it may appear that I
can do something for a whole class; something to save my country from
tiie disgrace of that false position in which she now stand® before all
civilized nations."
"Do you suppose it possible that the nation ever will voluntarily
emancipate?" said Misj Ophelia.
" I don't know," said St. Clare. " This is a day of great deeds.
Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, hers and there, in the earth.
The Hungarian nobles set free millions of serfs, at an immense pecuniary
losa; and, perhaps, among us may be found generous spirits, who do
not estimate honour and justice by dollars and cents."
" I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia.
" But suppose we should rise up to-morrow and emancipate, who
would educate these millions, and teach them how to use their freedom?
They never would rise to do much among us. The fact is, we are too
lazy and unpractical ourselves ever to give them much of an idea of that
industry and energy which is necessary to form them into men. They
will have to go north, where labour is the fashion—the universal custom;
and tell me, now, is there enough Christian philanthropy among your
northern states to bear with the process of their education and elevation?
You send thousands of dollars to foreign missions; but could you endure
to have the heathen sent into your towns and villages, and give your
time, and thoughts, and money, to raise them to the Christian standard ?
That's what I want to know. If we emancipate, are you willing to
educate ? How many families in your town would take in a negro man
and woman, teach them, bear with them, and seek to make them
Christians ? How many merchants would take Adolph, if I wanted to
make him a clork; or mechanics, if I wanted him taught a trade ? If I
wanted to put Jane and llosa to a school, how many schools are there in
the northern states that would take them in ? how many families that
would board them? and yet they are as white as many a woman, north
or south. You see, cousin, I want justice done us. We are in a bad
position. We are the more obvious oppressors of the negro; but the
unchristian prejudice of the north is an oppressor almost equally
severe."
"Well, cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia. "I know it was
so with me, till I saw that it was my duty to overcome it; but I trust
have overcome it, and I know there are many good people at the north
who in this matter need only to be taught what their duty is to do it.
It would certainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen among us
than to send missionaries to them; but I think we would do it."
" You would, I know," said St. Clare. " I'd like to see anything you
wouldn't do, if you thought it your duty !"
"Well, I'm not uncommonly good," said Miss Ophelia. "Others
would, if they saw things as I do. I intend to take Topsy home, when I
go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at first; but I think they will be
brought to see as I do. Besides, I know there are many people at the
north who do exactly what you said.*'
" Yes, but they are a minority; and if we should begin to emancipate
to any extent, we should soon hear from you." -
Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some moments
and St. Clare's countenance was overcast by a sad, dreamy expression.
" I don't know what makes me think of my mother so much to-night,"
he said. " I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she were near me. I
214 UNCLE TOM'8 CABIN, OB
keep thinking of things she used to say. Strange, what brings these
■"past things so vividly back to us, sometimes !" . „r j
St. Clare walked up and. down the room for some minutes more, arid
f'bcn sind*"-■* >
" I believe I'll go down street, a few moments, and hear the news to¬
night."
He took his hat, and passed out. .„,
Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and asked. 11 no
should attend him. .
"No, my boy," said St. Clare. " I shall be back m an hour.
Tom sat down in the verandah. It was a beautiful moonlight evening,
and he sat watching the rising and falling spray of the fountain, and
listening to its murmur. Tom thought of his home, and that he should
soon be a free man, and able to return to it at will. He thought how
he should work to buy his w ife and boys. He felt the muscles of his
brawny arms with a sort of joy, as he thought they would soon belong
to himself, and how much they could do to work out the freedom of his
family. Then he thought of his noble young master, and, ever second to
that, came the habitual prayer that he had always offered for him; and
then his thoughts passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now thought
of among the angels; and he thought till he almost fancied that that
bright face and golden hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of
the fountain. And, so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her
coming bounding towards him, just as she used to come, with a wreath
of jessamine in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant with
delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise from the ground; her
cheeks wore a paler hue—her eyes had a deep, divine radiance, a golden
halo seemed around her head—and she vanished from his sight; and
Tom was awakened by a loud knocking, and the sound of many voices
at the gate.
He hastened to undo it; and, with smothered voices and heavy tread,
came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a cloak, and lying on a
shutter. The light of the lamp fell full on the face; and Tom gave a
wild cry of amazement and despair, that rang through all the galleries,
as the men advanced with their burden to the open parlour door, where
Miss Ophelia still sat knitting.
St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening paper. As
he was reading, an affray arose between two gentlemen in the room, who
were both partially intoxicated. St. Clare and one or two others made
an effort to separate them, and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the side
with a bowie-knife, which he was attempting to wrest from one of tlicm.
The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks and screams;
servants frantically tearing their hair, throwing themselves on the
ground, or running distractedly about, lamenting. Tom and Miss Ophelia
alone seemed to nave any presence of mind ; for Marie was in strong
hysterio convulsions. At Miss Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges
in the parlour was hastily prepared, and the bleeding form laid upon it.
St. Clare had fainted, through pam and loss of blood; but as Miss
Ophelia applied restoratives, he revived, opened his eyes, looked fixedly
on them, looked earnestly around the room, his eyes travelling wistfully
over every object, and finally they rested on his mother's picture.
The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It was evident,
from the expression of his face, that there was no hope; but he applied
himself to dressing the wound, and he and Miss Ophelia and Tom pro¬
ceeded composedly with this work, amid the lamentations and sobs and
LIPS AMONG THE LOWLY. 215
cries of th« affrighted servants, who had. clustered about the doors and
windows of the verandah.
"Now," said the physician, "we must turn all these creatures out;
all depends on his being kept quiet."
St. Clare opened his eyes, aud looked fixedly on the distressed beings
whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urge from the apart¬
ment. "Poor creatures!" he said, and an expression of bitter self-
reproacn passed over his face. Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror
had deprived him of all presence of mind; he threw himself along on the
floor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest yielded to Miss
Ophelia's urgent representations, that their master's safety depended on
their stillness and obedience.
St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, but it wag
•*vident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. After a while, he kid his
nand on Tom's, who was kneeling beside him, and said, " Tom! poor
fellow!"
" What, mas'r?" said Tom, earnestly.
" I am dying!" said St. Clare, pressing his hand. " Pray!"
" If you would like a clergyman—" said the physician.
St. Clare hastily shook his head, and &aid again to Tom, more earnestly
"Pray!"
And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the soul that
was passing—the soul that seemed looking so steadily and mournfully
from those large, melancholy blue eyes. It was literally prayer offered
with strong crying and tears.
When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took his hand,
looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He closed his eyes, but
still retained his hold; for, in the gates of eternity, the black hand, and
the white hold each other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly far
himself, at broken intervals—
" Recordare Jesu pie—
* * * *
Ne me perdas—ilia die
Quserens me—sedisti lassira. '
It was evident that the words he had been singing that evening were
passing through his mind—words of entreaty addressed to Infinite Pity.
His hps moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn fell brokenly from
them.
" His mind is wandering," said the doctor.
"No ! it is coming home at last I" said St. Clare, energetically; "at
last! at last!" .
The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking paleness of death
fell on him; but with it there fell, as if shed from the wings of some
pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of peace, like that of a wearied child
who sleeps.
So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty hand was on
him. Just before the spirit parted, he opened his eves with a sudden
light, as of jioy and recognition, and said ' Mother I' sad then he waa
gone !
216
UNCLE T0M®8 CABIN. OB
CHAPTEE XXIX.
the unprotected.
We hoar often of the distress of the negro servants, on the loss of a
kind master, and with good reason; Jor no creature on God's earth u
left more utterly unprotected and desolate than the slave in these
circumstances.
The child who has lost his father has still the protection of friends and
of the law; he is something, and can do something—has acknowledged
rights and position: the slave has none. The law regards him, in every
respect, as devoid of rights as a bale of merchandise. The only possible
acknowledgment of any of the longings and wants of a human and
immortal creature which are given to him, comes to him through the
sovereign and irresponsible will of his master; and when that master
is stricken down, nothing remains.
The number of those men who know how to use wholly irresponsible
power humanely and generously is small. Everybody knows this, and
the slave knows it best of all; so that he feels that there are ten chances
of his finding an abusive and tyrannical master, to one of his finding
a considerate and kind one. Therefore is it that the wail over a kind
master is loud and long, as well it may be.
When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation took hold
of all his household. He had been stricken down so in a moment, in the
flower and strength of his youth! Every room and gallery of the house
rescunded with sobs and shrieks of despair.
Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a constant course
of self-indulgence, had nothing to support the terror of the shock, and,
at the time her husband breathed his last, was passing from one fainting¬
fit to another; and he to whom she had been joined in the mysterious
tie of marriage passed from her for ever, without the possibility of even
a parting word.
Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control, had re¬
mained with her kinsman to the last—all eye, all ear, all attention, doing
everything of the little that could be done, and joining with her whole
soul in the tender and impassioned prayers which the poor slave had
poured forth for the soul of his dying master.
When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found upon his
bosom a small, plain miniature case, opening with a spring. It was the
miniature of a noble and beautiful female face; and on the reverse,
under a crystal, a lock of dark hair. They laid them back on the lifeless
breast—dust to dust—poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once
made that cold heart beat so warmly !
Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and while he
ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once think that the sudden
stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. He felt at peace about his
master; for in that hour when he had poured forth his prayer into the
bosom of his Father, he had found an answer of quietness and assur¬
ance springing up within himself. In the depths of his own affectionate
nature he felt able to perceive something of the fulness of Divine love;
for an old oracle hath thus written, " He that dwelleth in love dwelletk
in God and God in him " Tom hoped an<3 'rusted, and yrvs ei peace.
XiiFE AMONG THE LOWtt. 217
But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape, and
prayers, and solemn faces; and back rolled the cool, muddy waves of
every-day life; and up came the everlasting hard inquiry of " What is
to be done next ? "
It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning-robes, and
surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a great easy-chair, and
inspected samples of crape and bombazine. It rose to Miss Ophelia,
who began to turn her thoughts towards her northern home. It rose,
in silent terrors, to the minds of the servants, who well knew the un¬
feeling, tyrannical character of the mistress in whose hands they were
left. All knew very well that the indulgences which had been accorded
to them were not from their mistress, but from their master; and that,
now he was gone, there would be no screen between them and every
tyrannous infliction which a temper soured by affliction might
devise.
It was about a fortnight after the funeral that Miss Ophelia^ busied
one day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at the door. She opened
it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty young quadroon whom we have
before often noticed, her hair in disorder, and her eyes swelled with
crying.
" O, Miss Feely," she said, falling on her knees, and catching the skirt
of her dress, " do, do go to Miss Marie for me! do plead for me! She's
goin' to send me out to be whipped—look there!" And she handed to
Miss Ophelia a paper.
It was an order, written in Marie's delicate Italian hand, to the
master of a whipping-establishment, to give the bearer fifteen lashes.
" What have you been doing ?" said Miss Ophelia.
"You know, Miss Eeely, I've got such a bad temper; it's very bad of
me. I was trying on Miss Marie's dress, and she slapped my face; and
I spoke out before I thought, and was saucy ; and she said she'd bring
me down, and have me know, once for all, that I wasn't going to be so
topping as 1 had been ; and she wrote this, and says I shall carry it.
I'd rather she'd kill me, right out."
Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her hand.
" You see, Miss Peely," said llosa, " I don't mind the whipping so
much, if Miss Marie ot you was to do it; but to be sent to a man I and
such a horrid man !—the shame of it, Miss Peely!"
Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom to send
women and young girls to the whipping-houses, to the hands of the
lowest of men—men vile enough to make this their profession—there to
be subjected to brutal exposure and shameful correction. She had
known, it before; but hitherto she had never realized it, till she saw the
slender form of Hosa almost convulsed with distress. All the honest
blood of womanhood, the strong New England blood of liberty, flushed
to her cheeks, and throbbed bitterly in her indignant heart; but, with
habitual prudence and self-control, she mastered herself, ana, crushing
the paper firmly in her hand, she merely said to Rosa—
" Sit down, child, while I go to your mistress."
" Shameful! monstrous! outrageous!" she said to herself, as she was
crossing the parlour.
She found Marie sitting up in her easy chair, with Mammy standing
by her combing her hair; Jane sat on the ground before her, busy in
chafing her feet.
" How do ysa find yourself to-day ?" said Miss Ophelia.
A deep sigh and a closing of the eyes was the only reply for a moment;
«!»d then Marie answered, Oh, I don't know, cousin; I suppose I'm as
218 CifCLS TOM'S CaBIN, OS
well as I ever shall be !" And Marie wiped her eyes with a cambrio
handkerchief, bordered with an inch of deep black.
" I came," said Miss Ophelia, with a short dry cough, such as com¬
monly introduces a difficult subject, " I came to speak with you about
poor llosa." , , .
Marie's eyes were open wide enough now, and a flush rose to her sal¬
low cheeks, as she answered sharply—
"Well! what about her?"
" She is very sorry for her fault."
" She is, is she ? She'll be sorrier before I've done with her! I ve
endured that child's impudence long enough; and now I'll bring her
down—I'll make her he in the dust!
" But could not you punish her some other way, some way that would
be less shameful ?"
" I mean to shame her; that's just what I want. She lias all her lift
presumed on her delicacy and her good looks, and her lady-like airs, till
she forgets who she is; and I'll give her one lesson that will bring her
down, I fancy!"
"But, cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy and a sense of
shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast."
"Delicacy !" said Marie, with a scornful laugh; "a fine word for such
as she ! I'll teach her, with all her airs, that she's no better thaD the
raggedest wench that walks the streets! She'll take no more airs with
me!"
" You will have to answer to God for such cruelty !" said Miss Ophelia.
" Cruelty ! I'd like to know what the cruelty is ? I wrote orders for
only fifteen lashes, and told him to put them on lightly. I'm sure
there's no cruelty there !"
"No cruelty said Miss Ophelia. "I'm sure any girl might rather
be killed outright!"
" It might seem so to anybody with your feeling, but all these creatures
get used to it; it's the only way they can be kept in order. Once let
them feel that they are to take any airs about delicacy, and all that, and
they'll run all over you, just as my servants always have. I've begun
now to bring them under; and I'll have them all to know that I'll send
one out to be whipped as soon as another, if they don't mind them¬
selves !" said Marie, looking around her decidedly.
_ Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if it was par¬
ticularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a moment, as if she had
swallowed some explosive mixture, and was ready to burst. Then, re¬
collecting the utter uselessness of contention with such a nature, she
shut her lips resolutely, gathered herself up, and walked out of the
room.
It was hard to go back and tell Rosa that she could do nothing for
her; and, shortly after, one of the man-servants came to say that her
mistress had ordered him to take Rosa with him to the whipping-house,
whither sne was hurried, in spite of her tears ana entreaties.
A few days after, Tom was standing musing by the balconies, when
he was joined by Adolph, who, since the death of his master, had been
entirely crest-fallen and disconsolate. Adolph knew that he had always
been an object of dislike to Marie; but while his master lived, he had
paid but little attention to it. Now that he was gone, he had moved
about in daily dread and trembling, not knowing what might befal him
next. Marie had held several consultations with her lawyer. After
communicating with St. Clare's brother, it was determined to sell the
LIFB AMONG THE LOWLY. 219
Oiace, and all the servants, except her own personal property, and these-
Jie intended to take with her, and go back to her father's plantation.
„ J'e know, Tom, that we've all got to be sold ? " said Adolph.
tt How did you hear that ? " said Torn.
I hid myself behind the curtains when missis was talking with the
lawyer. In a few days we shall all be sent off to auction, Tom."
" The Lord's will be done!" said Tom, folding his arms and. sighing
heavily.
" We'll never get another such a master," said Adolph, apprehensively;
" but I'd rather be sold than take my chance under missis."
Tom turned away; his heart was full. The hope of liberty, the
thought of distant wife and children rose up before his patient soul, as
to the mariner shipwrecked almost in port rises the vision of the church-
spire and loving roofs of his native village, seen over the top of some
black wave only for one last farewell. He drew Ins arms tightly over
his bosom, and choked back the bitter tears, and tried to pray. The
!)oor old soul had such a singular, unaccountable prejudice in favour of
iberty, that it was a hard wrench for him; and the more he said " Thy
will be done," the worse he felt.
He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva's death, had treated
him with marked and respectful kindness.
" Miss Feely," he said, " Mas'r St. Clare promised me my freedom.
He told me that he had begun to take it out for me; and now, perhaps,
if Miss Feely would be good enough to speak about it to missis, she
would feel like goin' on with it, as it was Mas'r St. Clare's wish."
" I'll speak for you, Tom, and do my best," said Miss Ophelia; "but,
if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can't hope much for you; nevertheless,
I will try."
This incident occurred a few days after that of Eosa, while Miss
Ophelia was busied in preparations to return north.
Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that perhaps she
had shown too hasty a warmth of language in her former interview with
Marie; and she resolved that she would now endeavour to moderate her
zeal, and to be as conciliatory as possible. So the good soul gathered
herself up, and, taking her knitting, resolved to go into Marie's room,
be as agreeable as possible, and negotiate Tom's case with all the diplo¬
matic skill of which she was mistress.
She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, supporting her¬
self on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been out shopping,
was displaying before her certain samples of thin black stuffs.
" That will do " said Marie, selecting one; "only I'm not sure about
it's being properly mourning.
" Laws, missis" said Jane, volubly," Mrs. General Derbennon wore
just this very thing after the General died, last summer; it makes up
lovely!"
" What do you think ? " said Marie to Miss Ophelia.
"It's a matter of custom, I suppose," said Miss Ophelia. "You can
judge about it better than I."
" The fact is," said Marie, "that I haven't a dress in the world that I
can wear; and, as I am going to break up the establishment and go off
next week, I must decide upon something."
" Are you going so soon ? "
"Yes; St. Clare's brother has written, and he and the lawyer think
that the servants and furniture had better be put up at auction, and the
place left with our lawyer"
220 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, 6&
" There's one thing I wanted to speak with yott about* said Misa
Ophelia. " Augustine promised Tom his liberty, and began the lega
forms necessary to it. I hope you will use your influence to nave
P0"Indeed, I shall do no such thing!" said Marie, sharply. "Tom is
one of the most valuable servants on the place; it couldn t be anoraea
any way. Besides, what does he want of liberty ? He s a great deal
oetter off as he is. . , .,,,
" But he does desire it very earnestly, and his master promised it,
said Miss Ophelia. ....
" I dare say he does want it," said Marie; "they all want it, just because
they are a discontented set, always wanting what they haven't got. Now
I'm principled against emancipating in any case. Keep a negro under
the care of a master, and lie does well enough and is respectable; but set
them free, and they get lazy and won't work, and take to drinking, and
go all down to be mean, worthless fellows. I've seen it tried hundreds
' of times. It's no favour to set them free."
" But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious."
" Oh, you needn't tell me! I've seen a hundred like him. He'll do
very well as long as he's taken care of, that's all."
" But then, consider," said Miss Ophelia, "when you set him up for
sltle, the chance of his getting a bad master."
" Oh, that's all humbug!" said Marie. " It isn't one time in a hundred
that a good fellow gets a bad master; most masters are good, for all the
talk that is made. I've lived and grown up here in the south, and I
never yet was acquainted with a master that didn't treat his servants
well, quite as well as is worth while. I don't feel any fears on that
head."
" Well," said Miss Ophelia, energetically, "I know it was one of the
last wishes of your husband tnat Tom should have his liberty; it was one
of the promises that he made to dear little Eva on her death-bed, and I
should not think you will feel at liberty to disregard it."
Marie had her face covered with her hankerchief at this appeal, and
began sobbins and using her smelling-bottle with great vehemence.
_ "Everybody goes against me!" she said. "Everybody is so incon¬
siderate ! I shouldn't have expected that you would bring up all these
remembrances of my troubles to me; it's so inconsiderate! But nobody
ever does consider—my trials are so peculiar ! It is so hard that, when
I had only one daughter, she should have been taken!—and when I had
a husband that just exactly suited me—and I'm so hard to be suited !—
he should be taken ! And you seem to have so little feeling for me, and
keep bringing it up to me so carelessly—when you know how it over¬
comes me! I suppose you mean well; but it is very inconsiderate,
very !" And Marie sobbed, and gasped for breath, and called Mammy to
open the window, and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and to bathe her
head and unhook her dress; and, in the general contusion that ensued,
Miss Ophelia made her escape to her apartment.
She saw at once that it would do no good to say anything more, for
Marie had an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits; and, after this, when¬
ever her husband's or Eva's wishes with regard to the servants were
alluded to, she always found it convenient to set one in operation. Miss
Ophelia therefore did the next best thing she could for Tom: she wrote
a letter to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging them to
send to his relief.
The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half-dozen other servants,
were marched down to the slave-warehouse to await the convenience of
the trader, who was going to make up a lot for auction.
sows amo.ng the lowly.
221
CHAPTEE XXX.
the slave warehouse
A slave-warehouse ! Perhaps some of my readers conjure up hoi
fible visions of suck a place. They fancy some foul, obscure den, some
horrible Tartarus " informis, ingens, cui lumen ademptum." But no, in¬
nocent friend! in these days men have learned the art of sinning expertly
and genteelly, so as not to shock the eyes and senses of respectable society.
Human property is high in the market; and is therefore well fed, well
cleaned, tended, and looked after, that it may come to sale sleek and
strong and shining. A slave-warehouse in New Orleans is a house
externally not much unlike many others, kept in neatness; and where
every day you may see arranged, under a sort of shed along the outside,
rows of men and women, who stand there as a sign of the property sold
within.
Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and examine, and
shall find an abundance of husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, fathers,
mothers, and young children, to be " sold separately or in lots, to suit the
convenience of the purchaserand that soul immortal, once bought
with blood and anguish by the Son of ^od, when the earth shook, and
the rocks rent, and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased, mort¬
gaged, exchanged for groceries or dry goods, to suit the phases of trade
or the fancy of the purchaser.
It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie and Miss
Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about half a dozen others of the St.
Clare estate, were turned over to the loving-kindness of Mr. Skeggs, the
keeper of a depot in street, to await the auction, next day.
Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, as had most
others of them. They were ushered for the night into a long room, where
many other men of all ages, sizes, and shades of complexion were assem¬
bled, and from which roars of laughter and unthinking merriment were
proceeding.
"Ah, ah! that's right. Go it, boys—go it!" says Mr. Skeggs, the
keeper. "My people are always so merry! Sambo, I see!" he said,
epeaking approvingly to a burly negro who was performing tricks of low
buffoonery, which occasioned the shouts which Tom had heard.
As might be imagined, Tom was in no humour to join these proceed¬
ings; and therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible from th<5 noisy
group, he sat down on it and leaned his face against the wall.
The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and systematic
efforts to promote noisy mirth among them, as a means of drowning
reflection and rendering them insensible to their condition. The whole
object of the training to which the negro is put, from the time he is sold
in the northern market till he arrives south, is systematically directed
toward making him callous, unthinking, and brutal. The slave-dealer
collects his gang in Virginia or Kentucky, and drives them to some con-
veuienfc, healthy place—often a watering-place—to be fattened. Here
they are fed full, daily; and, because some incline to pine, a fiddle is kept
commonly going among them, and they are made to dance daily; and he
who refuses to be merry—in whose soul thoughts of wife, or child, or
Ijooje. are too strong for him to be gay—is marked as sullen and dan»
222 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN OB
gerous, and subjected to all tlie evils which the ill-will of an utterly irre¬
sponsible and hardened man can inflict upon him. Briskness, alertness,
and cheerfulness of appearance, especially Defore observers, are constantly
enforced upon them, both by the nope of thereby getting a good master,
and the fear of all that the driver may bring upon them if they prove
unsalable. ., „ . , _
" What dat ar nigger doin' here?" said Sambo, coming up to Tom,
after Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was full black, of great size,
very lively, voluble, and full of trick and grimace.
" What you doin' here ? " said Sambo, coming up to Tom, and poking
him facetiously in the side. " Meditatin', eh ? "
" I am to be sold at the auction to-morrow !" said Tom, quietly.
" Sold at auction—haw ! haw ! boys, an't this yer fun ? I wish't I
was gwine that ar way !—tell ye, wouldn't I make em laugh ? But how
is it—dis yer whole lot gwine to-morrow?" said Sambo, laying his hand
freely on Adolph's shoulder.
w" Please to let me alone I" said Adolph fiercely, straightening himseli
up with extreme disgust.
,".Law, now, boys! dis yer's one o' yer white niggers—kind o' cren.m-
colour, ye know, scented !" said he, coming up to Adolph and snuiUng.
" O Lor! he'd do for a tobaccer-shop; they could keep him to scent
snuff! Lor, he'd keep a whole shop a gwine—he would!"
" I say, keep off, can't you !" said Adolph, enraged.
" Lor, now, how touchy we is—we white niggers ! Look at us, now !"
and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of Adolph's manner; " here's de
airs and graces. YVe's been in a good family, I specs."
" Yes," said Adolph; " I had a master that could have bought you all
for old truck !"
" Laws, now, only think," said Sambo, " the gentlemens that we is !"
" I belonged to the St. Clare family," said Adolph, proudly.
" Lor, you did! Be hanged if they ar'nt lucky to get shet of ye.
Spects they's gwine to trade ye off with a lot o' cracked tea-pots and
sich like !" said Sambo, with a provoking grin.
Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adversary, swear¬
ing and striking on every side of him. The rest laughed and shouted,
and the uproar brought the keeper to the door.
" What now, boys ? Order, order !" he said, coming in and flourish¬
ing a large whip.
All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who, presuming on the
favour which the keeper had to him as a licensed wag, stood his ground,
ducking his head with a facetious grin whenever the master made a dive
at him.
" Lor, mas'r, 'fcan't us—we's reglar stiddy—it's these yer new hands,
they's real aggravatin'—kinder pickin' at us, all time !"
The keeper at this turned upon Tom and Adolph, and distributed a
few kicks and cuffs without much inquiry, and leaving general 01 ders for
all to be good boys and go to sleep, left the apartment.
While this scene was going on in the men's sleeping-room, the reader
may be curious to take a peep at the corresponding apartment allotted
to the women. Stretched out in various attitudes over the floor, he may
see numberless sleeping forms of every shade of complexion, from the
purest ebony to white, and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying
now asleep. Here is a fine bright girl, of ten years, whose mother was
sold out yesterday, and who to-night cried herself to sleet* when nobody
was looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose thin arms and
callous fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be sold to-morrow, as a cast-off
article, for what can be got fo? her; and some forty or fifty others, with
IIFB AMONG THE LOWLY. 223
heads variously enveloped in blankets or articles of clothing, lie stretched
around them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from the rest, are two
females of a more interesting appearance than common. One of these
is a respectably-dressed mulatto woman between forty and fifty, with
Boft eyes and a gentle and pleasing physiognomy. She has on her head
a high-raised turban, made of a gay red Madras handkerchief, of the first
quality, and her dress is neatly fitted, and of good material, showing that
she has been provided for with a careful hand. By her side, and nestling
closely to her, is a young girl of fifteen—her daughter. She is a quad¬
roon, as may be seen from her fairer complexion, though her likeness to
her mother is quite discernible. She has the same soft, dark eye, with'
longer lashes, and her curling hair is of a luxuriant brown. She also is
dressed with great neatness, and her white, delicate hands betray very
little acquaintance with servile toil. These two are to be sold to-morrow,
in the same lot with the St. Clare servants; and the gentleman to whom
they belong, and to whom the money for their sale is to be transmitted,
is a member of a Christian Church in New York, who will receive the
money, and go thereafter to the sacrament of his Lord and theirs, and
think no more of it.
These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had been tha
personal attendants of an amiable and pious lady of New Orleans, by
whom they had been carefully and piously instructed and trained. They
had been taught to read and write, diligently instructed in the truths of
religion, and their lot had been as happy a one as in their condition it
was possible to be. But the only son of their protectress had the
management of her property; and, by carelessness and extravagance,
involved it to a large amount, and at last failed. One of the largest cre¬
ditors was the respectable firm of B. and Co., in New York. B. and Co.
wrote to their lawyer in New Orleans, who attached the real estate (these
two articles and a lot of plantation hands formed the most valuable part
of it), and wrote word to that effect to New York. Brother B. being, as
we have said, a Christian man, and a resident in a free State, felt some
uneasiness on the subject. He didn't like trading in slaves and souls of
men—of course he didn't; but then there were thirty thousand dollars
in the case, and that was rather too much money to be lost for a prin¬
ciple ; and so, after much considering, and asking advice from those that
he knew would advise to suit him, Brother B. wrote to his lawyer to dis¬
pose of the business in the way that seemed to him the most suitable,
and remit the proceeds.
The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan and Emmeline
were attached, and sent to the depot to await a general auction on the
following morning; and as they glimmer faintly upon us in the moon¬
light which steals through the grated window, we may listen to their
conversation. Both are weeping, but each quietly, that the other may
not bear.
" Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you can't sleep a
little," says the girl, trying to appear calm.
" I haven't any heart to sleep, Em! I can't. It's the last night we
niav be together!"
" O mother, don't say so! Perhaps we shall get sold together—who
knows?'''
" If 'twas anybody's else case I should say so too, Em, said tne
woman; " but I'm so feard of losin' you that I don't see anything but
the danger." •> ,i
« Why, mother ? The man said we were both likely, aad would sell
^'lusan remembered the man's looks and words. "With a deadly sick-
224 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
n«. rt her he*rt sheh^tatSS
hands, and llfte^o^SpAn trained as a'Christian, brought up in the daily
article. ?u®an had bee had the same horror of ber child's being sold to
[Tift shamefeat any other Christian mother might have; but she had
Q°" Mother ° f think we'migb t do first-rate, if you could get a place as
Book and t as chambermaid, or seamstress, m some family I daresay
we shall. Let's both look as bright and lively as we can, and tell all we
co n do, and perhaps we shall/' said Emmeline.
" I want you tobrush your hair all back straight to-morrow, said Susan.
" What for mother ? I don't look near so well that way."
w Yes ; but' you'll sell better so."
" I don't see why !" said the child.
" Respectable families would be more apt to buy you if they saw you
looked plain and decent, as if you wasn't trying to look handsome. I
know their ways better'n you do," said Susan.
" Well, mother, then I will."
" And, Emmeline, if we shouldn't ever see each other again after to¬
morrow—if I'm sold way up on a plantation somewhere, and you some¬
where else—always remember how you've been brought up, and all missis
has told you. Take your Bible with you, and youi hymn-book; and if
you're faithful to the Lord, he'll be faithful to you."
So speaks the poor soul in sore discouragement; for she knows that
to-morrow any man, however vile and brutal, however godless and mer¬
ciless, if he has only money to pay for her, may become owner of her
daughter, body and soul; and then how is the child to be faithful ?
She thinks of all this as she holds her daughter in her arms, and wishes
t'"at she were not so handsome and attractive. It seems almost an
aggravation to her to remember how purely and piously, how much
above the ordinary lot she has been brought up. But she has no resort
but to pray/ and many such prayers to God have gone up from those
same trim, neatly-arranged, respectable slave-prisons—prayers which
God has not forgotten, as a coming day shall show; for it is written,
" Whoso causeth one of these little ones to otfend, it were better for him
that a mill-stone were hanged about his neck, ana that he were drowned
in the depths of the sea."
The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly, marking the bars
of the grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping forms. The mother
and daughter are singing together a wild and melancholy dirge, cornmou
as a funeral hymn among the slaves:—
" Oh, where is weeping Mary ?
Oh, where is weeping: Mary ?
'Rived in the goodly land.
She is dead and gone to Heaven j
She is dead and gone to Heaven;
'Rived in the goodly land."
These words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholy sweetness
in an air which seemed like the sighing of earthly despair after heavenly
hope, floated through the dark prison-rooms with a pathetic cadence as
verse alter verse was breathed out:— '
" Oh, where are Paul and Silas
Oh, where are Paul and Silas?
Gone to the goodly land.
They are dead and gone to Heaven;
They are dead and gone to Heaven
'Rived in the goodly land,"
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 225
Sing on, poor souls! The night is short, and the morning will part
you for ever!
But now it is morning, and everybody is astir; and the worthy Mr.
Skeggs is busy and bright, far a lot of goods is to be fitted out for
auction. There is a brisk look-out on the toilet; injunctions passed
around to every one to put on their best face and be spry; and now all
are arranged in a circle for a last review, before they are marched up
to the Bourse.
Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on and his cigar in his mouth, walks
around to put farewell touches on his wares.
"How's this?" he said, stepping in front of Susan and Emmeline.
Where's your curls, gal ? "
The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the smooth adroit¬
ness common among her class, answers—
" I was telling her last night to put up her hair smooth and neat, and
not havin' it flying about in curls—looks more respectable so."
" Bother!" said the man, peremptorily, turning to the girl. " Tou go
right along, and curl yourself real smart;" he added, giving a crack to
rattan he held in his hand; " and be back in quick time, too. You go
and help her," he added to the mother. " Them curls may make a
hundred dollars' difference in the sale of her."
******
Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving to and
fro over the marble pave. On every side of the circular area were little
tribunes, or stations, for the use of speakers and auctioneers. Two of
these, on opposite sides of the area, were now occupied by brilliant and
talented gentlemen, enthusiastically forcing up, in English and Frenoh
commingled, the bids of connoisseurs in their various wares. A third
one, on the other side, still unoccupied, was surrounded by a group
waiting the moment of sale to begin. And here we may recognise the
St. Clare servants,—Tom, Adolph, and others; and there, too, Susan and
Emmeline, awaiting their turn with anxious and dejected faces. Various
spectators, intending to purchase or not intending, as the case might be,
gathered around the group, handling, examining, and commenting on
their various points and faces with the same freedom that a set of
jockeys discuss the merits of a horse.
" Hulloa, Alf! wbat brings you here ? * said a young exquisite, slap¬
ping the shoulder of a sprucely-dressed young man, who was examining
Adolph through an eye-glass.
" Well, I was wanting a valet, and I heard that St. Clare's lot was
going. I thought I'd just look at his "
" Catch me ever buying any of St. Clare's people! Spoilt niggers,
every one ! Impudent as the devil!" caid the other.
" Never fear that," said the first. " If I get 'em, I'll soon have their
airs out of them; they'll soon find that they've another kind of master
to deal with than Monsieur St. Clare. Ton my word, I'll buy that fel
low. I like the shape of him."
" You'll find it'll take all you've got to keep him. He's deucedly ex¬
travagant !"
" Yes, but my lord will find that he can't be extravagant with me.
Just let him be sent to the calaboose a few times, and thoroughly
dressed down ! I'll tell you if it don't bring him to a sense of his
ways! Oh, I'll reform him, up hill and down—you'll see! I buy liini,
that's flat!"
Tom had been standing wistfully examining the multitude of fa«
(nronging around him for one whom ho would wish to call master; aa
Q
226 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN", 08
if you should ever be under the necessity, sir, of selecting &ai cl two
hundred men one who was to become your absolute owner and disposer,
you would perhaps realise, just as Tom did, how few there were that you
would feel at all comfortable in being made over to. Tom saw abundance
of men, great, buiiy, gruff men; little, chirping, dried men; long-
favoured, lank, hard men; and every variety of stubberl-looking, com¬
mon-place men, who pick up their fellow-men as on< picks up chips,
putting them into the fire or a basket with equal unconujrn, accordmg
to their convenience ] but he saw no St. Clare.
A little before the sale commenced, a short, broad, muscular man, in
a checked shirt considerably open at the bosom, and pantaloons mjch
the worse for dirt and wear, elbowed his way through the crowd, like one
who is going actively into a business; and, coming up to the group,
began to examine them systematically. From the moment that Tom saw
him approaching, he felt an immediate and revolting horror at him, that
increased as he came near. He was evidently, though short, of gigantic
strength. His round, bullet head, large, light-gray eyes, with their
shaggy, sandy eyebrows, and stiff, wiry, sun-burned air, were rather un¬
prepossessing items, it is to be confessed; his large, coarse mouth was
distended with tobacco, the juice of which, from time to time, he ejected
from him with great decision and explosive force; his hands were im¬
mensely large, hairy, sun-burned, freckled, and very dirty, and garnished
with long, nails, in a very foul condition. This man proceeded to a
very free nersonal examination of the lot. He seized Tom by the jaw,
and pullea open his mouth to inspect his teeth; made him strip up his
sleeve, to show his muscle; turned him round, mads him jumyi and
spring, to show his paces.
" Where was you raised ? " be added briefly to these investigations.
" In Kintuck, mas'r," said Tom, looking about as if for deliverance.
" What have you done ?"
" Had care of mas'r's farm," said Tom.
"Likely story !" said the other, shortly, as he passed on. He paused
a moment before Dolph; then spitting a discharge of tobacco-juice on
his well-blacked boots, and giving a contemptuous umph, he walked on.
Again he stopped before Susan and Emmeline. He put out his heavy,
dirty hand, and drew the girl towards him; passed it over her neck and
bust, felt her arms, looked at her teeth, and then pushed her back against
iicr mother, whose patient face showed the sufferings she had been going
through at every motion of the hideous stranger.
The gir! was frightened and began to cry.
" Stop that, you minx!" said the salesman; " no whimpering ker«; vne
Bale is going to begin." And accordingly the sale begun.
Adolph was knocked off at a good sum, to the young gentleman who
had previously stated his intention of buying him; ana the other ser¬
vants of the St. Clare lot went to various bidders.
r Now, up with you, boy ! d'ye hear ? " said the auctioneer to Tom.
i'om stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks round; all
seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise—tho clatter of the sales¬
man crying off his qualifications in J rench and English, the quick fire
of French and English bids; and almost in a moment came the final
thump of the hammer, and the clear ring on the last syllable of the
word 'dollars," as the auctioneer announced his price and Tom was
made over.—He had a master ! • 1
He was pushed from the block; the shoi-t, bullet-headed man s«izina
roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one side, savin" in a harsn
" fetand t« »re, ?<ou !"
LIFE AMOIfS THE LOWLY. 227
Tom hardly realised anything; but still the bidding went on—rattling,
clattering, now Trench, now English. Down goes the hammer again,—
Susan is sold; she goes down from the block, stops, looks wistfully
back; her daughter stretches her hands towards her. She looks with
agony in the face of the man who has bought her—a respectable middle-
aged man of benevolent countenance.
" O mas'r, please do buy my daughter!"
" I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't afford fit!" said the gentlemau
looking with painful interest as the young girl mounted the block, anu
looked around her with a frightened and timid glance.
The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colourless cheek, her eya
has a feverish fire, and her mother groans to see that she looks more
beautiful than she ever saw her before. The auctioneer sees his advan¬
tage, and expatiates volubly in mingled French and English, and bids
rise in rapid succession.
" I'll do anything in reason," said the benevolent-looking gentleman,
pressing in and joining with tne bids. In a few moments they have run
beyond his purse. He is silent; the auctioneer grows warmer; but bids
gradually drop off. It lies now between an aristocratic old citizen and
our bullet-headed acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few turns, con¬
temptuously measuring his opponent; but the bullet-head has the ad¬
vantage over him, both in obstinacy and concealed length of purse, and
the controversy lasts but a moment; the hammer falls—he has got the
gi rl, body and soul, unless God help her !
Her master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation on the Bed
river. She is pushed along in the same lot with Tom and two other
men, and goes off, weeping as she goes.
The benevolent gentleman is sorry; but then the thing happens e'very
day! One sees girls and mothers crying at these sales always ! it
can't be helped, &c.; and he walks off with his acquisition in anothei
direction.
Two days after, the lawyer of the Christian firm of B. and Co., New
York, sent on their money to them. On the reverse of that draft,'so
obtained, let them write these words of the great Paymaster, to whom
they shall make up their account in a future day" When he malceth
inquisition for blood he forgetteth not the cry of the humble !"
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE MIDDLE PASSAGE.
On the lower part oi a small, mean boat, on the Eed Eiver, Tom sat—
chains on his wrists, chains on bis feet, and a weight heavier than chains
lay on his heart. All had faded from the sky — moon and star; all had
passed by him, as the trees and banks were now passing, to return no
more. Kentucky home, with wife and children, "nd indulgent owners;
St. Clare, homo, with all its refinements and splenaours; the golden head
of Eva, with its saint-like eyes; the proud, gay, handsome, seemingly
careless yet ever kind St. Clare; hours of ease and indulgent leisure —
all gone'. and in place thereof, what remains?
It is one of the bitterest apportionments of a lot of slavery, that tha
negro, sympathetic and assimilative, after acquiring in a refined family,
the tastes and feelings which form the atmosphere of such a place, is not
the less liable to become the bond-slave of the coarsest and most brjts£
0.2
228 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, O*
—just as a chair or table, which once decorated the superb saloon, comes,
at last, battered and defaced, to the bar-room of some filthy tavern, of
some low haunt of vulgar debauchery. The great difference is, that the
table and chair cannot feel, and the man can; for even a legal enact¬
ment that he shall be " taken, reputed, adjudged in law, to be a chattel
personal," cannot blot out his soul, with its own private little world of
memories, hopes, loves, fears, and desires.
Mr. Simon Legree, Tom's master, had purchased slaves at one place
pad another, in New Orleans, to the number of eight, and driven them,
handcuffed, m couples of two and two, down to the good steamer Pirate,
which lay at the levee, ready for a trip up the Red Tiiver.
Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, he came
round, with that air of efficiency which ever characterized him, to take
a review of them. Stopping opposite to Tom, who had been attired for
sale in his best broadcloth suit, with well-starched linen and shining
boots, he briefly expressed himself as follows:—
« Stand up."
Tom stood up.
" Take off that stock!" and as Tom, encumbered by his fetters, pro¬
ceeded to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, with no gentie hand, from
his neck, and putting it in his pocket.
Legree now turned to Tom's trunk, which, previous to this, he had
been ransacking, and, taking from it a pair of old pantaloons and a
dilapidated coat, which Tom had been wont to put on about his stable-
work, he said, liberating Tom's hands from the handcuffs, and pointing
to a recess in among the boxes—
" You go there, and put these on."
Tom obeyed, and in a few moments returned.
" Take off your boots," said Mr. Legree.
Tom did so.
"There," said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse, stout shoes,
such as were common among the slaves, "put these on."
In Tom's hurried exchange he had not forgotten to transfer his che¬
rished Bible to his pocket. It was well he did so; for Mr. Legree, having
refitted Tom's handcuffs, proceeded deliberately to investigate the con¬
tents of his pockets. He drew out a silk handkerchief, and put it into
his own pocket. Several little trifles, which Tom had treasured, chiefly
because they had amused Eva, he looked upon with a contemptuous
grunt, and tossed them over his shoulder into the river.
Tom's Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he had forgotten,
he now held up and turned over.
" Humph! pious, to be sure. So, what's yer name, you belong to
the Church, eh ?"
"Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, firmly.
"Weil, I'll soon have that out of you. I have none o' yer bawling,
praying, singing niggers on my place; so remember. Now, mind your¬
self." he said, with a stamp and a fierce glance of his grey eye, directed
at Tom, " I'm your Church now! You understand—you've got to bear
I say."
Something within the silent black man answered No ! and, as if re¬
peated b,y an invisible voice, came the words of an old prophetic scroll
ps Eva had often read them to him—"Fear not; for I have redeemed
thee. 1 have called thee by ray name. Thou art mine !"
But Simon Legree heard no voice. That voice is one he never shall
trar. Ho only glared for a moment on the downcast face of Tom and
ijtf. He took Tom's trunk, which contained a very neat and
LIFE AMONG THJ3 LOWLY. 228
abundant wardrobe, to the forecastle, where it was soon surrounded by
various hands of the boat. With much laughing, at the expense of
niggers who tried to be gentlemen, the articles very readily were sold to
one and another, and the empty trunk finally put up at auction. It was
a good joke, they all thought, especially to see how Tom looked after his
things, as they were going this way and that; and then the auction of
the trunk, that was funnier than all, and occasioned abundant witticisms.
This little affair being over, Simon sauntered up again to his property.
" Now, Tom, I've relieved you of any extra baggage, you see. Take
mighty good care of them clothes. It'll be long enough before you get
more. I go in for makin niggers careful; one suit has to do for one
year, on my place."
Simon next walked up to the place where Emmeline was sitting,
chained to another woman.
" Well, my dear," he said, chucking her under the chin," keep up your
spirits."
The involuntary look of horror, fright, and aversion with which the
girl regarded him, did not escape his eye. He frowned fiercely.
"None o' your shines, gal! Fou's got to keep a pleasant face when
I speak to ye—d'ye hear ? And you, you old yellow poco moonshine I"
he said, giving a shove to the mulatto woman to whom Emmeline was
chained, " don't you carry that sort of face! You's got to look chipper,
I tell ye !"
" I say, all on ye," he said, retrea&ng a pace or two back, " look at
me—look at me—look me right in the eye—straight, now!" said he,
stamping his foot at every pause.
As by a fascination, every eye was now directed to the glaring, green¬
ish-grey eye of Simon.
" Now," said he, doubling his great, heavy fist into something resem¬
bling a blacksmith's hammer,"d'ye see this fist? Heft it!" he said,
bringing it down on Tom's hand. " Look at these yer bones ! Well, I
tell ye this yer fist has got as hard as iron knocking down niggers. I
never see the nigger yet I couldn't bring down with one crack," said he,
bringing his fist down so near to the face of Tom that he winked and
drew back. " I don't keep none q' yer cussed overseers; I does my own
overseeing; and I tell you tnmgs is seen to. You's every one on ye
got to toe the mark, I tell ye; quick—straight—the moment I speak.
That's the way to keep in with me. You won't find no soft spot in me,
nowhere. So, now, mind yerselves; for I don't show no mercy ! "
The women involuntarily drew in their breath, and the whole gang
sat with downcast, dejected faces. Meanwhile, Simon turned on his neel,
and marched up to the bar of the boat for a dram.
" That's the way I begin with my niggers," he said to a gentlemanly
man who had stood by him during his speech. "It's my system to
begin strong—just let 'em know what to expect."
Indeed!" said the stranger, looking upon him with the curiosity of
& naturalist studying some out-of-the-way specimen.
" Yes, indeed. I'm none o' yer gentlemen planters, with lily fingers,
to slop round and be cheated by some old cuss of an overseer ! J ust feel
of my knuckles, now; look at my fist. Tell ye, sir, the iiesh on'thas come
jest like a stone, practising on niggers—feel on it."
The stranger applied his finger to the implement in question, and
simply said—
" 'Tis hard enough; and I suppose," he added, " practice has mad©
your heart just like it."
" Why, yes, I may say so," said Simon, with a hearty laugh. " I ref-kon
230 UNCLE TOil'8 CABIN, OS
there's as little soft in me as in any one going. Tell ypu, nobody cornea
it over me! Niggers never gets round me neither with squalling nor
soft soap—that's a fact."
" You have a fine lot there" . ,
" Seal," said Simon. " There's that Tom, they tell'd me he was suthin
uncommon. I paid a little high for him, tending him for a driver and
a managing chap; only p.et the notions out that he's larnt by bein
treated as niggers never ought to be, he'll do prime ! The yellow woman
I got took in in. I ray fcher think she's sickly, but I shall put her through
for what she's worth; she may last a year or two. I don't go for savin'
niggers. Use up and buy more's my way; makes you less trouble, and
I'm quite sure it comes cheaper in the end," and Simon sipped his gla^a.
" And how long do they generally last ?" said the stranger.
" IVell, donno; 'cordin' as their constitution is. Stout fellers last six
or seven years; trashy ones gets worked up in two or three. I used to,
when 1 fust begun, have considerable trouble fussin' with 'em and trying
to make 'em hold out—doctorin' on 'em up when they's sick, and given'
on 'em clothes and blankets, and what not, tryin' to keep 'em all sort o'
decent and comfortable. Law, 'twasn't no sort o' use; 1 lost money on
'em, and 'twas heaps o' trouble. Now, you see, I just put 'em straight
through, sick or well. When one nigger's dead I buy another; and I
find it comes cheaper and easier, every way."
The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a gentleman who
had been listening to the conversation with repressed uneasiness.
" You must not take that fellow to be any specimen of southern
planters," said he.
" I should hope not," said the young gentleman with emphasis.
" He is a mean, low, brutal fellow !" said the other.
" And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of human beings
subject to his absolute will, without even a shadow of protection; and,
low as he is you cannot say there ars not many such."
" Well," said the other, "there are also many considerate and humsna
men among planters."
_ " Granted," said the young man ; " but, in my opinion, it is you con¬
siderate, humane men that are responsible for all the brutality and out¬
rage wrought by these wretches; because, if it were not for your sanc¬
tion and influence, the whole system could not keep foot-hold for an
hour. If there were no planters except such as that one," said he, point¬
ing with his finger to Legree, who stood with his back to them, " the
whole thing would go down like a millstone. It is your respectability
and humanity licenses and protects his brutality."
" You certainly have a high opinion of my good nature," said the
planter, smiling; " but I advise you not to talk quite so loud, as there
are people on board the boat who might not be quite so tolerant to
opinion as I am. You had better wait till I get up to my plantation,
and there you may abuse us all, quite at your leisure."
The young gentleman coloured and smiled, and the two were soon
busy in a game of backgammon. Meanwhile, another conversation
was going on in the lower part of the boat, between Emmeline and the
mulatto woman with whom she was confined. As was natural they
were exchanging with each other some particulars of their history!
" Who did you belong to ?" said Emmeline.
" Well, my mas'r was Mr. Ellis—lived on Levee-street. P'raps you've
seen the house."
£ Was he good to you ?" said Emmeline.
Mostly, till he tuk sick. He's lain sick, off and on, more than si*
IiIFB AKOK0 THE LOWLY. *2S%
months, and been crful oneasy. 'Pears like he warnt will in' to havs
nobody rest, day nor night; and got so curous, there couldn't nobod*
suit him. ' Pears like he just grew crosier e\cry day; kept me up
nights till I got farly beat out, and couldn't keep awake no longer ; and
cause I got to sleep one night, Lors, he talk so orful to me, and lie tei,
me he'd sell me to just the hardest master he could find ; and he'd pre¬
mised me my freedom, too, when he died."
" Had you any friends ?" said Emmeline.
" Yes, my husband—he's a blacksmith, Mas'r genly hired him out.
They took me off so quick, I didn't even have time to see him ; and I's
got four children. Oh, dear me!" said the woman, covering her face
with her hands.
It is a natural impulse in every one when they hear a tale of distress,
to think of something to say by way of consolation. Emmeline wanted
to say something, but she could not think of anything to say. What
was there to be said ? As by a common consent, they both avoided,
with fear and dread, all mention of the horrible man who was now their
master.
True, there is religious trust for even the darkest hour. The mulatto
woman was a member of the Methodist church, and had an unen¬
lightened but very sincere spirit of piety. Emmeline had been educates
much more intelligently—taught to read and write, and diligently in¬
structed in the Bible, by the care of a faithful and pious mistress; yet,
would it not try the faith of the firmest Christian, to find themselves
abandoned apparently of God, in the grasp of ruthless violence P How
much more must it shake the faith of Christ's poor little ones, weak in
knowledge and tender in years !
Tho boat moved on—freighted with its weight of sorrow—up the red,
muddy; turbid current, through the abrupt tortuous windings of the
Red River; and sad eyes gazed wearily on the steep red-clay banks, as
they glided by in dreary sameness. At last the boat stooped at a small
town, and Legree, with his party, disembarked.
CHAPTEB XXXII.
DARK PLACES.
Tkailing wearily behind a rude waggon, and over a ruder road, Toa
and his associates faced onward.
In the waggon was seated Simon Legree; and the two women, still
fettered together, were stowed away with some baggage in the back part
of it, and the whole company were seeking Legree's plantation, which
lay a good distance off.
It was a wild, forsaken road, now winding through dreary pine bar¬
rens, where the wind wf lispered mournfully, and now over log cause¬
ways, through long cypress swamps, the doleful trees rising out of the
slimy, spongy ground, hung with long wreaths of funeral black moss,
while ever and anon the loathsome form of the mocassin-snake might be
seen sliding among broken stumps and shattered branches that lay here
and there, rotting in the water.
It is disconsolate enough, this riding, to the stranger, who, with
weli-fillec? pocket and well-appointed horse, threads the lonely way
on som<? errand ef business; but wilder, drearier, to the man en-
5332 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
thralled, whom every weary step bears further from all that man
loves and prays for. , . , ,
So one should have thought that witnessed tha sunken and dejected
expression on those dark faces; the wistful, patient weariness with
which those sad eyes rested on object after object that passed them m
their sad journey.
Simon rode 011, however, apparently well pleased, occasionally pulling
away at a flask of spirit, which he kept in his pocket.
" 1 say you /" he said, as he turned back and caught a glance at the
dispirited faces behind him. " Strike up a song, boys—come !"
The men looked at each other, and the "come" was repeated, with a
smart crack of the whip, which the driver carried in his hands. Tom
began a Methodist hymn—
" Jerusalem, my happy home,
Name ever dear to me!
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall—"
"Shut up, you black cuss !" roaredLegree; "did ye think I wanted
any o' yer infernal old Methodism ? I say, tune up, now, something
real rowdy—quick !"
One of the other men struck up one of those unmeaning songs com¬
mon among the slaves—
" Mas'r seed me cotch a coon,
High boys, high!
He laughed to split—d'ye see the moon?
Ho! ho ! ho ! boys, ho 1
Ho ! yo! hi—e ! oh !"
The singer appeared to make up the song to his own pleasure, gene¬
rally hitting on rhyme, without much attempt at reason ; and all the
cartv took up the chorus at intervals—
" Ho ! ho! ho! boys, ho!
High—e—oh ! high—e—oh!"
It was sung very boisterously, and with a forced attempt at merriment:
but no wail of despair, no words of impassioned prayer, could have had
such a depth of woe in them as the wild notes of the chorus. As if the
poor, dumb heart, threatened—prisoned—took refuge in that inarticu¬
late sanctuary of music, and found there a language in which to breathe
its prayer to God! There was a prayer in it which Simon could not
hear. He only heard the boys singing noisily, and was well pleased; he
was making them " keep up their spirits."
" Well, my little dear," said he, turning to Emmeline, and laying his
hand on her shoulder, " we're almost home !"
When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified; but
when he laid his hand on her, and spoke as he now did, she felt as if
she had rather he would strike her. The expression of his eyes made
her soul sick, and her flesh creep. Involuntarily she clung closer to the
mulatto woman by her side, as if she wei a her mother.
" You didn't ever wear ear-rings,' ie said, taking hold of her small ear
with his coarse fingers.
"No, mas'r!" said Emmel'ne, trembling and looking down.
" Well, I'll give you a pair when we get home, if you're a good
girl. You needn't be so frightened; I don't mean to make you work
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 233
very hard. You'll have fine times with me, and live like a lady—only
be a good girl."
Legree had been drinking to that degree that he was inclining to be
very gracious; and it was about this time that the inclosures of the
plantation rose to view. The estate had formerly belonged to a gentle¬
man of opulence and taste, who had bestowed some considerable
attention to the adornment of his grounds. Having died insolvent,
it had been purchased at a bargain, by Legree, who used it, as he
did everything else, merely as an implement for money-making. The
lace had that ragged, forlorn appearance, which is always produced
y the evidence that the care of the former owner has been left to go
to utter decay.
What was once a smooth-shaven lawn before the house, dotted here
and there with ornamental shrubs, was now covered with frowsy, tan¬
gled grass, with horse-posts set up here and there in it, where the turf
was stamped away, and the ground littered with broken pails, cobs of
corn, and other slovenly remains. Here and there a mildewed jessa¬
mine or honeysuckle hung raggedly from some ornamental support,
which had been pushed to one side by being used as a horse-post.
What once was a large garden, was now all grown over with weeds,
through which, here and there, some solitary exotic reared its forsaken
head. What had been a conservatory had now no window-sashes,
and on the mouldering shelves stood some dry, forsaken flower-pots,
with sticks in them, whose dried leaves showed they had once been
plants.
The waggon rolled up a weedy gravel-walk, under a noble avenue of
China trees, whose graceful forms and ever-springing foliage seemed to
be the only things there that neglect could not daunt or alter—like
noble spirits, so deeply rooted in goodness as to flourish and glow
stronger amid discouragement and decay.
The house had been large and handsome. It was built in a manner
common at the south; a wide verandah of two storeys running round
every part of the house, into which every outer door opened, the lower
tier beinft supported by brick pillars.
But the place looked desolate and uncomfortable; some* windows
stopped up with boards, some with shattered panes, and shutters hang¬
ing by a single hinge—all telling of coarse neglect and discomfort.
Bits of board, straw, old decayed barrels and boxes, garnished the
ground in all directions; and three or four ferocious-looking dogs, roused
by the sound of the waggon-wheels, came tearing out, and were with
difficulty restrained from laying hold of Tom and his companions, by the
efforts of the ragged servants who came after them.
"Ye see what ye'd get!" said Legree, caressing the dogs with grim
satisfaction, and turning to Tom and his companions, " ITe see what
ye'd get if ye tried to run off. These yer dogs has been raised to track
niggers; and they'd jest as soon chaw one on ye up as eat their supper.
So, mind y erself! How now, Sambo!" he said, to a ragged fellow, with¬
out any brim to his hat, who was officious in his attentions. " How
have things been going?"
" Fust rate, mas'r."
" Quimbo, said Legree to another, who was making zealous demon¬
strations to attract his attention; " ye minded what I telled ye ?"
" Guess I did, didn't I ?"
These two coloured men were the two principal hands on the planta¬
tion. Legree had trained them in savageness and brutality as systema¬
tically as he had his bull-dogs; and, by long practice in hardness and
214 tTKCIS TOMS CABIST, OS
cruelty, brought their whole nature to about the same range of capaci*
ties. It is a common remark, and one that is thought to militate strongly
against the character of the race, that the negro overseer is always more
tyrannical and cruel than the white one. This is simply saying that the
negro mind has been more crushed and debased than the white. It is
no more true of this race than of every oppressed race, the world over.
The slave is always a tyrant, if he can get a chance to be .one. _
Legree, like some potentates we read of in history, governed his plan¬
tation by a sort of resolution of forces. Sambo and Quimbo cordially
hated each other; the plantation-hands, one and all, cordially hated
them; and by playing off one against another, he was pretty sure,
through one or the other of the three parties, to get informed of what-,
sver was on foot in the place.
N obody can live entirely without social intercourse; and Legree en¬
couraged his two black satellites to a kind of coarse familiarity with him
—a familiarity, however, at any moment liable to get one or the other 01
them into trouble; for, on the slightest provocation, one of them always
stood ready, at a nod, to be a minister of his vengeance on the other.
As they stood there now by Legree, they seemed an apt illustration of
the fact that brutal men are lower even than animals. Their coarse,
dark, heavy features; their great eyes,rolling enviously on each other;
their barbarous, guttural, half-brute intonation; their dilapidated gar¬
ments fluttering in the wind—were all in admirable keeping with the vile
and unwholesome character of everything about the place.
" Here, you Sambo," said Legree, " take these yer boys down to the
quarters; and here's a gal I've got for you" said he, as he separated the
mulatto woman from Emmeline, and pushed her towards him; " I pro¬
mised to bring you one, you know."
The woman gave a sudden start, and, drawing back, said suddenly—
"O mas'r! I left my old man in New Orleans."
" What of that, you ; won't you want one here ? None o' ycur
words—go'long!" said Legree, raising his whip.
" Come, mistress," he said to Emmeline, " you go in here with me."
A dark, wild face was seen, for a moment, to glance at the window of
the house; and, as Legree opened the door, a female voice said some¬
thing in a quick imperative tone. Tom, who was looking, with anxious
interest after Emmeline, as she went in, noticed this, and heard Legree
answer angrily, " You may hold your tongue! I'll do as I please for all
you!"
Tom heard no more; for he was soon following Sambo to the quarters.
The quarters was a little sort of street of rude shanties, in a row, in
a part of the plantation, far off from the house. They had a forlorn,
brutal, forsaken air. Tom's heart sank when he saw them. He had
been comforting himself with the thought of a cottage, rude, indeed, but
one which he might make neat and quiet, and where he might have a
shelf for his Bible, and a place to be alone out of his labouring houis.
He looked into several; they were mere rude shells, destitute of airy
species 01" furniture, except a heap of straw, foul with dirt, spread con¬
fusedly over the floor, which was merely the bare ground, trodden hard
by the tramping of innumerable feet.
" "Which of these will be mine ?" said he to Sambo, submissively.
"Dunno; ken turn in here, I spose," said Sambo; " spect thai's
room for another thar; thar's a pretty smart heap o' niggers to eaoh
on 'em, now; sure, I dunno what I's to do with more."
««•«*• s
LIFE AJIONG THIS LOWLY. 2S8
It was lato in the evening when the weary occupants of the shanties
came flocking home—men and women, in soiled and tattered garments,
early and uncomfortable, and in no mood to look pleasantly on new¬
comers. The small village was alive with no inviting sounds; hoarse,
guttural voices contending at the hand-mills where their morsel of hard
corn was yet to be ground into meal, to fit it for the cake that was to con¬
stitute their only supper. From the earliest dawn of the day they had
been in the fields, pressed to work under the driving lash of the over,
seers; for it was now in the very heat and hurry of the season, and no
means were left untried to press everyone up to the top of their capa¬
bilities. " True," says the negligent lounger; " picking cotton isn't hard
work." Isn't it ? And it isn't much inconvenience, either, to have one
drop of water fall on your head; yet the worst torture of the Inquisition
is produced by drop after drop, drop after drop, falling moment after
moment, with monotonous succession, on the same spot; and work in
itself not hard, becomes so by being pressed, hour after hour, with un¬
varying, unrelenting sameness, with not even the consciousness of free¬
will to take from its tediousness. Tom looked in vain among the gang,
as they poured along, for companionable faces. He saw only sullen,
scowling, embruted men, and feeble, discouraged woman, or women that
were not women—the strong pushing away the weak—the gross, unre¬
stricted animal selfishness of human beings, of whom nothing good was
expected and desired; and who, treated in every way like brutes, had
sunk as nearly to their level as it was possible for human beings to do.
To a late hour in the night the sound of the grinding was protracted;
for the mills were few in number compared with the grinders, and the
weary and feeble ones were driven back by the strong, and came on last
in their turn.
" Ho yo 1" said Sambo, coming to the mulatto woman, and throwing
down a bag of corn before her, " what a cuss you name ? "
" Lucy, said the woman.
" "VVal, Lucy, yo my woman now. Yo grind dis yer corn, and get my
supper baked, ye har ? "
I an't your woman, and I won't be!" said the woman, with the
sharp, sudden courage of despair; " you go long !"
" I'll kick yo, then!" said Sambo, raising his foot threateningly.
" Ye may kill me, if ye choose—the sooner the better! Wish't I was
dead !" said she.
" I say, Sambo, you go to spilin' the hands, I'll tell mas'r o' you.,"
said Quimbo, who was busy at the mill, from which h£ had viciously
driven two or three tired women, who were waiting to grind their corn.
" And I'll tell him ye won't let the women come to the mills, yo old
nigger !" said Sambo. " Yo ies keep to yo own row."
Tom was hungry with his day's journey, and almost faint for want of
iood.
" Thar yo!" said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, which con¬
tained a peck of corn; "thar, nigger, grab—take care on't, yo won't get
no more dis yer week."
Tom waited till a late hour to get a place at the mills; and then,
moved by the utter weariness of two women, whom he saw trying to
grind their corn there, he ground for them, put together the decaying
brands of the fire where many had baked cakes before him, and then
went about getting his own supper. It was a new kind of work there^-
a deed of charity, small as it was; but it woke an answering touch in
their hearts—an expression of womanly kindness came over their hard
236 tjncib tom's cabin, oa
faces. They mixed his cake for him, and tended its baking; and Tom
sat down by the light of the fire, and drew out his Bible—lor hs had
need of comfort.
" What's that ? " said one of the women.
" A Bible," said Tom. _ , 1 „
" Good Lord! han't seen un since I was in Kentuck.
" Was you raised in Kentuck ? " said Tom with interest.^
" Yes, and well raised, too; never 'spected to come to dis yer! said
the woman sighing.
" What's dat ar book, any way ? " said the other woman.
" Why, the Bible."
" Laws a me! what's dat ? " said the woman.
" Do tell! you never hearn on't ? " said the other woman. " I used
to har missis a readin' on't, sometimes, in Kentuck; but, laws o' me !
we don't har nothin' here but crackin' and swarin.'"
" Head a piece, anyways !" said the first woman, curiously, seeing
Tom attentively poring over it.
Tom read, " Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest."
" Them's good words enough," said the woman, " who says 'em ? "
" The Lord," said Tom.
" I jest wish I know'd whar to find Him," said the woman. " I
would go; 'pears like I never should get rested agin. My flesh is fairly
sore, and I^tremble all over, every day, and Sambo's allers a jawin' at
me, 'cause I doesn't pick faster; and nights it's most midnight'fore I
can get my supper; and den 'pears like I don't turn over and shut my
eyes 'fore I hear de horn blow to get up, and at it agin iu de mornin'.
If I knew whar de Lord was, I'd tell him."
" He's here, he's everywhere," said Tom.
" Lor! you an't gwine to make me believe dat ar! I know de Lord
an't here," said the woman; " 'tan't no use talking, though. I's jest
gwine to camp down, and sleep while I ken."
The women went off to their cabins, and Tom sat alone, by the
smouldering fire, that flickered up redly in his face.
The silver, fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, and looked
down, calm and silent, as God looks on the scene of misery and oppres¬
sion—looked calmly on the lone black man, as he sat, with his arms
folded, and his Bible on his knee.
"Is God heee ? " Ah, how is it possible for the untauprht heart to
keep its faith, unswerving, in the face of dire misrule, and palpable,
unrebuked injustice P In that simple heart waged a fierce conflict: tho
crushing sense of wrong, the foreshadowing of a whole life of future
misery, the wreck of all past hopes, mournfully tossing in the soul's
sight, like dead corpses of wife, and child, and friend, rising from the
dark wave, and surging in the face of the half-drowned mariner I Ah,
was it easy here to believe and hold fast the great pass-word of Christian
faith, that "God is, and is the eewakdek of them that diligently seek
Him?"
Tom rose, disconsolate, and stumbled into the cabin that had been
allotted to him. The floor was already strewn with weary sleepers, and
the foul air of the place almost repelled him; but the heavy night-dews
were chill and his limbs weary, and wrapping about him a tattered
blanket, which formed his only bed-clothing, he stretched himself in tho
straw, and fell asleep.
In dreams, a gentle voice came over his ears; he was sitting on the
mossy seat in (,he garden by Lake Pontchartrain, and Eva, with her
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 237
Berious eyes bent downward, was reading to him from the Bible; and he
heard her read—
" When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee, and the
rivers they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest tbrougn the fire
thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee; for
I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour."
Gradually the words seemed to melt and fade, as in a divine music;
the child raised her deep eyes, and fixed them lovingly on him, and
rays of warmth and comfort seemed to go from them to his heart; and,
as if wafted on the music, she seemed to rise on shining wings, from
which flakes and spangles of gold fell off like stars, and she was gone.
Tom woke. "Was it a dream ? Let it pass for one. But who shall
say that that sweet young spirit, which in life so yearned to comfort and
console the distressed, was forbidden of God to assume this ministry after
death ?
*' It is a beautiful belief,
That ever round our head
Are hovering, on angel wings,
The spirits of the dead."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CASSY.
Ix took but a short time to familiarize Tom with all that was to be
hoped or feared in his new way of life. He was an expert and efficient
workman in whatever he undertook; and was, both from habit and prin¬
ciple, prompt and faithful. Quiet and peaceable in his disposition, he
hoped, by unremitting diligence, to avert from himself at least a portion
of the evils of his condition. He saw enough of abuse and misery to
make him sick and weary; but he determined to toil on with religious
patience, committing himself to Him that judgeth righteously, not with¬
out hope that some way of escape might yet be opened to him.
Legree took silent note of Tom's availability. He rated him as a
first-class hand; and yet he felt a secret dislike to him—the native anti¬
pathy of bad to good. He saw plainly that when, as was often the case,
his violence and brutality fell on the helpless, Tom took notice of it; for,
so subtle is the atmosphere of opinion, that it will make itself felt with¬
out words, and the opinion even of a slave may annoy a master. Tom
in various ways manifested a tenderness of feeling, a commiseration for
his fellow-sufferers, strange and new to them, which was watched with a
jealous eye by Legree. He had purchased Tom with a view of eventually
making him a sort of overseer, with whom he might at times intrust his
affairs m short absences; and, in his view, the first, second, and third
requisite for that place was hardness. Legxee made up his mind t^at,
as Tom was not hard to his hand, he would harden him forthwith; and
some few weeks after Tom had been on the place, he determined to com¬
mence the process.
One morning, when the hands were mustered for the field, Tom
noticed with surprise a new-comer among them, whose appearance ex¬
cited his attention. It was a woman, tall and slenderly formed, with
remarkably delicate hands and feet, and dressed in neat and respectable
garments. By the appearance of her face, she might have been between
thirty-five and forty; and it was a face that, once seen, could never be
228 UNCLE TOJd'.S CM3IN, OB
forgotten—one of those that at a glance seem to convey to us an idea of
a wild, painful, and romantic history. Her lorehead was high, and her
eyebrows marked with beautiful clearness. Her straight, well-formed
nose, her finely-cut mouth, and the graceful contour of her head and
neck, showed that she must once have been beautiful; but her faco waa
deeply wrinkled with lines of pain, and of proud and bitter endurance.
Her complexion was sallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin, her fea¬
tures sh?rp, and her whole form emaciated. But her eye was the most
remarkable feature—so large, so heavily black, overshadowed by long
lashes oi equal darkness, and so wildly, mournfully despairing. There
was a fierce pride and defiance in every line of her face, in every curve
of the flexible lip, in every motion of her body; but in her eye was a
deep, settled night of anguish—an expression so hopeless and unchang¬
ing as to contrast fearfully with the scorn and pride expressed by her
whole demeanour.
"Where she came from, or who she was, Tom dia not know. The first
he did know, she was walking by his side, erect and proud, in the dim
gray of the dawn. To the gang, however, she was known; for there
was much looking and turning of heads, and a smothered yet apparent
exultation among the miserable, ragged, hall-starved creatures by whom
she was surrounded.
" Got to come to it at last—grad of it!" said one.
" He I he! he!" said another. " You will know how good it is,
disss!"
" We'll see her work!"
" Wonder if she'll get a cutting up at night, like the rest of us!"
" I'll be glad to see her down for a flogging, I'll bound!" said
another.
The woman took no notice of these taunts, but walked on with the
same expression of angry scorn as if she heard nothing. Tom had always
lived among refined and cultivated people, and he felt intuitively, from
her air and bearing, that she belonged to that class; but how or why she
could be fallen to these degrading circumstances he could not tell.
The woman neither looked at hii i nor spoke to him, though, all the way
to the field, she kept close at his side.
Tom was soon busy at his work; but, as the woman was at no great
distance from him, he often glanced an eye to her, at her work. He
saw at a glance that a native adroitness and handiness made the task to
her an easier one than it proved to many. She picked very fast and very
clean, and with an air of scorn, as if she despised both the work ana
the disgrace and humiliation of the circumstances in which she was
placed.
In the course of the day, Tom was working with the mulatto woman
who had been bought in the same lot with hiintielf. She was evidently
in a condition of great suffering, and Tom often heard her praying, as
she wavered and trembled, and seemed about to fall down. Tom silently,
as he came near to her, transferred several handfuls of cotton from his
own sack to hers.
• Oh, don't, don't!" said the woman, looking surprised; " it'll get you
ink trouble."
Jl st then Sambo came up. He seemed to have a special spite against
this \ oman; and, flourishing his whip, said, in brutal, guttural tones,
"Whit (lis yer, Luce—fooliu' a'?" and, with the word, kicking the
vsomati with his heavy cow-hido shoe, he struck Tom across the fsoe
with h'3 whip.
LIFE AMONG THB LOWLY. 239
Tom silently resumed his task; but the woman, before at the last
point of exhaustion, fainted.
" I'll bring her to!" said the driver with a brutal grin. "I'll give her
eomething better than eamphire!" and, taking a pin from his coat-
sleeve, he buried it to the head in her flesh. The woman groaned, and
half-rose. " Get up, you beast, and work, will yer, or I'll show yer a
trick more!"
The woman seemed stimulated, for a tew moments, to an unnatural
strength, and worked »;th desperate eagerness.
" See that you keep to dat ar," said the man, " or yer'll wish yer's dead
to-night, I reckin !"
" That I do now!" Tom heard her say; and again he heard her say,
" O Lord, how long ? O Lord, why don't you help us ?"
.At the risk of all that he might suffer, Tom came forward again, and
put all the cotton in his sack into the woman's.
" Oh, you mustn't; you donno what they'll do to ye!" said the woman.
"I can bar it," said Tom, "better'n you;" and he was at his place
agaiu. It passed in a moment.
Suddenly the stranger woman whom we have described, and who had,
in the course of her work, come near enough to hear Tom's last words,
raised her heavy black eyes, and fixed them for a second on him; then,
taking a quantity of cotton from her basket, she placed it in his.
"You know nothing about this place," she said, "or you wouldn't
have done that. When you've been here a month, you'il be done help¬
ing anybody; you'll find it hard enough to take care of your own skin."
The Lord forbid, missis !" said Tom, using instinctively to his field
companion the respectful form proper to the high-bred with whom he
had lived.
" The Lord never visits these parts," said the woman bitterly, as she
went nimbly forward with her work; and again the scornful smile
curled her lips.
But the action of the woman had been seen by the driver across the
field: and, flourishing his whip, he came up to her.
" What! what!" he said to the woman with an air of triumph, "you
a foolin' P Go along! yer under me now—mind yourself, or yer'll
cotch it!"
A glance like sheet-lightning suddenly flashed from those black eyes;
and, facing about, with quivering lip and dilated nostrils, she drew herself
up, 8rid fixed a glance, blazing with rage and scorn, on the driver.
" Dog !" she said, " touch me, if you dare! I've power enough yet to
have you torn by the dogs, burnt alive, cut to inches ! I've jnly to say
the word!"
"What de devil you here for, den?" said the man, evidently cowed,
and sullenly retreating a step or two. "Didn't mean no harm, Misse
Gassy !"
"Keep your distance, then!" said the woman. And, in truth, the
man seemed greatly inclined to attend to something at the other end of
the field, and started off in quick time.
The woman suddenly turned to her work, and laboured with &
despatch that was perfectly astonishing to Tom. She seemed to work
by magic. Before the day was through, her basket was filled, crowded
down, and piled, and she had several times put largely into Tom's.
Long after dusk the whole weary train, witfi their baskets on thei?
heads, defiled up to the building appropriated to the storing and weigh¬
ing the cotton. Legree was there, busily jonversing with the two
driveva
24 J UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
Dat ar Tom's gwine to make a powerful deal o' trouble; k
puttin' into Lucy's basket. One o' these yer dat will get all der mgg
to feelin' 'bused, if mas'r don't watch him!" said Sambo.
"Hey-dey! The black cuss!" said Legree. Hell have to get a
breakin' in, won't he, boys ?" .....
Both negroes grinned a horrid grin at this intimation.
"Ay, ay! let Mas'r Legree alone for breakin in! De debil heseli
couldn't beat mas'r at dat!" said Quimbo. _
" Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to do till he gets
ov jr his notions. Break him in!"
" Lord, mas'r '11 have hard work to get dat out o' him!
" It'll have to come out of him, though!" said Legree, as he rolled his
tobacco in his mouth.
"Now, dar's Lucy—de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on de place!"
pursued Sambo.
" Take care, Sam; I shall begin to think what's the reason for your
spite agin Lucy."
" Well, mas'r knows she sot herself up agin mas'r, and wouldn't have
me when he tolled her to."
" I'd a flogged her into't," said Legree, spitting, " only there's such a
press o' work, it don't seem wutli a while to upset her jist now. She's
slender; but these yer slender gals will bear half killin' to get their own
way !"
Wal, Lucy was real aggravatin' and lazy, sulkin' round; wouldn't do
no thin'—and Tom he tuck up for her."
"He did, eh? Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of flogging
her. It'll be a good practice for him, and he won't put it on to the gal
like you devils, neither."
"Ho, ho ! haw ! haw! haw laughed both the sooty wretches; and
the diabolical sounds seemed, in truth, a not unapt expression of the
fiendish character which Legree gave them.
"Wal, but, mas'r, Tom and Misse Cassy, and dey among'em, filled
Lucy's basket. I ruther guess der weight's in it, mas'r."
" I do the weighingsaid Legree emphatically.
Both the drivers again laughed their diabolical laugh.
" So !" he added, " Misse Cassy did her day's work,"
" She picks like de debil and all his angels !"
" She's got 'em all in her, I believe !" said Legree; and, growling a
brutal oath, he proceeded to the weighing-room.
****** m *
Slowly the weary, dispirited creatures wound their way into the
room, and, with crouching reluctance, presented their baskets to be
weighed.
Legree noted on a slate, on the side of which was pasted a list of
names, the amount.
Tom's basket was weighed and approved; and he looked with aa
anxious glance for the success of the woman he had befriended.
Tottering with weakness, she came forward, and delivered her basket.
It was full weight, as Legree well perceived; but, affecting anger, he
said—
" What, you lazy beast! short again! Stand aside, you'll catch it,
pretty soon !"
The woman gave a groan of utter despair, and sat down on a board.
The person who had been called M isse Cassy now came forward, and,
with a haughty negligent air, delivered her basket. As she delivered
it, Legree looked in her eyes with a sneering yet inquiring glance.
Lltffi AJIOKG THE LOWLY. H41
She fixed her black eyes steadily on him, her li;js moved slightly, at
she said something in French. What it was, no one knew; but Legree
face became perfectly demoniacal in its expression as she spoke ; he ha
raised his hand, as if to strike—a gesture which she regarded with fierco
disdain, as she turned and walked away.
"And now," said Legree, "come here, you Tom. You see, I telled
yc 1 didn't bay ye jest for the common work. I mean to promote ye,
and make a driver of ye; and to-night ye may jest as well begin to get
yer hand in. Now, ye jest take this yer gal and flog her; ye've seen
enough on't to know how."
" I beg mas'r's pardon," said Tom; " hopes mas'r won't set me at
that. It's what I an't used to—never did—and can't do, no way pos¬
sible."
" Ye'll larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did know, before
I've done with ye!" said Legree, taking up a cow-hide, and striking
Tom a heavy blow across the cheek, and following up the infliction by a
shower of blows.
" There !" he said, as he stopped to rest; " now will ye tell me ye can't
do it?"
"Yes, mas'r," said Tom. putting up his hand to wipe the blood that
trickled, down his face. I'm wiliin' to work, night and day, and work
while there's life and breath in me; but this yer thing I can't feel it
right to do; and, mas'r, I never shall do it—never!"
Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and an habitually respect¬
ful manner, that had given Legree an idea that he would be cowardly,
and easily subdued. When he spoke these last words, a thrill of amaze¬
ment went through every one; the poor woman clasped her hands, and
said, "O, Lord!" and every one involuntarily looked at each other and
drew 'i. their breath, as if to prepare for the sto::m that was about to
bur«i>
L'-iT-'ie looked stupified and confounded; but at last burst forth.
" AV ftat! ye blasted black beast! tell me ye don't think it right
to do what I tell ye ! What have any of you cussed cattle to do with
thinking what's right? I'll put a stop to it! Why, what do ye think
ye are ? May be ye think ye'r a gentleman, Master Tom, to be a telling
your master what's right, and what an't I So you pretend it's wrong
to flog the gal!"
I think so, mas'r," said Tom. " The poor crittur's sick and feeble;
'twould be downright cruel, and it's what I never will do, nor begin to.
r.ias'r, if you mean to kill me, kill me; but, as to my raising my hand
agin any one here, I never shall—I'll die first!"
Tom spoke in a mild voice, but with a decision that could not bo mis¬
taken. Legree shook with anger; his greenish eyes glared fiercely, and
| his very whiskers seemed to curl with passion; but, like some ferocious
i beast, that plays with its victim before he devours it, he kept back his
j strong impulse to proceed to immediate violence, and bioke out into
bitter raillery.
"Well, here's a pious dog, at last, let down amcng us sinners!—a
saint, a gentleman, and no less, to talk to us sinners about our sins !
Powerful holy critter, he must be ! Here, you rascal, you make believe
to be so pious—didn't you never hear, out of yer Bible,' Servants, obey
your masters ?' An't I your master ? Didn't I pay down twehe hun¬
dred dollars, cash, for all there is in yer old cussed black shell? A'nt
yer mine, now, body and soul ?" he said, giving Tom a violent kick with
bis heavy boot: "tell me!" ^ ,
In th) very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutal oppression.
a
242 tJNCLS fOM°S CAEII'Tj 0J8
tL»J question shot a gleam of joy and triumph through Tom s soul
He suddenly sti-etched himself up, and, looking earnestly to n«
while the tears and blood that flowed down his face min^ea, no
" No, no, no! my soul an't yours, mas'r ! You haven't bought it—ye
can't buy it! It's been bought and paid for by one that s able to keep
it; no matter, no matter, you can't harm me!" „ , .
I can't ?" said Legree, with a sneer; we 11 see. Here, cam bo .
Quimbo! give this dog such a breakin' in as he won t get over this
U The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom with fiendish
exultation in their faces, might have formed no unapt personification o.
powers of darkness. The poor woman screamed with apprehension, and
all rose, as by a general impulse, while they dragged him unresisting
from the place.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
the quadroon's story.
It was late at night, and Tom lay groaning and bleeding alone, in an
old forsaken room of the gin-house, among pieces of broken machinery,
piles of damaged cotton, and other rubbish which had there accumu¬
lated.
The nigh*< was damp and close, and the thick air swarmed with
myriads of mosquitoes, which increased the restless torture of his wounds;
whilst a burning thirst—a torture beyond all others—filled up the
uttermost measure of physical anguish.
" O good Lord! Do look down—give me the victory!—give me the
victory over all!" prayed poor Tom, in his anguish.
A footstep entered the room behind him, and the light of a lantern
flashed on his eyes.
"Who's there? O, for the Lord's massy, please give me some
water!"
The woman Cassy—for it was she—set down her lantern, and, pour¬
ing water from a bottle, raised his head, and gave him drink. Another
and another cup were drained, with feverish eagerness.
" Drink all ye want," she said; " I knew how it would be. It isn't the
first time I've been out in the night, carrying water to such as you."
" Thank you, missis," said Tom, when he had done drinking.
" Don't call me missis ! I'm a miserable slave, like yourself—a lower
one than you can ever be!" she said bitterly. "But now," said she,
going to the door, and dragging in a small paillasse, over which she had
spread linen cloths wet with cold water, " try, my poor fellow, to roll
yourself on to this."
Stiff with wounds and bruises, Tom was a long time in accomplishing
this movement; but when done he felt a sensible relief from the cooling
application to his wounds.
The woman, whom long practice with the victims of brutality had
made familiar with many healing arts, went on to make many applica¬
tions to Tom's wounds, by means of which he was soon somewhat
""elie^ed.
" Now," said the woman, when she had raised his head on a roll ot
damaged cotton, which served for a pillow, " there's the best I can do
for you."
Tom thanked her; and w nan, sitting down on the floor drew
tliZ AMONG THB LOWtl. 243
Up her knees, and embracing them with her arms, looked fixedly before
her, with a bitter and painful expression of countenance. Her bonnet
fell back, and long wavy streams of black hair fell around her singular
and melancholy face.
"It's no use, my poor fellow!" she broke out, at last, "it's of no
ase, this you've been trying to do. You were a brave fellow—you had
the right on your side; but it's all in vain, and out off the question, for
«ou to struggle. You are in the devil's hands; he is the strongest, and
you must give up."
Give up! and had not human weakness and physical agony whispered
that before ? Tom started ; for the bitter woman, with her wild eyes and
melancholy voice, seemed to him an smbodiment of the temptation with
which he had been wrestling.
"O Lord! O Lord!" ho groaned, "how can I give up ?"
" There's no use in calling on the Lord—he never hears," said the
woman, steadily. " There isn't any God, I believe; or, if there is, he's
taken sides against us. All goes against us, heaven and earth. Every-'
thing is pushing us into hell. "Why shouldn't we go ?"
Tom closed his eyes, and shuddered at the dark, atheistic words.
"Yousee," said the woman, "you don't know anything about it—
I do. I've been in this place five years, body and soul, under this man's
foot; and I hate him as I do the devil! Here you are, on a lone planta¬
tion, ten miles from any other, in the swamps; not a white person hero
who could testify if you were burned alive—if you were scalded, cut in
inch-pieces, set up for the dogs to tear, or hung up and whipped to death.
There's no law here, of God or man, that can do you or any one of us the
least good : and this man! there'sno earthly thing that he's too good to
do. I could make any one's hair rise, and his teeth chatter, if I should
only tell what I've seen and been knowing to here—and it's no use resist¬
ing ! Did I want to live with him ? Wasn't I a woman delicately bred ?
and he—God in heaven ! what was he, and is he ? And yet I've lived
with him these five years, and cursed every moment of my life—night
and day ! And now he's got a new one—a young thing, only fifteen; and
she brought up, she says, piously. Her good mistress taught her to read
the Bible, and she's brought her Bible here — to hell with her !" And
the woman laughed a wild and doleful laugh that rang with a strange
supernatural sound through tfce old ruined shed.
Tom folded his hands; all was darkness and horror.
"O Jesus! Lord Jesus! have you quite forgot us poor crittursr"
burst forth, at last. " Help, Lord, I perish!"
The woman sternly continued:—
" And what are these miserable low dogs you work with, that you
should suffer on their account ? Every one of them would turn against
you the first time they got a chance. They are all of 'em as low and
cruel to each other as they can be; there's no use in your suffering to
keep from hurting them."
"Poor critturs !" said Tom, "what made 'em cruel? And if I giva
out I shall get used to't, and grow, little by little, just like 'em ! No,
no, missis! I've lost everything — wife, and children, and home, and a
kind mas'r—and he would have set me free, if he'd only lived a week
longer. I've lost everything in this world, and it's clean gone, for ever—
and now I can't loose heaven, too; no, I can't get to be wicked, besides
all!"
" But it can't be that the Lord will lay sin to our account," said the
woman; " he won't charge it to us, when we're forced to it; he'll charge
it to them that drove us to it."
B 2
244 tTNCtB Toil's CABItf, OS
"Yes," said Tom: "but that won't keep us from grow ins
If I get to be as hard-hearted as that ai^ Sambo, and as wicked, it won x
make much odds to me how I come so ; it's the bein' so that ar s wnat
I'm a dreadin'." . „ .
The woman fixed a wild and startled look on Tom, as if a new thought
had struck her; and then, heavily groaning, said—
" O God a' mercy ! you speak the truth ! O—O—O ! And, with
groans, she fell on the floor, like one crushed and writhing under the
extremity of mental acguish. _ _
There was a silence awhile, .in which the breathing of both parties
could be heard, when Tom fain^y said, " Oh, please, missis !"
The woman suddenly ro?e up, with her face composed to its usual
stern, melancholy expression.
" Please, missis, I saw 'em throw my coat in that ar* corner, ana in
my coat-pocket is my Bible—if missis would please get it for me."
"Cassy went and got it. Tom opened, at once, to a heavily marked
passage, much worn, of the last scenes in the life of Him by whose
stripes we are healed.
"If missis would only be so good as read that ar*—it's better than
water."
Cassy took the book, with a dry, proud air, and looked over the pas¬
sage. She then read aloud, in a soft voice, and with a beauty of intona¬
tion that was peculiar, that touching account of anguish and of glory.
Often, as she read, her voice faltered, and sometimes failed altogether,
when she would stop, with an air ot frigid composure, till she had mas¬
tered herself. When she came to the touching words, " Father, forgive
them, for they know not what they do," she threw down the book, and,
burying her face in the heavy masses of her hair, she sobbed aloud, with
a convulsive violence.
Tom was weeping also, and occasionally uttering a smothered ejacu¬
lation.
" If we only could keep up that ai^ !" said Tom—" it seemed to come
so natural to him, and we have to fight so hard fort ? O Lord, help us !
O blessed Lord Jesus, do help us !"
"Missis," said Tom, after a while, "I can see that somehow you're
quite 'bove me in everything; but there's one thing missis might learn
even from poor Tom. 1' e said the Lore? took sides against us, because
he lets us be 'bused and knocked roundj but ye see what come on his
own son—the blessed Lord of Glory. ~\\ an't he allays poor ? and have
we, any on us, yet come so low, as he come ? The Lord han't forgot us—
I'm sartint o' that ar'. If we suffer with him, we shall also reign, Scrip¬
ture says; but if we deny Him, he also will deny us. Didn't they all
sutler—the Lord, and all his ? _ It tells how they was stoned and sawn
asunder, and wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins, and was
destitute, afflicted, tormented. SufFerin' an't no reason to make us think
the Lord's turned agin us; but jest the contrary, if we only hold on to
him, and doesn't give up to sin."
"But why does he put us where we can't help but sin?" said the
woman.
" I think we can help it," said Tom.
" You'll see," said Cassy. ,v "What'll you do ? To-morrow they'll be at
you again. 1 know 'em, I have seen all their doings; I can't bear to
think of all they'll bring you to—and they'll make you give out at
last!"
" Lord Jesus!" said Tom, " you will take care of my soul ? O Lord,
do I—don't let me give out! '
1W3 AMONG THE LOWLY. 245
"Oh, dear,'* said Cassy, "I've heard all this crying and praying
before; and yet they've been broken down and brought under. There's
Emmeline, she's trying to hold on, and you're trying—but what use ?
You must give up, or be killed by inches."
" Well, then, I will die !" said Tom. " Spin it out as long as they can,
they can't help my dying some time!—and after that they can't do no
more, I'm clar! I'm set! I know the Lord '11 help me, and bring me
through."
The woman did not answer; she sat with her black eyes intently fixed
on the floor.
" Maybe it's the way," she murmured to herself; " but those that
have given up, there's no hope for them—none! "We live in filth and
grow loathsome, till we loathe ourselves ! And we long to die, and we
don't dare to kill ourselves. No hope! no hope! no hope!—this girl
now—just as old as I was. You see me now," she said, speaking to
Tom very rapidly, "see what I am ! Well, I was brought up in luxury.
The first I remember is playing about, when I was a child, it, splendid
parlours—when I was kept dressed up like a doll, and company and
visitors used to praise me. There was a garden opening from the saloon
windows; and there I used to play hide-and-go-seek, under the orange-
trees, with my brothers and sisters. I went to a convent, and there I
learned music, French, embroidery, and what not; and when I was four¬
teen I came out to my father's funeral. He died very suddenly, and
when the property came to be settled, they found that there was scarcely
enough to cover the debts; and when the creditors took an inventory of
the property, I was set down in it. My mother was a slave woman, and
my father had always meant to set me free; but he had not done it, and
so I was set down in the list. I'd always known who I was, but never
thought much about it. Nobody ever expects that a strong, healthy man
is going to die. My father was a well man only four hours before he
died—it was one of the first cholera cases in New Orleans. The day after
the funeral my father's wife took her children, and went up to her
father's plantation. I thought they treated me strangely, but didn't
know. There was a young lawyer whom they left to settle the business ;
and he came every day, and was about the house, and spoke very politely
to me. lie brought with him one day a young man, whom I thought the
handsomest I had ever seen. I shall never forget that evening; I walked
with him in the garden. I was lonesome and full of sorrow, and he was
60 kind and gentle to me; and he told me that he had seen me before I
went to the convent, and that he had loved me a great while, and that
he would be my friera and protector. In short, though he didn't tell
me he had paid two thousand dollars for me, and I was his property, I
became his willingly, for I loved him. Loved!" said the woman, stop¬
ping, " Oh, how I did love that man ! How I love him now, and always
shall while I breathe! He was so beautiful, so high, so noble! He put
me into a beautiful house, with servants, horses, and carriages, and
furniture, and dresses. Everything that money could buy he gave me
but I didn't set any value on all that, I only cared for him. I loved him
better than my God and my own soul; and, if I tried, I couldn't do any
other way than he wanted me to.
" I wanted only one thing—I did want him to marry me. I thought,
if he loved me as he said he did, and if I was what he seemed to think I
was, he would bo willing to marry me, and set me free. But he convinced
me that it would be impossible; and he told me that if we were only
faithful to each oiner, it was marriage before God. If that is true, wasn t
I that man's wife ? Wasn't 1 faithful ? For seven years dVln't I study
846 UNCLB TOM'S CABIN, OS
every look and motion, and only live and breathe to please him. He had
the yellow fever, and for twenty days and nights I watched with him 1
alone; and gave him all his medicine, and did everything for him; and
then he called me his good angel, and said I'd saved his life. Ave had two
beautiful children. The first was a boy, and we called him Henry; he
was the image of his father—he had such beautiful eyes, such a forehead,
and his hair hung all in curls around it—and he had all his father s spirit
and his talent too. Little Elise, he said, looked like me. He used to tell
me I was the most beautiful woman in Louisiana, he was so proud of me
*nd the children. He used to love to have me dress them up, and take
them and me about in an open carriage, and hear the remarks that people
would make on us; and he used to fill my ears constantly with the fine
things that were said in praise of me and the children. Oh, those were
happy days! I thought I was as happy as any one couid be; but then there
came evil times. He had a cousin come to New Orleans who was his
particular friend—he thought all the world of him; but, from the first
time I saw him, I couldn't tell why, I dreaded him, for I felt sure lie
was going to bring misery on us. He got Henry to going out with him,
and often he would not come home nights till two or three o'clock. 1
did not dare say a word, for Henry was so high-spirited, I was afraid to.
He got him to the gaming-houses; and he was one of the sort that when
he once got a going there, there was no holding back. And then he
introduced him to another lady, and I saw soon that his heart was gone
from me. He never told me, but I saw it—I knew it, day after day. I
felt my heart breaking, but I could not say a word. At this the wretch
offered to buy me and the children of Henry, to clear off his gambling
debts, which, stood in the way of his marrying as he wished—and he sold,
us. He told me one day that he had business in the country, and should
be gone two or three weeks. He spoke kinder than usual, and said he
should come back; but it didn't deceive me, I knew that the time had
come; I was,just like one turned into stone; I couldn't speak, nor shed
a tear. He kissed me and kissed the children a good many times, and
went out. I saw him get on his horse, and watched him till he was
quite out of sight, and then I fell down and fainted.
" Then he came, the cursed wretch! he came to take possession. He
told mo that he had bought me and my children, and showed me the
papers. I cursed him before God, and told him I'd die sooner than live
with him.
" ' Just as you please,' said he; c but if you don't behave reasonably
I'll sell both the children, where you shall never see them again.' He
told me that he always had meant to have me, from the first time he
saw me; and that he had drawn Henry on, and got him in debt, on pur¬
pose to make him willing to sell me. That he got him in love with
another woman ; and that I might know, after all that, that he should
not give up for a few airs and tears, and things of that sort.
" i gave up, for my hands were tied. He had my children; whenever
I resisted his will anywhere, he would talk about selling them, and he
made me as submissive as he desired. Oh, what a life it was! to live with
my heart breaking, every day—to keep on, on, on, loving, when it was
only misery; and to be bound, body and soul, to one I hated. I used to
love to read to Henry, to play to him, to waltz with him, and sing t-o
him; but every thing I did for this one was a perfect drag—yet I was
afraid to refuse anything. He was very imperious and harsh to the
children. Eli.-e was a timid little thing; but Henry was bold and high
spirited, like his father, and he had never been brought under in the
least by any one. He was always finding fault and quarrelling with him,
LItfE AMONG- THE LOWLY. 247
Mid I used to live in daily fear and dread. I tried to make tlie child
respectful—I tried to keep them apart, for I held on to those children
like death; but it did no good. Me sold both those children, He took
me to ride, one day, and when I came home they were nowhere to be
found! He told me he had sold them; he showed me the money, the
price of their blood. Then it seemed as if all good forsook me. I raved
and cursed—cursed God and man; and, for a while, I believe he really
was afraid of me. But he didn't give up so. He told me that my chil¬
dren were sold, but whether I ever saw their faces again depended
on him; and that if I wasn't quiet they should smart for it. Well, you
can do anything with a woman when you've got her children. He
made me submit; he made me be peaceable; he flattered me with hopes
that perhaps he would buy them back; and so things went on a week or
two. One day I was out walking, and passed by the calaboose; I saw a
crowd about the gate, and heard a child's voice—and suddenly my Henry
broke away from two or three men who were holding him, and ran
screaming, and caught my dress. They came up to him, swearing
dreadfully; and one man, whose face I shall never forget, told him thaL
he wouldn't get away so; that he was going with him into the calaboose,
and he'd get a lesson there he'd never forget. I tried to beg and pleaa
—they only laughed; the poor boy screamed and looked into my face,
and held on to me, until, m tearing him off, they tore the skirt of my
dress half away; and they carried liim in, screaming' Mother ! mother!
mother!' There was one man stood there seemed to pity me. I offered
him all the money I had if he'd only interfere. He shook his head, and
said that the man said the boy had been impudent and disobedient, ever
since he brought him; that he was going to break him in once for all.
I turned and ran ; and every step of the way I thought that I heard
him scream. I got into the house, ran all out of breath to the parlour,
where I found Butler. I told him, and begged him to go and interfere. He
only laughed, and told me the boy had got his deserts. He'd got to be
broken in—the sooner the better; ' what did I expect ?' he asked.
" It seemed to me something in my head snapped at that moment. I
felt dizzy and furious. I remember seeing a great sharp bowie-knife on
the table; I remember something about catching it, and flying upon him;
and then all grew dark, and I didn't know any more—not for days and
days.
When I came to myself I was in a nice room—but not mine. An
•old black woman tended me; and a doctor came to see me, and there
was a great deal of care taken of me. After a while I found that he had
gone away, and left me at this house to be sold; and that's why they
took such pains with me.
" I didn't mean to get well, and hoped I shouldn't; but, in spite of
me, the fever went off, and I grew healthy, and finally got up. Then
t.hey made me dress up every day; and gentlemen used to come in and
stand and smoke their cigars, and look at me, and ask questions, and
debate my price. I was so gloomy and silent that none of them wanted
me. They threatened to whip me if I wasn't gayer, and didn't take
some pains to make myself agreeable. At length, one day, came a
gentleman named Stuart. He seemed to have some feeling for me;
he saw that something dreadful was on my heart, and he came to see me
alone a great many times, and finally persuaded me to tell him. He
bought me at last, and promised to do all he could to find and buy back
my children. He went to the hotel where my Henry was • they told
him he had been sold to a planter up on Pearl River; that was the last that
I ever heard. Then he found where my daughter was; an old
248 TJNC1E TOM'S CABIN, OB
keeping hei\ He offered an immense sum for lier, but tliey would not sell
her. Butler found out that it was for me he wanted ner; and he sent me
word that I should never have her. Captain Stuart was very kind to me;
he had a splendid plantation, and took me to it. In the course of a year 1
had a son born. Oh, that child!—how I loved it! How just like my poor
Henry the little thing looked! But I had made up my mind—yes,, I
had, 1 would never again let a child live to grow up ! I took the little
iellow in my arms, when he was two weeks old, and kissed him, and
cried over him; and then I gave him laudanum, and held him close to my
bosom while he slept to dentil. How I mourned and cried over it! and
who ever dreamed that it was anything but a mistake that had made nie
give it the laudanum? but it's one of the few things that I'm glad of
no w. I am not sorry to this day; he, at least, is out of pain. "What
better than death could I give him, poor child ? After a while, the
cholera came, and Captain Stuart died; everbody died that wanted to
liwe: and I—I, though I went down to death's door—I lived! Then
I was sold, ana passed from hand to hand, till I grew faded and wrinkled,
and I had a fever; and then this wretch bought me, and brought me
here—and here I am !"
The woman stopped. She had hurried on through her story with a
wild, passionate utterance; sometimes seeming to address it to Tom, and
sometimes speaking as in a soliloquy. So vehement and overpowering
was the force with which she spoke, that, for a season, Tom was be¬
guiled even from the pain of his wounds; and, raising himself on one
elbow, watched her as she paced restlessly up and down, her long black
hair swaying heavily about her as she moved.
" You tell me," she said, after a pause, " that there is a God—a God
that looks down and sees all these things. May be it's so. The sisters in
the convent used to tell me of a day of judgment, when everything is
coming to light \ won't there be vengeance, then !
" They think it's nothing what we suffer—nothing what our children
suffer! It's all a small matter; yet I've walked the streets when it
seemed as if I had misery enough in my one heart to sink the city. I've
wished the houses would fall on me, or the stones sink under me, Yes!
and in the judgment-day I will stand up before God, a witness against
those that have rained me and my children—body and soul!
" When I was a girl, I thought I was religious; I used to love God
and prayer. Now, I'm a lost soul, pursued by devils that torment me
day and night; tney keep pushing ne on and on—and I'll do it, too,
some of these days!" she said, clen.hing her hand, while an insane
light glanced in her heavy black eyes. ' I'll send him where he be¬
longs—a short way, too—one of these nights, if they burn me alive for
it 1 A wild, long laugh rang through the deserted room, and ended
in an hysteric sob; she threw herself on the floor in convulsive sobbings
and struggles.
In a few moments the frenzy fit seemed to pass off; she rose slowly
and seemed to collect herself. '
" Can I do anything more for you, my poor fellow ? " she said, approach¬
ing where Tom lay; "shall I give you some more water?"
There was a graceful and compassionate sweetness in her voice
and manner, as she said this, that formed a strange contrast with the
former wildness.
Tom drank the water, and looked earnestly and pitifully into her face.
" O missis, I wish you'd go to Him that can give you living waters la
'• Go to mm! vv nereis ner vv no is ne r" said Cassy.
" Him that you rea4 of tc me—tlie Lord "
iife among the 10wly. 249
"I used to see the picture of him over the altar, when I was a girl,"
BBia Cassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in an expression of mournful
reverie! " but he isn't here !—there's nothing here, hut sin and long,
long, long despair ! Oh !" She laid her hand on her breast and drew
in her breath, as if to lift a heavy weight.
Tom looked as if he would speak again, but she cut him short with a
decided gesture.
" Don't talk, my poor fellow. Try to sleep if you can." And, placing
water in his reach, and making whatever little arrangements for his
'scmfort she could, Cassy left the shed.
CHAPTER XXXV.
the tokens.
The sitting-room of Legree's establishment was a large, long room,
with a wide, ample fire-place. It had once been hung with a showy and
expensive paper, which now hung mouldering, torn, and discoloured
from the damp walls. The place had that peculiar sickening, unwhole¬
some smell, compounded of mingled damp, dirt, and decay, which one
ofton notices in close old houses. The wall-paper was defaced, in spots,
1>y slops of beer and wine; or garnished with chalk memorandums, and
tong sums footed up, as if somebody had been practising arithmetic
there. In the fireplace stood a brazier full of burning charcoal; for,
although the weather was not cold, the evenings always seemed damp
and chilly in that great room ; and Legree, moreover, wanted a place
to light his cigars, and heat his water for punch. The ruddy glare of
the charcoal displayed the confused and unpromising aspect of the
room—saddles, bridles, several sorts of harness, riding-whips, overcoats,
and various articles of clothing, scattered up and down the room in
confused variety; and the dogs of which we have before spoken had
encamped themselves among them, to suit their own taste and
convenience.
Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, pouring his
hot water from a cracked and broken-nosed pitcher, grumbling as he
did so—
" Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between me and the
new hands! That fellow won't be fit to work for a week now—right in
the press of the season !"
" Yes, just like you," said a voice behind his chair. It was the woman
Cassy, who had stolen upon his soliloquy.
" Ha! you she-devil! you've come back, have you ?"
"Yes, I have," she said, coolly; " come to have my own way, too !"
" You lie, you jade! I'll be up to my word. Either behave yourself,
or stay down to the quarters, and fare and work with the rest."
" I'd rather ten thousand times," said the woman, " live in the dirtiest
hole at the quarters than be under your hoof!"
" But you ore under my hoof, for all that," said he, turning upon her
with a savage grin; "that's one comfort. So, sit down here on my
knee, my dear, and hear to reason," said he, laying hold on her wrist.
"Simon Legree, take care!" said the woman, with a sharp flash of
her eye, a glance so wild and insane in its light as to be almost appalling,
" You're airaiu ol me, Simon/' snesaid, deliberately, " and you've reason
to t'-s! But be careful, for I've got the devil in me!"
250 TTNCiE TOM'S CABIIT, O*
The last words she whispered in a hissing tone, close to his ear.
"Get out! I believe, to my soul, you have! ' said Legree, pushing
her from him, and looking uncomfortably at her. " After ^all, Cassy,
he said, " why can't you be friends with me, as you used to ? "
" Used to !" said she, bitterly. She stopped short—a world of choking
feelings, rising in her heart, kept her silent.
Cassy had always kept over Legree the kind of influence that a strong
impassioned woman can ever keep over the most brutal man; but, of
late, she had grown more and more irritable and restless under the
hideous yoke of her servitude, and her irritability, at times, broke out
into raving insanity; and this liability made her a sort of object of dread
to Legree, who had that superstitious horror of insane persons which is
common to coarse and uninstructed minds. When Legree brought
Emmeline to the house, all the smouldering embers of womanly feeling
flashed up in the worn heart of Cassy, and she took part with the girl;
and a fierce quarrel ensued between her and Legree. Legree, in a fury,
swore she should be put to field service if she would not be peaceable.
Cassy, with proud scorn, declared she would go to the field. And she
worked there one day, as we have described, to show how perfectly she
scorned the threat.
Legree was secretly uneasy all day, for Cassy had an influence over
him from which he could not free himself. When she presented her
basket at the scales, he had hoped for some concession, and addressed
her in a sort of half conciliatory, half scornful tone; and she answered
with the bitterest contempt.
The outrageous treatment of poor Tom had roused her still more;
and she had followed Legree to the house with no particular intention but
to upbraid him for his brutality.
" I wish, Cassy," said Legree, " you'd behave yourself decently."
" You talk about behaving decently! And what have you been
doing ? You, who haven't even sense enough to keep from spoiling one
of your best hands, right in the most pressing season, just for your
devilish temper!"
" I was a fool, it's a fact, to let any such brangle come up," said Legree;
" but when the boy set up his will, he had to be broke in."
" I reckon you won't break Mm in! "
" Won't I ? " said Legree, rising passionately. " I'd like to know if I
won't. He'll be the first nigger that ever came it round me! I'll break
every bone in his body, but he shall give up ! "
Just then the door opened, and Sambo entered. He came forward,
bowing, and holding out something in a paper.
" What's that, you dog P " said Legree.
" It's a witch thing, mas'r !"
"A what?"
" Something that niggers gets from witches. Keeps 'em from feelin'
when they's flogged. He had it tied round his neck with a black
string."
Legree, like most godless and cruel men, was superstitious. He took
the paper, and opened it uneasily.
There dropped out of it a silver dollar, and a long, shining curl of
fair hair—haii- which, like a living thing, twined itself round 'Legree's
fingers.
' Damnation!" he screamed, in sudden passion, stamping on the floor
and pulling furiously at the hair, as if it burned him. Where did this
uome from? Take it off!—burn it ud !—burn it up!" he screamed.
LIFE AMONG TES LOWIY. 251
tearing it off, and throwing it into the charcoal. " What did you bring
xt to me for ?"
Sambo stood with his heavy mouth wide open, and aghast with
wonder; and Cassy, who was preparing to leave the apartment, stopped,
and looked at him in perfect amazement.
"Don't you bring me anymore of your devilish things!" said he,
shaking his fist at Sambo, who retreated hastily towards the door; and,
picking up the silver dollar, he sent it smashing through the window-
pane, out into the darkness.
Sambo was glad to make his escape. When he was gone, Legree
seemed a little ashamed of his fit of alarm. He sat doggedly down in
his chair, and began sullenly sipping his tumbler of punch.
Cassy prepared herself for going out, unobserved by him; and slipped
away to minister to poor Tom, as we have already related.
_ And what was the matter with Legree ? and what was there in a
simple curl cf fair bair to appal that brutal man, familiar with every
form of cruelty ? To answer this, we must carry the reader backward
in his history. Hard and reprobate as the godless man seemed now,
there had been a time when he had been rocked on the bosom of a
mother—cradled with prayers and pious hymns—his now seared brow
bedewed with the waters of holy baptism. In early childhood a fair-
haired woman had led him, at the sound of Sabbath-bell, to worship
and to pray. Far in New England that mother had trained her only
eon, wiih long, unwearied love and patient prayers. 33orn of a hard-
tempered sire, on whom that gentle woman had wasted a world of
unvalued love, Legree had followed in the steps of his father. Boisterous,
unruly, and tyrannical, he despised all her counsel, and would none of
her reproof; and, at an early age,broke from her to seek his fortunes at
sea. He never came home but once after; and then, his mother, with
the yearning of a heart that must love something, and has nothing else
to love, clung to him, and sought, with passionate prayers and entreaties,
to win him from a life of sin to his soul's eternal good.
That was Legree's day of grace. Then good angels called him; then
he was almost persuaded, and Mercy held him by the hand. His heart
inly relented—there was a conflict; but sin got the victory, and he set
all the force of his rough nature against the conviction of his conscience.
He drank and swore, was wilder and more brutal than ever. And one
night, when his mother, in the last agony of her despair, knelt at his
feet, he spurned her from him, threw her senseless on the floor, and, with
brutal curses, fled to his ship. The next Legree heard of his mother
was when one night, as he was carousing among drunken companions, a
letter was put into his hand. He opened it, and a lock of long, curling
hair fell from it, and twined about his fingers. The letter told him his
mother was dead, and that, dying, she blessed and forgave him.
There is a dread, unhallowed necromancy of evil, that turns things
sweetest and holiest to phantoms of horror and affright. That pale,
loving mother—her dying prayers, her forgiving love—wrought in that
demoniac heart of sin only as a damning sentence, bringing with it a
fearful looking-for of judgment and fiery indigflation. Legree burned
the hair, and burned the letter; and when he saw them hissing and
crackling in the flame, inly shuddered as he thought of everlasting fires.
He tried to drink, and revel, and swear away the memory; but often, in
.the deep night, whose solemn stillness arraigns the bad soul in forced
communion with herself, he had seen that pale mother rising by his
bedside, and felt the soft twining of that hair around his fingers till th«
252 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, 03
cold sweat would roll down his face, and he would spring from his bed
in horror. Ye who have wondered to hear, in the same evangel, that
God is love, and that God is a consuming fire, see ye not how, to the soul
resolved in evil, perfect love is the most fearful torture, the seal and
sentence of the direst despair ? .
" Blast it!" said Legree to himself, as he sipped his liquor, where
did he get that ? If it didn't look just like—whoo ! I thought 1 d for¬
got that. Curse me if I think there's any such thing as forgetting any¬
thing, any how—hang it! I'm lonesome! I mean to call Em. She
hates me—the monkey ! I don't care—I'll make her come !"
Legree stepped out into a large entry, which went up-stairs, by what
had formerly been a superb winding-staircase; but the passage-way was
dirty and dreary, encumbered with boxes and unsightly litter. The
stairs, uncarpeted, seemed winding up, in the gloom, to nobody knew
where! The pale moonlight streamed through a shattered fanlight
over tlie door, the air was unwholesome and chilly, like that of a vault.
Legree stopped at the foot of the stairs, and heard a voice singing. It
eeemed strange and ghostlike in that dreary old house, perhaps, because
of the already tremulous state of his nerves. Hark ! what ia it ?
A wild, pathetic voice chants a hymn common among the slaves
" O there'll be mourning, mourning;, mourning',
O there'll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!"
"Blast the girl!" said Legree. "I'll choke her.—Em! Em!" he
called harshly ; but only a mocking echo from the walls answered him.
The sweet voice still sang on:—
" Parents and children there shall part!
Parents and children there shall part!
Shall part to meet no more!"
And clear and loud swelled through the empty halls the refrain—
"O there'll be mourning, mourning, mourning,
O there'll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!"
Legree stopped. He would have been ashamed to tell of it, but large
drops of sweat stood on his forehead; his heart beat heavy and thick with
fear; he even thought he saw something white rising and glimmering iu
the room before him, and shuddered to think what if the form of his
dead mother should suddenly appear to him.
" I know one thing," he said, to himself, as he stumbled back in the
sitting-room, and sat down; " I'll let that fellow alone after this! What
did I want of his cussed paper ? I b'lieve I am bewitched, sure enough!
I've been shivering and sweating ever since ! Where did he get that
hair F It couldn't have been that! I burnt that up, I know I aid! It
would be a joke if hair could rise from the dead!"
Ah, Legree! that golden tress was charmed; each hair had in it a
spell of terror and remorse for thee, and was used by a mightier power
to bind thy cruel hands from inflicting uttermost evil on the helpless!
" I say," said Legree, stamping and whistling to the dogs, " wake up,
some of you, and keep me company!" but the dogs only opened one eye
at him sleepily, and closed it again.
"I'll have Sambo and Quimbo up here to sing, and dance one of their
hell dances, and^keep off these^horrid notions," said Legree; and, put¬
ting on his hat, he went on to the verandah and blew a horn, with wnich
be commonly summoned his two sable drivers.
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 253
Legree isas often wont, when in a gracious humour, to get these two
worthies into his sitting-room, and, after warming them up with whis¬
key, amuse himself by setting them to singing, dancing, or fighting, as
the humour took him.
It was between one and two o'clock a,t night, as Cassv uras jf.turning
from her ministrations to poor Tom, that she heard the sound of wild
shrieking, whooping hallooing and singing from the sitting-room, mingled
with the barking or dogs and other symptoms of general uproar.
She came up on the verandah steps, and looked in. Legree and both
the drivers, in a state of furious intoxication, were singing, whooping,
uy^tting chairs, and making all manner of ludicrous and horrid gri¬
maces at each other.
i She rested her small, slender hand on the window-blind, and looked
fixedly at them. There was a world of anguish, scorn, and fierce bitter¬
ness in her black eyes as she did so. " "Would it be a sin to rid the world
of such a wretch ?" she said to herself.
She turned hurriedly away, and, passing round to a back door, glided
up-stairs, and tapped at Emmelme's door.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
EMMELINE and cassy.
Cassy entered the room, and found Emmeiine sitting, pale with fear,
m the farthest corner of it. As she came in, the girl started up ner¬
vously ; but, on seeing who it was, rushed forward, and, catchin-g her
arm, said, " 0 Cassy, is it you ? I'm so glad you've come ! I was afraid
it was . Oh, you don't know what a horrid noise there has been
down-stairs all this evening !"
" I ought to know," said Cassy drily. " I've heard it often enough !"
O Cassy, do tell me ! couldn't we get away from this place ? I don't
care where—into the swamp among the snakes, anywhere! Couldn't
we get somewhere away from here ?" _
" Nowhere but into our graves," said Cassy.
"Did you ever try ?"
"I've seen enough of trying, and what comes of it," said Cassy.
"I'd be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark from trees.
I ain't afraid of snakes ! I'd rather have one near me than him," said
Emmeline eagerly.
"There have been a good many here of your opinion, said Cassy.
" But you could not stay in the swamps—you'd be tracked by the dogs,
and brought back, and then—then—"
" What would he do P" said the girl, looking with breathless interest
loto her face. , ,, ., urT , , .
" "What wouldn't he do, you'd better ask," said Cassy. He s learned
his trade well among the pirates in the West Indies. You wouldn t
sleep much if I should tell you things I've seen—things that he tells ot,
*ometimes, for good jokes. I've heard screams here that 1 haven t been
able to get out of my head for weeks and weeks. There's a place way
out down by the quarters, where you can see a blacit, blasted tree, ana
the ground all covered with black ashes. ^ Ask any one what was dona
there, and see if they will dare to tell you."
"Oh, what do you mean?" ,
« J ^0U't tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you, tne bora
SS64 tfHCLB TOM'S cabin,
only knows what we may see to-morrow, if that poor fellow holds Glut
as he's begun." . ,
"Horrid!" said Emmeline, every drop of blood receding from nox
cheeks. " O Cassy, do tell me what I shall do!" , ,
" What I've done. Do the best you can; do what you must, ana
make it up in hating and cursing." ,
"He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful oraiiuy, said
Emmeline; "and I hate it so—" . , T ,,
" You'd better drink," said Cassy. 111 hated it, too; ana now I can t
live without it. One must have something; things don't look so dread¬
ful when you take that." , . »
" Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing, said
Emmeline.
" Mother told you!" said Cassy, with a thrilling and hitter emphasis
on the word mother. " What use is it for mothers to say anything ?
Ifou are all to be bought and paid for, and your souls belong to whoever
gets you. That's the way it goes. I say, drink brandy: drink all you
can, and it'll make things come easier."
"O Cassy! do pity me!"
"Pity you! don't IP Haven't I a daughter?—Lord knows where
she is, and whose she is now! Going the way her mother went befora
her, I suppose, and that her children must go after her! There's no
end to the curse for ever !"
" I wish I'd never been born !" said Emmeline, wringing her hands.
" That's an old wish with me," said Cassy. " I've got used to wishing
that. I'd die, if I dared to," she said, looking out into the darkness
with that still, fixed despair which was the habitual expression of' her
face when at rest.
" It would be wicked to kill one's self," said Emmeline.
" I don't know why; no wickeder than things we live and do day
after day. But the sisters told me things when I was in the convent
that make me afraid to die. If it would oray be the end ol us, why
then—"
Emmeline turned away and hid her face in her hands.
While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree, over¬
come with his carouse, had sunk to sleep in the room below. Logree
was not an habitual drunkard. His coarse, strong nature craved and
could endure a continual stimulation, that would have utterly wrecked
and crazed a finer one. But a deep underlying spirit of cautiousness pre¬
vented his often yielding to appetite in such measure as to lose control
of himself.
This night, however, in his feverish efforts to banish from his mind
those fearful elements of woe and remorse which woke within him, he
had indulged more than common; so that when he had discharged his
sable attendants, he fell heavily on a settle in the room, and was sound
asleep.
Oh, how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of sleep ?—
that land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near to the mystic scene of
retribution! Legree dreamed. In his heavy and feverish sleep a veiled
form stood beside him, and laid a cold, soft hand upon him. He thought
he knew who it was: and shuddered, with creeping horror, though the
face was veiled. Then he thought he felt that hair twining round Ins
fingers; and then, that it slid smoothly round his neck, and tightened,
usl tightened, and he could not draw his breath ; and then he thought
voices whispered to him—whispers that chilled him with horror. Then
& swmed to him he was on the edge of a frightful abyss, holding on and
S.1&3 AMONG THE LOWLY. g5o
6truggling_ in mortal fear, while dark hands stretched up, and were
pulling Him over; and Cassy came behind him laughing, and pushed
liim. And then rose up that solemn veiled figure, and drew aside the
veil. It was his mother; and she turned away from him, and be fell
down, down, down, amid a confused noise of shrieks, and groans, and
shouts of demon laughter—and Legree awoke.
Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room. The morn¬
ing star stood, with its solemn, holy eye of light, looking down on the
man of sin, from out the brightening sky. Oh, with what freshness,
what solemnity and beauty, is each new day born; as if to say to insen¬
sate men, " Behold ! thou hast one more chance! Strive for immortal
glory !" There is no speech nor language where this voice is not heard;
but the bold, bad man heard it not. He awoke with an oath and a curse.
"What to him was the gold and purple, the daily miracle of morning!
What to him the sanctity of that star which the Son of God has
hallowed as his own emblem f Brute-like, he saw without perceiving;
and, stumbling forward, poured out a tumbler of brandy, and drank
half of it.
" I've had a h—1 of a night !" he said to Cassy, who just then entered
from an opposite door.
"You'll get plenty of the same sort, by-and-by," said she drily.
"What do you mean, you minx?"
"You'll find out, one of these days," returned Cassy, in the same
tone. " Now, Simon, I've one piece of advice to give you."
" The devil you have !"
"My advice is," said Cassy steadily, as she began adjusting some
things about the room, " that you let Tom alone."
" What business is't of yours ?"
" What ? To be sure, I don't know what it should be. If you want
to pay twelve hundred for a fellow, and use him right up in the press of
the season, just to serve your own spite, it's no business of mine. I'v«
done what 1 could for him."
"You have ? What business have you meddling in my matters ?"
"None, to be sure. I've saved you some thousands of dollars, a4
different times, by taking care of your hands—that's all the thanks I get.
If your crop comes shorter into market than any of theirs, you won't
lose your bet, I suppose ? Tompkins won't lord it over you, I suppose;
and you'll pay down your money like a lady, won't you ? I think I see
you doing it!"
Legree, like many other planters, had but one form of ambition—to
have m the heaviest crop of the season; and he had several bets on this
very present season pending in the next town. Cassy, therefore, with
woman's tact, touched the only string that could be made to vibrate.
"Well, I'll let him off at what he's got," said Legree; "but he shall
beg my pardon, and promise better fashions."
" That he won't do," said Cassy.
"Won't, eh?"
" No, he wont't," said Cassy.
"I'd like to know why, mistress," said Legree, In the extreme of
scorn.
" Because he's done right, and he knows it, and won't say he's done
wrong."
" Who a cuss cares what he knows ? The nigger shall say what I
please, or—"
" Or you'll lose your bet on the cotton-crop, by keeping him out, i
tiio field just at this very press."
i5o$ UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, C2
" But he will giv8 up, course he "will; don't I know what niggers ib ¥
He'll beg like a dog this morning." . .
" He won't, Simon; you don't know this kind. Tou may kill him oy
inches, you won't get the first word of confession out of him.
" We'll see. Where is he ?" said Legree, going out.
"In the waste-room of the gin-house," said Cassy.
Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Cassy, still sallied forth lrom
the house with a degree of misgiving which was not common with him.
His dreams of the past night, mingled with Cassy's prudential sugges¬
tions, considerably affected his mind. He resolved that nobody should
be witness of his encounter with Tom, and determined, if he could not
subdue him by bullying, to defer his vengeance to be wreaked in a more
convenient season.
The solemn light of dawn, the angelic glory of the morning-star, had
looked in through the rude window of the shed where Tom was lying,
and, as if descending on that star-beam, came the solemn words, " I am
the root and offspring of David, and the bright and morning star." The
mysterious warnings and intimations of Cassy, so far from discouraging
his soul, in the end had roused it as with a heavenly call. He did not
know but that the day of his death was dawning in the sky; and his
heart throbbed with solemn throes of joy and desire, as he thought that
the wondrous all of which he had often pondered, the great white
throne, with its ever radiant rainbow; the white-robed multitude, with
voices as many waters; the crowns, the palms, the harps—might all
break upon his vision before that sun should set again; and therefore,
without shuddering or trembling, he heard the voice 01 his persecutor
as he drew near.
"Well, my boy," said Legree, with a contemptuous kick, " how do
you find yourself ? Didn't I tell yer I could larn yer a thing or two ?
How do yer like it, eh ? How did yer whaling agree with yer, Tom ?
An't quite so crank as ye was last night ? Tc e couldn't treat a poor
sinner now to a bit of a sermon, could yer, eh ? "
Tom answered nothing.
" Get up, you beast!" said Legree, kicking him again.
This was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint, and, as Tom
made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally.
" What makes ye so spry this morning, Tom ? Cotched cold, may¬
be, last night ?"
Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confronting his master
with a steady, unmoved front.
"The devil you can!" said Legree, looking him over. "I believe
you haven't got enough yet. Now, Tom, get right down on yer knees
and beg my pardon for yer shines last night."
Tom did not move.
" Down, you dog !" said Legree, striking him with his riding-whip.
" Mas'r Legree," said Tom, I can't do it. I did only what I thought
was right. I shall do just so again, if ever the time comes. I never will
do a cruel thing, come what may."
"Yes; but ye don't know what may come, Master Tom. Ye think
what you've got is something. I tell you 'tan't anything—nothing 'tall.
How would ye like to be tied to a tree, and have a slow fire lit up around'
ye ? Wouldn't that be pleasant—eh, Tom P"
"Mas'r," said Tom, I know ye can do dreadful things; but"—he
stretched himself upward and clasped his hands—" but after ye've killed
the body, there an't no more ye can do. And oh there's all etesnity
to come after that I"
LIFE AM02J5J THE LOVTIt. 251
Kternity—the word thrilled through the black man's Soul with light
and power as he spoke—it thrilled through the sinner's soul, too, like
tne bite of a scorpion. Legree gnashed on him with his teeth, bul
rage kept him silent; and Tom, like a man disenthralled, spoke in a
clear and cheerful voice.
" Mas'r Legree, as ye bought me, I'll be a true and faithful servant to
ye. I'll give ye all the work of my hands, all my time, all my strength;
but my soul I won't give up to mortal man. I will hold on to the Lord,
and put his commands before all, die or live, you may be sure on't.
Mas'r Legree, I an't a grain afeard to die. I'd as soon die as not. Ye
ay whip me, starve me, burn me—it'll only send me sooner where I
ant to go."
" I'll make ye give out, though, 'fore I've done!" said Legree, m a rage,
uI shall have help" said Tom. " You'll never do it."
" Who the devil's going to help you ?" said Legree, scornfully
." The Lord Almighty !" said Tom.
"D—n you!" said Legree, as with one blow of liis fist he felled Tom
to the earth.
A cold soft hand fell on Legree's at this moment. He turned—it was
Cassy's; but the cold soft touch recalled his dream of the night before,
and, flashing through the chambers of his brain, came all the fearful
images of the night-watches, with a portion of the horror that accom¬
panied them.
" Will you be a fool?" said Cassy, in French. "Let him go! Let
me alone to get him fit to be in the field again. Isn't it just as I told
you ?"
They say the alligator, the rhinoceros, though inclosed in bullet-proof
mail, have each a spot where they are vulnerable; and fierce, reckless,
unbelieving reprobates, have commonly this point in superstitious
dread.
Legree turned away, determined to let the point go for the time.
" Well, ha-ve it your own way," he said doggedly to Cassy.
" llark yc!" he said to Tom, " I won't deal with ye now, because the
business is pressing, and I want all my hands; but I never forget. I'll
score it against ye, and some time I'll have my pay out o' yer old black
hide—mind ye! '
Legree turned, and went out.
" There you go," said Cassy, looking darkly after him; " your
reckoning's to come yet! My poor fellow, how are you ?"
" The Lord God liath sent his angel, and shut the lion's mouth for
this time," said Tom.
" For this time, to be sure," said Cassy; "but now you've got his ill-
will upon you, to follow you, day in and day out, hanging like a dog on
y.mr throat, sucking your blood, bleeding away your life, drop by drop!
1 know the man!"
CHAPTEB XXXVII.
L1BEBTY.
Awhtle we must leave Tom in the hands of his persecutors, while
we turn to pursue the fortunes of George and his wife, whom we left in
friendly hands in a farm-house on the roadside.
Toia Loker we left groaning and touzling in a most irrm&'su1ately
S53 CIRCLE TOM'S CABIN, 01
clean Quaker bed, under tlie motherly supervision of Aunt Dorcas, who
found him to the full as tractable a patient as a sick bison.
Imagine a tall, dignified, spiritual woman, whose clear muslin cap,
shades waves of silvery hair, parted on a broad, clear forehead, which
overarches thoughtful grey eyes; a snowy handkerchief of lisse crape ia
folded neatly acr .-ss her bosom; her glossy brown silk dress rustles
peacefully as she glides up and down the chamber.
"The devil!" says Tom Loker, giving a great throw to the bed¬
clothes.
" I must request thee, Thomas, not to use such language, says Aunt
Dorcas, as she quietly re-arranged the bed. . ,
" Well, I won't, granny, if I can help it," says Tom; ' but it is
enough to make a fellow swear, so cursedly hot!"
Dorcas removed a comforter from the bed, straightened the clothes
again, and tucked them in till Tom looked something like a chrysalis,
remarking, as she did so—
" I wish, friend, thee would leave off cursing and swearing, and think
upon thy ways."
" What the devil," said Tom, " should I think of them for ? Last
thing ever I want to think of—hang it all!" And Tom flounced over,
uutucking and disarranging everything in a manner frightful to behold.
" That fellow and gal are here, I s'pose?" said he sullenly, after a
pause.
" They are so," said Dorcas.
" They'd better be off up to the lake," said Tom," the quicker the
better."
" Probably they will do so," said Aunt Dorcas, knitting peacefully
" And hark ye," said Tom; " we've got correspondents in Sandusky
that watch the boats for us. I don't care if I tell now. I hope they
will get away, just to spite Marks—the cursed puppy!—d—n him I"
" Thomas!" said Dorcas.
" I tell you, granny, if you bottle a fellow up too tight, I shall split,"
said Tom. " But about the gal—tell 'em to dress her up some way so'a
to alter her. Her description's out in Sandusky."
" We will attend to that matter," said Dorcas, with characteristic
composure.
As we at this place take leave of Tom Loker, we may as well say that,
having lain three weeks at the Quaker dwelling, sick with a rheumatic
fever, which set in in company with his other afflictions, Tom arose
from his bed, a somewhat sadder and wiser man; and, in place of slave-
catching, betook himself to life in one of the new settlements, where
his talents developed themselves more happily in trapping bears,
wolves, and other inhabitants of the forest, in which he made himself
quite a name in the land. Tom always spoke reverently of the Quakers.
Nice people," be would say; "wanted to convert me, but couldn't
come it exactly. But tell ye what, stranger, they do fix up a sick
fellosv first-rate, no mistake! Make jist the tallest kind o' broth and
knicknacks."
As Tom had informed them that their party would be looked for in
Sandusky, it was thought prudent to divide them. Jim, with his old
mother, was forwarded separately ; and, a night or two after, Georgo and
Eliza, with their child, were driven privately into Sandusky, and lodged
beneath a hospitable roof, preparatory to taking their last passage on the
lake.
Their night was now far spent, and the morning star of liberty rose
fair before them. Liberty! electric word! What is it ? Is there any-
11PE IBSONQ THB LOWtf. 25S
thing more in it than a name, a rhetorical flourish ? Why, men and
women of America, does your heart's blood thrill at that word, for which
your fathers bled nnd your braver mothers were willing that their best
and noblest should die ?
Is there anything in it glorious and dear for a nation, that is not also
glorious and dear for a man ? What is freedom to a nation, but free¬
dom to the individuals in it P What is freedom to that young man who
pits there with his arms folded over his broad ehest, the tint of African
blood in his cheek, its dark fires in his eye—what is freedom to George
Harris ? To your fathers, freedom was "the right of a nation to be a
nation. To him, it is the right of a man to be a man and not a brute;
the right to call the wife of his bosom his wile, and to protect her from
lawless violence; the right to protect and educate his child; the right
to have a home of his own, a religion of his own, a character of his own,
unsubject to the will of auother. All these thoughts were rolling and
seething in George's breast, as he was pensively leaning his head on his
hand, watching his wife, as she was adapting to her slender and pretty
lorm the articles of man's attire in which it was deemed safest she should
make her escape.
" Now for it," said she, as she stood before the glass and shook down
her silky abundance of black curly hair. " I say, George, its almost a
pity, isn't it ?" she said, as she held up some of it playfully. " JPity it's
all got to come oil ?"
George smiled sadly and made no answer.
Eliza turned to the glass, and the scissors glittered as one long lock
after another was detached from her head.
" There now, that'll do," she said, taking up a hair-brush; " now for a
few fancy touches."
" There, an't I a pretty young fellow P" she said, turning round to her
husband, laughing and blushing at the same time.
" Y ou always will be pretty, do what you will," said George.
" What does make you so sober ?" said Eliza, kneeling on one knee
and laying her hand on his. " We are only within twenty-four hours
of Canada, they say. Only a day and a night on the lake, and then—oh,
then!"
"O, Eliza!" said George, drawing her towards him; "that is it!
Now my fate is all narrowing down to a point. To come so near, to he
almost in sight, and then lose all. I should never live under it, Eliza."
" Don't fear," said his wife, hopefully. " The good Lord would not
have brought us so far if he didn't mean to carry us through. I seem
to feel him with us, George."
"You are a blessed woman, Eliza!" said George, clasping her with a
convulsive grasp. " But—oh, tell me! can tlsis great mercy be for us ?
Will these years and years of misery come to an end ?—shall we be
free?"
" I am sure of it, George," said Eliza, looking upward, while tears of
hope and enthusiasm shone on her long, dark lashes. " I feel it in me
that God is going to bring us out of bondage this very day."
" I will believe you," Eliza, said George, rising suddenly up. " I will
believe; come, let's be off. Well, indeed," said, he, holding her off at
arm's length, and looking admiringly at her, " you are a pretty little
fellow. That crop of little, short curls is quite becoming. Put on your
cap. So—a little to one side. I never saw you look quite so pretty.
But it's almost time for the carriage; I wonder if Mrs. Smyth has got
Harry rigged ?"
8 £
260 TTKCLE Toil's CAtJliT, 031
The door opened, and a respectable middle-aged vroman entered,
leading little Harry, dressed in girl's clothes. «w«
" What a pretty girl lie makes/' said Eliza, turning him round. V> £
call him Harriet, you see; don't the name come nicely
The child stood gravely regarding his mother in her new and strange
attire, observing a profound silence, and occasionally drawing deep
siglis, nnd peeping at her from under his dark curls. , , ,
"Does Harry know mamma?" said Eliza, stretching her hands to¬
wards him.
The child clung shyly to the woman.
" Come, Eliza, why do you try to coax him, when you know that he
has got to be kept away from you ?"
" I know it's foolish," said Eliza, " yet I can't bear to have him turn
away from me. But come—where's my cloak ? Here—how is it men
put on cloaks, George ?"
"You must wear it so," said her husband, throwing it over his
shoulders.
" So then," said Eliza, imitating the motion; " and I must stamp, and
ake long steps, and try to look saucy."
"Don't exert yourself," said George. "There is, now and then, a
modest young man; and I think it would be easier for you to act that
character." *
"And these gloves! mercy upon us!" said Eliza," why, my hands
are lost in them."
" I advise you to keep them on pretty strictly," said George. "Tour
little slender paw might bring us all out. Now, Mrs. Smyth, you are to
go under our charge, and be our aunty—you mind."
" I've heard," said Mrs. Smyth, that there have been men down,
warning all the packet-captains against a man and woman, with a little
boy."
" They have!" said George. " "Well, if we see any such people we can
tell them."
A hack now drove to the door, and the friendly family who had
received the fugitives crowded around them with farewell greetings.
_ The disguises the party had assumed were in accordance with the
hints of Tom Loker. Mrs. Smyth, a respectable woman from the
settlement of Canada, whither they were fleeing, being fortunately about
crossing the lake to return tliither, had consented to appear as the aunt
of little Harry; and, in order to attach him to her, he had been allowed
to remain the last two days, under her sole charge; and an extra
amount of petting, joined to an indefinite amount of seed-cakes and
candy, had cemented a very close attachment on the part of the young
gentleman.
The hack drove to the wharf. The two young men, as they appeared,
walked up the plank into the boat, Eliza gallantly giving her arm to
Mrs. Smyth, and George attending to their baggage.
George was standing at the captain's office, settling for his party,
when he overheard two men talking by his side.
" I've watched every one that came on board," said one, "and I know
they're not on this boat."
The voice was that of the clerk of the boat. The speaker whom he
addressed was our sometime friend Marks, who, with that valuable
perseverance which characterized him, had come on to Sandusky,
seeking whom he might devour.
" Jfp* would scarcely know the woman from a white one," said
LIFE AMONG THB IOWLY. 261
Marks. " The man is a very light mulatto. He has a brand in one of
his hands."
The hand with which George was taking the tickets and change
trembled a little; but he turned coolly around, fixed an unconcerned
glance on the face of the speaker, and walked leisurely toward another
part of the boat, where Eliza stood waiting for him.
Sirs. Smyth, with little Harry, sought the seclusion of the ladies'
cabin, where the dark beauty of the supposed little girl drew many
flattering comments from the passengers.
Georee had the satisfaction, as the bell rang out its farewell peal, to
see MarKS walk down the plank to the shore; and drew a long sigh of
relief when the boat had put a returnless distance between them.
It was a superb day. The blue waves of Lake Erie danced rippling
and sparkling in the sunlight. A fresh breeze blew from the shore, ar»d
the lordly boat ploughed her way right gallantly onward.
Oh, what an untold world there is in one human heart! Wh i
thought, as George walked calmly up and down the deck of the steamer,
with his shy companion at his side, of all that was burning in his
bosom ? The mighty good that seemed approaching seemed too good,
too fair, even to be a reality ; and he felt a jealous dread every moment
of the day that something would rise to snatch it from him.
But the boat swept on—hours fleeted, and, at last, clear and full rose
the blessed English shore—shores charmed by almighty spell—with one
touch to dissolve every incantation of slavery, no matter in what
language pronounced, or by what national power confirmed.
George and his wife stood arm in arm as the boat n eared the small
town of Amherstberg, in Canada. His breath grew thick and short; a
mist gathered before his eyes; he silently pressed the little hand that
lay trembling on his arm. The bell rang—the boat stopped. Scarcely
seeing what he did, he looked out his baggage, and gathered his little
party. The little company were landed on the shore. They stood still
till the boat had cleared; and then, with tears and embracings, the
husband and wife, with their wondering child in their arms, knelt
down and lifted up their hearts to God!
" 'Twas something like the burst from death to life $
From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven j
From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife.
To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven;
Where all the bonds of death and hell are riven,
And mortal puts on immortality,
When Mercy's hand hath turned the golden key,
And Mercy's voice hath said,' Rejoice, thy soui is free.'"
The little party were soon guided by Mrs. Smyth to the hospitable
abode of a good missionary, whom Christian charity has placed here as
a shepherd to the outcast and wandering, who are constantly finding an
asylum on this shore.
Who can speak the blessedness of that first day of freedom ? Is not the
sense of liberty a higher and finer one than any of the five? To move^
speak, and breathe, go out and come in unwatched and free from danger!
Who can speak the blessings of that rest which comes down on the free
man's pillow, under laws which insure to him the rights that God has
given to man ? How fair and precious to that mother was that sleeping
child's face, endeared by the memory of a thousand dangers ! ' How im¬
possible wps it to sleep in the exuberant possession of such blessedness
262 uncle TOM'S cabin, OS
And yet these two had not one acre of ground, not a roof that they oould
call their own, they had spent their all, to the last dollar. They had no¬
thing more than the birds of the air, or the flowers of the field—yet they
coula not sleep for joy. " O ye who take freedom from man, with what
words shall ye answer it to God ?"
CHAPTEB XXXVIII.
the victory.
Have not many of us in the weary way of life felt, in some hours,
how far easier it were to die than to live ?
The martyr, when faced even by a death of bodily anguish and horror,
finds in the very terror of his doom a strong stimulant and tonic. There
is a vivid excitement, a thrill and fervour, which may carry through any
crisis of suffei'ing that is the birth-hour of eternal glory and rest.
But to live, to wear on day after day of mean, bitter, low, harassing
servitude, every nerve dampened and depressed, every power of feeling
gradually smothered—this long and wasting heart-martyrdom, this slow,
daily bleeding away of the inward life, drop by drop, hour after hour—
this is the true searching test of what there may be in man or woman.
When Tom stood face to face with his persecutor, and heard his
threats, and thought in his very soul that his hour was come, his heart
swelled bravely in him, and he thought he could bear torture and fire,
bear anything, with the vision of Jesus and heaven just a step beyond;
but when he was gone, and the present excitement passed off, came back
the pain of his bruised and weary limbs, came back the sense of his
utterly degraded, hopeless, forlorn estate; and the day passed wearily
enough.
Long before his wounds were healed, Legree insisted that he should be
put to the regular field-work ; and then came day after day of pain and
weariness, aggravated by every kind of injustice and indignity that the
ill-will of a mean and malicious mind could devise. Whoever, in our
circumstances, has made trial of pain, even with all the alleviations which
for us usually attend it, must know the irritation that comes with it. Tom
no longer wondered at the habitual surliness of his associates; nay, he
found the placid, sunny temper which had been the habitude of his life
broken in on and sorely strained by the inroads of the same thing. He
had flattered himself on leisure to read his Bible, but there was no such
thing as leisure there. In the height of the season, Legree did not
hesitate to press all his hands through Sundays and week-days alike.
Why shouldn't he ? He made more cotton by it, and gained his wasrer;
and if it wore out a few more hands, he could buy better ones. At first
Tom used to read a verse or two of his Bible, by the flicker of the fire,
after he had returned from his daily toil; but, after the cruel treatment
he received he used to come home so exhausted that his head swam and
his eyes failed when he tried to read, and he was fain to stretch himself
down with the others in utter exhaustion.
It is strange that the religious peace and trust which had upborne him
hitherto should give way to tossings of soul and despondent darkness.
The gloomiest problem of this mysterious life was constantly before his
eyes; souls crushed and ruined, evil triumphant and God silent. It was
weeks and months that Tom wrest led, in his own soul, m darkness and
sorrow. He thought of Miss Ophelia's letter to his Kentucky friends,
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 263
and would pray earnestly that God would send him deliverance; and
then he would watch, day after day, in the vague hope of seeing somebody
sent to redeem him; and, when nobody came, he would crush back U
his soul bitter thoughts — that it was vain to serve God, that God had
forgotten him. He sometimes sawCassy; and sometimes, when-sum.
moned to the house, caught a glimpse of the dejected form of Emmeline,
but held very little communion with either; in fact, there was no time
for him to commune with anybody.
One evening he was sitting in utter dejection and prostration by a few
decayed brands, where his coarse supper was baking. He put a few bits
of brushwood on the fire, and strove to raise the light, and then drew his
worn Bible from his pocket. There were all the marked passages which
had thrilled his soul so often—words of patriarchs and seers, poets and
sages, who from early time had spoken courage to man—voices from the
great cloud of witnesses who ever surround us in the race of life. Had
the word lost its power, or could the failing eye and weary sense no longer
answer to the touch of that mighty inspiration ? Heavily sighing, he
put it in his pocket. A coarse laugh roused him; he looked up—Legre®
was standing opposite to him.
"Well, old boy," he said, "you find your religion don't work, it
seems! I thought I should get that through your wool at last!"
The cruel taunt was more than hunger, and cold and nakedness. Tom
was silent.
"You were a fool," said Legree; "for I meant to do well by you
when I bought you. You might have been better off than Sambo, or
Quimbo either, and had easy times; and, instead of getting cut up and
thrashed every day or two, ye might have had liberty to lord it round,
and cut up the other niggers; and ye might have had, now and then, a
good warming of whiskey punch. Come, don't you think you'd better
be reasonable ?. Heave that ar5 old pack of trash in the fire and join my
church !"
" The Lord forbid!" said Tom fervently.
"You see the Lord an't going to help you; if he had been, he
wouldn't have let me get you ! This yer religion is all a mess of lying
trumpery, Tom. I know all about it. Ye'd better hold to me; I'm
somebody, and can do something I"
" No, mas'r," said Tom, " I'll hold on. The Lord may help me, or
not help ; but I'll hold to him, and believe him to the last!"
" The more fool you!" said Legree, spitting scornfully at him and
spurning him with his foot. "Never mind, I'll chase you down yet,
aud bring you under, you'll see!" and Legree turned away.
When a heavy weight presses the soul to the lowest level at which
endurance is possible, there is an instant and desperate effort of every
' physical and moral nerve to throw off the weight; and hence the heaviest
anguish often precedes a return tide of joy and courage. So was it now
with Tom. The atheistic taunts of his cruel master sank his before
dejected soul to the lowest ebb; and though the hand of faith stil! held
to the eternal rock, it was with a numb, despairing grasp. Tom sat like
one stunned at the fire. Suddenly everything around him seemed to
fade, and a vision rose before him of One crowned with thorns,
buffeted and bleeding. Tom gazed in awe and wonder at the ma¬
jestic patience of the face; the deep pathetic eyes thrilled him to his
inmost heart; his soul awoke as, with floods of emotion he stretched
out his hands and fell upon his knees ; when gradually the vision
changed, the shan> thorns became rays of glory, and in splendour incon¬
ceivable he saw that same face bending compassionately towards hin^
264 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OK
and a voice said," He that overcometh shall sit down with me on my
throne, even as I also overcame and am set down with my x atner o
his throne." , , , .
How long Tom lay there he knew not. When he came to him. elt,
the fire was gone out, his clothes were wet with the chill and arencnirjg
dews; but the dread soul-crisis was past, and, in the joy that nllea
him, he no longer felt hunger, cold, degradation, disappointment,
wretchedness. From his deepest soul, he that hour loosed and parted
l'rom every hope in the life that now is, and otfered his own will an un¬
questioning sacrifice to the Infinite. Tom looked up to the silent, ever-
living stars, types of the angelic hosts who ever look down on man;
and the solitude of the night rang with the triumphant words of a
hymn, which he had sung often in happier days, but never with such
feeling as now:—
" The earth shall be dissolved like snow,
The sun shall cease to shine ;
But God, who called me here below,
Shall be for ever mine.
" And when this mortal life shall fail,
And flesh and sense shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil
A life of joy and peace.
" When we've been there ten thousand years,
, Bright shining like the sun,
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we first begun."
Those who hare been familiar with the religious histories of the slave-
population, know that relations like what we have narrated are very
common among them. We have heard some from their own lips of a very
touching and affecting character. The psychologist tells us of a state in
which the affections and images of the mind become so dominant and
overpowering, that they press into their service the outward senses, and
make them give tangible shape to the inward imagining. "Who shall
measure what an all-pervading Spirit may do with these capabilities of
our mortality, or the ways in which He may encourage the desponding
souls of the desolate ? If the poor forgotten slave believes that Jesus
hath appeared and spoken to him, who shall contradict him ? Did he
not say that his mission in all ages was to bind up the broken-hearted,
and set at liberty them that are bruised ?
When the dim grey of dawn woke the slumberers to go forth to the
field, there was one among those tattered and shivering wretches who
walked with an exultant tread; for firmer than the ground he trod on
was his strong faith in almighty, eternal love. Ah, Legree! try all your
forces now ! Utmost agony, woe, degradation, want, and Joss of all
things, shall only hasten on the process by which he shall be made a king
and priest unto God!
From this time, an inviolable sphere of peace encompassed the lowly
heart of the oppressed one—an ever-present Saviour hallowed it as a
temple. Fast now the bleeding of earthly regrets—past its fluctuations
of hope, and fear, and desire—the human will, bent and bleeding, and
struggling long, was now entirely merged in the divine. So short'now
seemed the remaining voyage of life—so near, so vivid, seemed eternal
blessedness—that life's uttermost woes fell from him unharming.
Ail noticed the change in bis appearance. Cheerfulness and alertness
2.IFB AMONG- THE LOWLY. 265
Beemed to return to him, and a quietness which no insult or injury could
ruffle seemed to possess him.
" What the devil's got into Tom ?" Le gree said to Sambo. "An hile
ago he was all down in the mouth, and now he's peart as a cricket/'
" Dunno, mas'r; gwine to run off, mebbe."
"Liketo see him try that," said Legree, with a savage grin, "wouldn't
we, Sambo."
" Guess we would ! haw ! ho!" said the sooty gnome, laughing obse«
quiously. " Lord, de fun! To see him stickin' in the mud, cJiasin' and
tarin' through de bushes, dogs a-holding on to him! Lord, I laughed fit
to split, dat ar' time we cotched Molly. I thought they'd a had her all
stripped up afore I could get 'em off. She car's de marks' o dat ar'
spree yet."
" I reckon she will to her grave," said Legree. " But now, Sambo, you
look sharp 1 If the nigger's got anything of this sort going, trip
him up."
" Mas'r, let me 'lone for dat!" said Sambo. " I'll tree de coon! Ho,
ho, ho I"
This was spoken as Legree was getting on his horse to go to the neigh¬
bouring town. That night, as he was returning, he thought he would
turn his horse and ride round tlio quarters, and see if all was safe.
It was a superb moonlight night, and the shadows of the graceful
china-trees lay minutely pencilled on the turf below, and there was t hat
transparent stillness in the air which it seems almost unholy to disturb.
Legree was at a little distance from the quarters when he heard the voice
of some one singing. It was not a usual sound there, and he paused to
listen. A musical tenor voice sang—
" When I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I'll bid farewell to every fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes.
" Should earth against my soul engage,
_And hellish darts be hurled,
Then I can smile at Satan's rage.
And face a frowning world.
" Let cares like a wild deluge come,
And storms of sorrow fall,
May I but safely reach my home,
My God, my heaven, my all."
" So ho!" said Legree to himself," he thinks so, does he ? IIow I hate
these cursed Methodist hymns ! Here, you nigger!" said he, coming
suddenly out upon Tom, and raising his riding-whip, "how dare you be
gettin' up this yer row, when you ought to be in bed ? Shut your old
black gash, and get along in with you !"
" Yes, mas'r," said Tom, with ready cheerfulness, as he rose to go in.
Legree was provoked beyond measure by Tom's evident happiness; and,
riding up to him, belaboured him over his head and shoulders.
"There, you dog," he said; "see if you feel so comfortable after
that!"
But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, as before, on the
\ieart. Tom stood perfectly submissive; and yet Legree could not hide
from himself that his power over his bond-thrall was somehow gone.
And. as Tom disappeared in his cabin, and he wheeled his horse suddenly
round, there passed through his mind one of those vivid flashes that
often sond the lightning of conscience across the dark and wicked soul
266 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
He understood full well that it was God who was standing between hitn
and his victim, and he blasphemed him. That submissive and silent
man, whom taunts, nor threats, nor stripes, nor cruelties could disturb,
roused a voice within him, such as oi' old his Master roused in the
demoniac soul, saying, " What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus a.
Nazareth ? Art thou come to torment us before the time ?''
Tom's whole soul overflowed with compassion and sympathy for the
poor wretches by whom he was surrounded. To him it seemed as if
his life-sorrows were now over, and as if, out of that strange tre.isury of
peace and joy with which he had been endowed from above, he longed
to pour out something for the relief of their woes. It is true, opportuni¬
ties were scanty; but on the way to the fields and back again, and <_! i \ ri ns»
the hours of labour, chances fell in his way of extending a helpiug Land
to the-weary, the disheartened and discouraged. The poor worn-down,
brutalized creatures at first could scarcely comprehend this; but when
it was continued week after week, and month after month, it began to
awaken long-silent chords in their benumbed hearts. Gradually and im¬
perceptibly the strange, silent, patient man, who was ready to bear every
one's burden, and sought help from none—who stood a-side for all, and
came last, and took least, yet was foremost to share his little all with
any who needed—the man who, in cold nights, would give up his tattered
blanket to add to the comfort of some woman who shivered with sick¬
ness, and who filled the baskets of the weaker ones in the field, at the
terrible risk of coming short in liis own measure—and who, though pur¬
sued with unrelenting cruelty by their common tyrant, never joined in
uttering a word of reviling or cursing—this man at last began to have a
strange power over them; and when the more pressing season was past,
and they were allowed again their Sundays for their own use, many would
gather together to hear from him of Jesus. They would gladly have met
to hear, and pray, and sing, in some place together; but Legree would
not permit it, and more than once broke up such attempts with oaths
and brutal execrations, so that the blessed news had to circulate from
individual to individual. Yet who can speak the simple joy with which
some of those poor outcasts, to whom life was % joyless journey to a
dark unknown, heard of a compassionate Redeemer and a heavenly
home? It is the statement of missionaries, that, of all races of the
earth, none have received the Gospel with such eager docility as the
African. The principle of reliance and unquestioning faith which is its
foundation, is more a native element in this race than any other; and it
has often been found among tliem, that a stray seed of truth, borne on
some breeze of accident into hearts the most ignorant, has sprung up
into fruit, whose abundance has shamed that of higher and more skilful
culture.
The poor mulatto woman, whose simple faith had been well-niuh
crushed and overwhelmed by the ayalanche of cruelty and wrong which
had fallen upon her, felt her soul raised up by the hymns and passages of
Holy Writ which this lowly missionary breathed into her ear in intervals,
as they were going to and returning from work; and even the half-crazed
and wandering mind of Cassy was soothed and calmed by his simple and
unobtrusive influences.
Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of her life,
Cassy had often resolve 1 in her soul an hour of retribution, when
her hand should avenge on her oppressor all the injustice and cruelty
to which she had been w itness, cr which she had m her own person
luflered.
One night, after sli ia Tom's cabin were sunk in sleep, he was sud«
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 26?
denly aroused by seeing her face at the hole between the logs that served
for a window. She made a silent gesture for him to come out.
Tom came out the door: it was between one and two "o'clock at
night—broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom remarked, as the light of th<
moon fell upon Cassis large black eyes, that there was a wild and pecu¬
liar glare in them, unlike their wonted fixed despair.
" Come here, Father Tom," she said, laying her small hand on his
wrist, and drawing him forward with a force as if the hand were of steel,
" come here—I've news for you."
" "What, Misse Cassy ? " said Tom, anxiously.
" Tom, wouldn't you like your liberty ? "
" I shall have it, misse, in God's time," said Tom.
" Ay, but you may have it to-night," said Cassy, with a flash of sud¬
den energy. " Come on."
Tom hesitated.
" Come!" said she, in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on him. "Come
along! He's asleep—sound. I put enough into his brandy to keep him
so. I wish I'd had more, I shouldn't have wanted you. But coine, the
back door is unlocked; there is an axe there, I put it there—his room
door is open; I'll show you the way. I'd a done it myself, only my arms
are so weak. Come along !"
" Not for ten thousand worlds, misse !" said Tom, firmly, stopping and
holding her back, as she was pressing forward.
" But think of all these poor creatures," said Cassy. " We might set
them all free, and go somewhere in the swamps and find an island and
live by ourselves; I've heard of it's being done. Any life is better than
this."
"No!" said Tom, firmly. "No! good never comes of wickedness.
I'd sooner chop my right hand off!"
" Then I shall do it, said Cassy, turning.
" O Misse Cassy !" said Tom, throwing himself before her; " for the
dear Lord's sake that died for ye? don't sell your precious soul to the
devil that way! Nothing but evil will come of it. The Lord hasn't
called us to wrath. We must suffer, and wait his time."
" Wait!" said Cassy. " Haven't I waited ?—waited till my head is
dizzy and my heart sick ? What has he made me suffer ? What has he
made hundreds of poor creatures suffer? Isn't he wringing the life-
blood out of you ? I'm called on ! they call me! His time's come, and
I'll have his heart's blood !"
" No, no, no!" said Tom, holding her small hands, which were
clenched with spasmodic violence. " No, ye poor, lost soul, that ye
mustn't do! The dear, blessed Lord never shi.i no blood but his own,
and that he poured out for us when we was enemies. Lord, help us to
follow his steps, and love our enemies!"
" Love!" said Cassy, with a fierce glare, "love such enemies! It isn't
in flesh and blood."
" No, misse, it isn't," said Tom, looking up; "but He gives'it to us,
and that's the victory. When we can love and pray over all and through
all, the battle's past and the victory's come—glory be to God !" And,
with streaming eyes and choking voice, the black man looked up to
heaven. .
And this, O Africa!—latest called of nations, called to the crown of
thorns, the scourge, the bloody sweat, the cross of agony—this is to be
thy victory ; by this shalt thou reign with Christ when his kingdom shall
come on earth. .
Tke deep fervour of Tom's feelings, the softness of his voice, his tear*
268 ttncle tom's cabin, ob
fell lika dew on tlie wild, unsettled spirit of the poor woman. A softness
gathered over the lurid fires of her eye; she looked down, and l'om could
feel the relaxing muscles of her hand, as she said,— m
" Didn't I tell you that evils spirits followed me ? _ O, Father lom,
I can't pray. I wish I could. I never have prayed since my cnxldren
were sold ! What you say must be right—1 know it must; but when I
try to pray, I can only hate and curse. I can't pray !"
"Poor soul!" said Tom, compassionately. " Satan desires to have
ye, and sift ye as wheat. 1 pray the Lord for ye. O Misse Cassy, turn
to the dear Lord Jesus. He came to bind up the broken-hearted, and
comfort all that mourn!"
Cassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped from her downcast
eyes.
" Misse Cassy," said Tom in a hesitating tone, after surveying her a
moment in silence, " if you only could get away from here—if the thing
was possible—I'd 'vise ye and Emmeline to do it; that is, if ye could go
without bloodguiltiness—not otherwise."
" Would you try it with us, Father Tom ?"
" No," said Tom; " time was when I would; but the Lord's given
me a work among these yer poor souls, and I'll stay with 'em and bear
my cross with 'em till the end. It's different with you ; it's a snare to
you—it's more'n you can stand; and you'd better go, if you can."
"I know.no way but through the grave," said Cassy. "There's no
beast or bird but can find a home somewhere, even the snakes and the
alligators have their places to lie down and be quiet; but there's nc
place for us. Down in the darkest swamps their do:*s will hunt us out,
and find us. Everybody and everything is against us, even the very
beasts side against us, and where shall we go ?"
Tom stood silent; at length he said—
" Him that saved Daniel in the den of lions—that saved the children
in the fiery furnace—Him that walked on the sea and bade the winds be
still—He's alive yet; and I've faith to believe he can deliver you. Try
it, and I'll pray with all my might for you."
By what strange law of mind is it that an idea long overlooked, and
trodden under foot as a useless stone, suddenly sparkles out in new light,
as a discovered diamond!
Cassy had often revolved, for hours, all possible or probable schemes
of escape, and dismissed them all as hopeless and impracticable; but at
this moment there flashed through her mind a plan, so simple and
feasible in all its details, as to awaken an instant hope.
" Father Tom, I'll try it!" she said, suddenly.
" Amen!" said Tom. " The Lord help ye!"
CHAPTER XXXIX.
the stbatagem.
The garret of the house that Legree occupied, like most other garrets,
was a great desolate space, dusty, hung with cobwebs, and littered
with cast-off lumber. The opulent family that had inhabited the house
in the days of its splendour, had imported a great deal of splendid
furniture, some of which they had taken away with them, while some
remained standing desolate in mouldering, unoccupied rooms, or stored
away in this place. One or two immense packing-boxes, in which this
furniture was brought, stood against tbo sides of the garret. There wgj
ll?S A.HONG- THE LOW It. 259
A SBaall window there, which let in through its dingy, dusty panes, &
scanty, uncertain light, on the tall, high-backed chairs and dusty tables,
that had once seen better days. Altogether, it was a weird and ghostly
place; but, ghostly as it was, it wanted not in legends among the super¬
stitious negroes to increase its terrors. Some few years before, a negro
woman.who had incurred Legree's displeasure was confined there for
several weeks. What passed there we do not say; the negroes used to
whisper darkly to each other; but it was known that the body of the
unfortunate creature was one day taken down from there, and buried;
and after that it was said that oaths and cursings, and the sound of
violent blows, used to ring through that old garret, and mingled with
waitings and groans of despair. Once, when Legree chanced to over¬
hear something of this kind, he flew into a violent passion, and swore
that the next one that told stories about that garret should have an
opportunity of knowing what was there, for he would chain them up
there for a week. This hint was enough to repress talking, though, of
course, it did not disturb the credit of the story in the least.
Gradually the staircase that led to the garret, and even the passage¬
way to the staircase, were avoided by every one in the house, from every
one fearing to speak of it, and the legend was gradually falling into
desuetude. It had suddenly occurred to Cassy to make use of the
superstitious excitability which was so great in Legree, for the purpose
of her liberation, and that of her fellow-sufferer.
The sleeping-room of Cassy was directly under the garret. One day,
without consulting Legree, she suddenly took it upon her, with some
considerable ostentation, to change all the furniture and appurtenances
of the room to one at some considerable distance. The under-servants,
who were called on to effect this movement, were running and bustling
about with, great zeal and confusion, when Legree returned from a ride.
" Hallo! you Cass !" said Legree, " what's in the wind now ?"
"Nothing; only I choose to have another room," said Cassy, doggedly
" And what for, pray ? " said Legree.
" I choose to," said Cassy.
" The devil you do! and what for ? "
" I'd like to get some sleep, now and then."
" Sleep! well, what binders your sleeping?5®
" I could tell, I suppose, if you want to hear," said Cassy, drily.
" Speak out, you minx ! " said Legree.
"Oh! nothing. I suppose Tt wouldn't disturb you! Only groans,
and people scullling, and rolling round on tlio garret-floor half the night,
from twelve to morning !"
" People up garret!" said Legree, uneasily, but forcing a laugh, " who
are they, Cassy P"
Oassy raised her sharp black eyes, and looked m the face of Legree
with an expression that went through his bones, as she said, " To be
sure, Simon, who are they? I'd like to have you tell me. You don't
know, I suppose!"
With an oath, Legree struck at her with his riding-whip; but she
glided to one side, and passed through the door, and looking back, sai(L
If you'll sleep in that room, you'll know all about it. Perhaps you'd
better try it!" and then immediately she shut and looked the door.
Legree blustered and swore, and threatened to break down the door;
but apparently thought better of it, and walked uneasily into the sitting-
room. Cassy perceived that her shaft had struck home; and from that
hour, with the most exquisite address, she never ceased to continue th®
tram of influences she had begun.
270 tJNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OS
In A knot-hole in the garret she had inserted the neck of an old
bottle in such a manner that when there was the least wkid, most dole¬
ful and lugubrious wailing sounds proceeded from it, which, in a high
wind, increased to a perfect shriek, such as to credulous and supersti¬
tious ears might easily seem to be that of horror and despair.
These sounds were from time to time heard by the servants, and
revived in full force the memory of the old ghost legend. A supersti¬
tious creeping horror seemed to fill the house; and though no one dared
to breathe it to Legree, he found himself encompassed by it as by an
atmosphere.
No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man. The Chris¬
tian is composed by the belief of a wise, all-ruling Father, whose pre¬
sence tills the void unknown with light and order ; but to the man who
has dethroned God, the spirit-land is indeed, in the words of the Hebrew
poet, " a land of darkness and the shadow of death," without any order,
where the light is as darkness. Life and death to him are hauntea
grounds, filled with goblin forms of vague and shadowy dread.
Legree had had the slumbering moral element in him roused by his
encounters with Tom—roused, only to be resisted by the determinate
force of evil; but still there was a thrill and commotion of the dark
inner world, produced by every word, or prayer, or hymn, that reacted
in superstitious dread.
The influence of Cassy over him was of a strange and singular kind.
He was her owner, her tyrant, and tormentor. She was, as he knew,
wholly, and without any possibility of help or redress, in his hands, and
yet so it is, that the most Drutal man cannot live in constant association
with a strong female influence, and not be greatly controlled by it.
When he first bought her, she was, as she had said, a woman delicately
bred; and then he crushed her, without scruple, beneath the foot of his
brutality. But as time, and debasing influences and despair, hardened
womanhood within her and waked the fires of fiercer passions? she had
become in a measure his mistress, and he alternately tyrannized over
and dreaded her.
This influence had become more harassing and decided, since partial
insanity had given a strange, weird, unsettled cast to all her words and
language.
A night or two after this, Legree was sitting in the old sitting-room,
by the side of a flickering wood tire, that threw uncertain glances round
the room. It was a stormy, windy night, such as raises whole squad¬
rons of nondescript noises in rickety old houses. Windows were rattling,
shutters flapping, the wind carousing, rumbling, and tumbling down the
chimney, and every once in a while puffing out smoke and ashes, as if a
legion of spirits were coming after them. Legree had been casting up
accounts and reading newspapers for some hours, while Cassy sat in the
corner, sullenly looking into the fire. Legree laid down his paper, and
seeing an old book lying on the table, which he had noticed Casstv read¬
ing the first part of the evening, took it up, and began to turn it over.
It was one of those collections of stories of bloody murders, ghostly
legends, and supernatural visitations, which, coarsely got up and illus¬
trated, have a strange fascination for one who once begins to read them.
Legree poohed and pished, but read, turning page after page, till,
finally, after reading some way, he threw down the book with an oath.
"You don't believe in ghosts, do you, Cass?" said he, taking the
tongs and settling the fire. " I thought you'd more sense than to let
noises scare you.
tlFB AMONG THE lOWtt. H\
* No matter what I believe," said Cassy, sullenly.
M Fellows used to try to frighten me with their yarns at sea," said
Legree. " Never come it round me that way. I'm too tough for any
B-.K'h trash, tell ye."
Cassy sat looking intensely at him in the shadow of the corner. There
was that strange light in her eyes that always impressed Legree with
uneasiness.
" Them noises was nothing but rats and the wind," said Legree.
" Hals will make a devil of a noise. I used to hear 'em sometimes down in
the hold of the ship; and wind—Lord's sake ! ye can make anything out
o' wind."
Cassy knew Legree was uneasy under her eyes, and therefore she
made no answer, but sat fixing them on him with that strange, unearthly
expression as before.
" Come, speak out, woman—don't you think so ? " said Legree.
" Can ruts walk down stairs, and come walking through the entry,
and open a door when you've locked it and set a chair against it ? " said
Cassy ; " and come walk, walk, walking right up to your bed, and put
out their hand, so ? "
Cassy kept her glittering eyes fixed on Legree as she spoke, and he
stared at her like a man in the nightmare, till, when she finished by
laying her hand, icy cold, on his, he sprang back with an oath.
" Woman ! What do you mean ? Nobody did!"
"Oh, no—of course not—did I say they did?" said Cassy, with a
smile of chilling derision.
" But—did—have you really seen ? Come, Cass, what is it now ?—
gpeak out!"
" You may sleep there yourself," said Cassy, " if you want to
know."
" Did it come from the garret, Cassy ? "
"It—what?" said Cassy.
" Why, what you told of."
" I didn't tell you anything," said Cassy, with dogged sullenness.
Legree walked up and down the room uneasily.
" I'll have this yer thing examined. I'll look into it this very night.
I'll take my pistols—"
" Do," said Cassy; " sleep in that room. I'd like to see you doing it.
Fire your pistols—do!"
Legree stamped his foot and swore violently.
" Don't swear," said Cassy;" nobody knows who may be hearing you.
Hark ! What was that ? "
" "What ?" said Legree, starting.
A heavy, old Dutch clock, that stood in the corner of the room, began
and slowly struck twelve.
For some reason or other, Legree neither spoke nor moved; a vague
horror fell on him; while Cassy, with a keen, sneering glitter in her
eyes, stood looking at him, counting the strokes.
" Twelve o'clock; well, now we'll see," said she, turning and opening
the door into the passage-way, and standing as if listening.
"Hark '. What's that?" said she, raising her finger.
" It's only the wind," said Legree. " Don't you hear how cursedly
it blows?" . . , , ,.
" Simon, oome here," said Cassy, in a whisper, laying her nana on nis,
and leading him to the foot of the stairs; " do you know what that
is? Hark 1"
272 tWCtiB TOM'S CASIN, 02
A wild shriek came pealing down the stairway. It came
garret. Legree's knees knocked together; his lace grew white
"Hadn't you better get your pistols?" said CasAy.with a
froze Legree's blood. "It's time this thing was looked into, you know.
I'd like to have you go up now ; they're at it.
"I won't go !" said Legree, with an oath. , ,
"Why not? There an't any such thing as ghosts, _ you know!
Come!" and Cassy flitted up the winding stairway, laughing, ana look¬
ing back after him. "Come on."
I believe you are the devil I" said Legree. Come back, you hag-
come back, Cass! You shan't go !"
But Cassv laughed wildly, and fled on. He heard her open the entry-
doors that led to the garret. A wild gust of wind swept down, extin¬
guishing the candle he held in his hand, and with it the fearful,
unearthly screams: they seemed to be shrieked in his very ear.
Legree fled frantically into the parlour, whither, in a few moments,
he was followed by Cassy, pale, calm, cold as an avenging spirit, and with
that same fearful light in her eye.
" I hope you are satisfied," said she.
"Blast you, Cass !" said Legree.
""What for?" said Cassy. "I only went up and shut the doors,
WTiatfs the matter with that garret, Simon, do you suppose?" said she.
" None of your business !" said Legree.
" Oh, it an't ? AY ell," said Cassy, " at any rate I'm glad 1 don't sleep
under it."
Anticipating the rising of the wind that very evening, Cassy had
been up and opened the garret-window. Of course, the moment the
doors were opened, the wind had drafted down, and extinguished the
light.
This may serve as a specimen of the game that Cassy played with
Legree, until he would sooner have put his head into a lion's mouth,
than to have explored that garret. Meanwhile, in the night, when
everybody else was asleep, Cassy slowly and carefully accumulated there
a stock of provisions sufficient to afford subsistence for some time; she
transferred, article by article, a greater part of her own and Emmeline's
wardrobe. All things being arranged, they only waited a fitting oppor¬
tunity to put their plan in execution.
By cajoling Legree, and taking advantage of a good-natured interval,
Cassy had got him to take her with him to the neighbouring town,
wliu>h was situated directly on the Red River. "With a memory
sharpened to almost preternatural clearness, she remarked every turn
in the road, and formed a mental estimate of the time to be occupied in
traversing it.
At the time when all was matured for action, our readers may,
perhaps, like to look behind the scenes, and see the final coup d'etat.
It was now near evening. Legree had been absent on a ride to a
neighbouring farm. For many days Cassy had been unusually gracious
and accommodating in her humours; and Legree and she had been,
apparently, on the best of terms. At present, we may behold her and
Emmeline in the room of the latter, busy in sorting and arranging two
6mall bundles.
" There, these will be large enough," said Cassy. " Now, put on your
bonnet, and let's start: it's just about the right time."
" "Why, they can see us yet?5 said Emmeline.
" I mean they shall," said Cassy, coolly. " Don't you irrcw that the*
tlFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 273
muf5t have their chase after us, at any rate. The way of the thing is
to be just this. "We will steal out of the back-door, and run down by
the quarters. Sambo or Quimbo will be sure to see us. They will give
chase, and we will get into the swamp; then, they can't follow us any
further, till they go up and give the alarm, and turn out the dogs, and
so on; and, while they are blundering round, and tumbling over each
other, as they always do, you and I will just slip along to the creek that
runs back of the house, and wade along in it till we get opposite the
back door. That will put the dogs all at fault; for scent won't lie in the
water. Every one will run out of the house to look after us, and then
we'll whip in at the back door, and up into the garret, where I've got a
nice bed made up in one of the great boxes. We must stay in that garret
a good while; for, I tell you, he will raise heaven and earth after us.
He'll muster some of those old overseers on the other plantations, and
have a great hunt; and they'll go over every inch of ground in that
swamp. He makes it bis boast that nobody ever got away from him.
So let him hunt at his leisure."
" Cassy, how well you have planned it!" said Emmeline. " Who ever
would have thought of it but you ?"
There was neither pleasure nor exultation in Cassy's eyes—only a
despairing firmness.
" Come," she said, reaching her hand to Emmeline.
The two fugitives glided noiselessly from the house, and flitted,
through the gathering shadows of evening, along by the quarters. The
crescent moon, set like a silver signet in the western sky, delayed a little
the approach of night. As Cassy expected, when quite near the verge
of the swamps that encircled the plantation, they heard a voice calling
to them to stop. It was not Sambo, however, but Legree, who was
pursuing them with violent execrations. At the sound, the feebler
spirit of Emmeline gave way; and, laying hold of Cassy's arm, she said,
"O, Cassy, I'm going to faint!"
If you do, I'll kill you !" said Cassy, drawing a small, glittering sti¬
letto, and flashing it before the eyes of the girl.
The diversion accomplished the purpose. Emmeline did not faint,
and succeeded in plunging with Cassy into a part of the labyrinth of
swamp, so deep and dark that it was perfectly hopeless for Legree to
think of following them without assistance.
" Well," said he, chuckling brutally, "at any rate, they've got them¬
selves into a trap now—the baggages! They're safe enough. They
shall sweat for it!"
"Hulloa, there! Sambo! Quimbo! All hands!" called Legree
coming to the quarters when the men and women were just returning
from work. " There's two runaways in the swamps. I'll give five dollars
to any nigger as catches 'em. Turn out the dogs! Turn out Tiger and
Fury, and the rest!"
The sensation produced by this news was immediate. Many cf the
men sprang forward officiously to offer their services, either from the
hope of the reward, or from that cringing subserviency which is one of
the most baleful effects of slavery. Some ran pne way, and some an¬
other. Some were for getting flambeaux of pine-knots. Some were
uncoupling the dogs, whose hoarse, savage bay added not a little to the
animation of the scene. . ,
" Mas'r, shall we shoot 'em if we can t cotch em r said Sambo, to
whom his master brought out a rifle. .
"You Hay fire on Cass, if you like; it's time she was gone to the
devil, v>here she belongs; but the gal, not," said Legree. And now
274 TJffctE tom's cabin, oa
boys, be spry and smart. Five dollars for him that gets'em; and a
glaas of spirits to every one of you, anyhow." .
The whole band, with the glare of blazing torches, and whoop^^a
shout, and savage yell, of man and beast, proceeded down to the sw^*,,
followed at some distance by every servant in the house. 15e1? ;?fr"
ment was, of a consequence, wholly deserted when Cassy ana i^mmenne
elided into it the back way. The whooping and shouts 01 tneir pur¬
suers were still filling the air; and, looking from the sitting-room
windows, Cassy and Emmelme could see the troop, with their uamDeaux,
Look how those lights ~
hear ? If we were only there, our chance wouldn t be worth a picayune.
Oh, for pity's sake, do let's hide ourselves. Quick !"
" There's no occasion for hurry," said Cassy, coolly; " they are all out
after the hunt—that's the amusement of the evening! We'll go up¬
stairs by-and-by. Meanwhile," said she, deliberately taking a key from
the pocket of a coat that Legree had thrown down in his hurry," mean¬
while I shall take something to pay our passage."
She unlocked the desk, took from it a roll of bills, which she counted
over rapidly.
" Oh, don't let's do that!" said Emmeline.
" Don't!" said Cassy, " Why not ? Would you have us starve in the
swamps, or have that that will pay our way to the free states ? Money
will do anything, girl." And, as she spoke, she put the money in her
bosom.
" It would be stealing," said Emmeline in a distressed whisper.
" Stealing!" said Cassy, with a scornful laugh. " They who steal body
and soul needn't talk to us. Every one of these bills is stolen—stolen
from poor, starving, sweating creatures, who must go to the devil at last
for his profit. Let him talk about stealing! But come, we may as well
go up garret; I've got a stock of candles there, and some books to pass
away the time. You may be pretty sure they won't come there to in¬
quire after us. If they do, I'll play ghost for them."
When Emmeline reached the garret, she found an immense box, in
which some heavy pieces of furniture had once been brought, turned on
its side, so that the opening faced the wall, or rather the eaves. Cassy
lit a small lamp, and, creeping round under the eaves, they established
themselves in it. It was spread with a couple of small mattresses and
some pillows; a box near by was plentifully stored with candles, provi¬
sions, and all the clothing necessary for their journey, which Cassy had
arranged into bundles of an astonishingly small compass.
" There," said Cassy, as she fixed the lamp on a small hook? which she
had driven into the side of the box for that purpose; " this is to be our
home for the present. How do you like it P
" Are you sure they won't come and search the garret ?"
"I'd like to see Simon Legree doing that," said Cassy. "No, indeed;
he will be too glad to keep away. As to the servants, they would any
of them stand and be shot sooDer than show their faces here "
Somewhat re-assured, Emmeline settled herself back on her pillow
_ " What did you mean, Cassy, by saying you would kill me ?" she said,
simply. '
"I meant to stop your fainting," said Cassy, "and I did do it And
now I tell you, Emmelme you must make up your mind not to faint
let what will come; there's no sort of need of it. If I had not stopped
you, that wretch might have had his hands on you now."
LIFE AMONG THB LOWLY. 275
EmmeHno shuddered.
The two remained some time in silence. Cassy busied herself with a
trench book ; Emmelme, overcome with the exhaustion, fell into a doze,
and slept some time. She was awakened by loud shouts and outcries,
the tramp of horses' feet, and the baying of dogs. She started up with
a famt shriek.
r " t^e, .hunt coming back," said Cassy, coolly; " never fear.
Look out of this knot-hole. Don't you see 'em all down there ? Simon
has to give it up for this night. Look how muddy his horse is, flouncing
about m the swamp; the dogs, too, look rather crest-fallen, A.h, my
good sir, you'll have to try the race again and again—the game isn't
there."
Oh, don't speak a word!" said Emmeline; "what if they should
hear you P"
" If they do hear anything, it will make them very particular to keep
away," said Cassy. ' No danger; we may mske any noise we please,
and it will only add to the effect."
At length the stillness of midnight settled down over the house.
Legree, cursing his ill luck, and vowing dire vengeance on the morrow
went to bed.
CHAPTEB XL.
THE MARTYB,
The longest day must have its close—the gloomiest night will wear
on to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever
hurrying the day of the evil to an eternal night, and the night of the
iust to an eternal day. We have walked with our humble friend thus
far in the valley of slavery; first through flowery fields of ease and
indulgence, then through heart-breaking separations from all that man
holds dear. Again, we have waited with him in a sunny island, where
generous hands concealed his chains with flowers; and, lastly, we have
followed him when the last ray of earthly hope went out in night, and
seen how, in the blackness of earthly darkness, the firmament of the
unseen has blazed with stars of new and significant lustre.
The morning-star now stands over the tops of the mountains, and
gales and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are unr,losing.
The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly temper
of Legree to thfi last degree; and his fury, as was to be expected, 'eli
upon the defenceless head of Tom. When lie hurriedly announced the
tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light in Tom's eye, a sudden
upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he aid
not loin the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him to do
it; but having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when coni-
rnanded to take p irt in any deed of inhumanity, he would not, m his
hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with hiiii. , ,, , .
Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned ol turn
to pray, and oflered up prayei s for the e-cape of the fugitives.
When Legreo returned, bafiled and disappointed, all the long-working
hatred of his soul towards his slave began to gather in a deadly anil
d*sneiate form. Had not this man braved him steadily, powerfully,
resistlessly—ever since he bought him ? Was there not a spirit m him
which silent as it was, burned on him like the fires of perdition t
" I kate him !" said Lesree, that night, as he sat up in his bed; I
T 3
276 ttncle tom's cabin, ob
hate him? And .sn't lie mine? Can't I do what I like with him?
Who's to hinder, I wonder ?" And Legree clenched his fist and snooK
it as if he had something in his hands that he could rend m pieces.
But then Tom was a iaithful, valuable servant; and although
hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was still somewhat ot
ft restraint to him. ^
The next morning he determined to say nothing, as yet; to assemble
a party from some neighbouring plantations, with dogs and guns; to
surround the swamp, and go about the hunt systematically. It it sue*
ceeded, well and good ; if not, he would summon Tom before him, and
—his teeth clenched and his blood boiled—then he would break that
fellow down, or—there was a dire inward whisper, to which his soul
assented.
i Ye say that the interest of the master is a sufficient safeguard for the
I slave. In the fury of man's mad will, he will wittingly, and with open
I eye, sell his own soul to the devil to gain his ends; and will he be more
careful of his neighbour's body ?
" Well," said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she reconnoitred
through the knot-hole, " the hunt's going to begin again to-day!"
Three or four mounted horsemen were curveting about, on the space
in front of the house; and one or two leashes of strange dogs were
struggling with the negroes who held them, baying and barking at
each other.
The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the vicinity ;
and others were some of Legree's associates at the tavern-bar of a
neighbouring city, who had come for the interest of the sport. A more
hard-favoured set, perhaps, could not be imagined. Legree was serving
brandy profusely round, among them, as also among the negroes who had
been detailed from the various plantations for this service: for it was an
object to make every service of this kind among the negroes as much of
a holiday as possible.
Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole; and, as the morning air blew
directly towards the house, she could overhear a good deal of the con
versation. A grave sneer overcast the dark, severe gravity of her face,
as she listened, and heard them divide out the ground, discuss the rival
merits of the dogs, give orders about firing, and the treatment of each,
in case of capture.
Cassy drew back; and, clasping her hands, looked upward, and said,
" O great Almighty God ! we are all sinners; but what have we done,
more than all the rest of the world? that we should be treated so ?"
There was a terrible earnestness m her face and voice, as she spoke.
" If it wasn't for you, child," she said, looking at Emmeline, I'd ga
out to them; and I'd thank any one of them that would shoot me down;
for what use will freedom be to me ? Can it giv me back my children,
or make me what I used to be ?"
Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of the dark
moods of Cassy. She looked perplexed, but made no answer. She only
took her hand, with a gentle, caressing movement.
" Don't!" said Cassy, trying to draw it away; "you'll get me to loving
you; and I never mean to love anything again !"
"Poor Cassy!" said Emmeline, "don't feel so! If the Lord gives
us liberty, perhaps he'll give you back your daughter; at any rate I'll
be like a daughter to you. I know I'll never see my coor old mot.hpr
again! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you iove me or not!"
Tiie gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down by her put
her round W neck, stroked her soft brown hair; ard Kmmeuna
Z.IFE AMOATQ THB tOWLf. Hf}
then wondered at the beauty of her magnificent eyes, now soft with
tears.
"O Em!" said Cassy, "I've hungered for my children, and thirsted
for them, and my eyes fail with longing for them ! JJere ! here!" she
said, striking her breast, " it's all desolate, all empty! If God would
give me back my children, then I could pray."
"You must trust him, Cassy," said Emmeline; "he is our Father !"
" His wrath is upon us," said Cassy, " he has turned away in anger."
" No, Cassy! He will be good to us! Let us hope in him, said
Emmeline, " I always have had hope."
*******
The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and,
with grave, ironic exultation, Uassy looked down on Legree as, weary
and dispirited, he alighted from his horse.
"Now, Quimbo," said Legree, as he stretched himself down in the
sitting-room, " you just go and walk that Tom up here, right away
The old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter; and I'll have it
out of his old black hide, or I'll know the reason why!"
Sambo and Quimbo both, though hating each other, were joined in
one mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree had told them at
first that he had bought him for a general overseer in his absence; and
this had begun an ill-will on their part, which had increased, in their
debased and servile natures, as they saw him becoming obnoxious to
their master's displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed with a will to
execute his orders.
Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knew all
the plan of the fugitives' escape, and the place of their present conceal¬
ment. He knew the deadly character of the man he had to deal with,
and his despotio power. But he felt strong in God to meet death,
rather than betray the helpless.
He set his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, " Into thy
hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of
truth !" and then quietly yielded himself to the rough, brutal grasp with
which Quimbo seized him.
"Ay, ay!" said the giant, as he dragged him atong, " ye'll cotch it,
now! I'll boun'mas'r's back's up high ! No sneaking out, now! Tell
ye ye'll get it, and no mistake! See how you'll look now, helpin' mas'r'a
niggers to run away ! See what ye'll get!"
The savage words none of them reached that ear—a higher voice there
was saying, "Pear not them that kill the body, and after that have no
more that they can do." Nerve and bone of that poor man's bodv
vibrated to those words, as if touched by the finger of God; and he felt
the strength of a thousand souls in one. As he passed along, the trees
and bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene of his degradation
seemed to whirl by him, as the landscape by the rushing car. His soul
throbbed—his home was in sight—and the hour of release seemed at hand.
" Well, Tom," said Legree. walking up a,nd seizing him grimly by the
collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm of de¬
termined rage, " do you know I've made up my mind to kill you ?
" It's very likely, mas'r," said Tom, calmly.
" I have" said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, done—just—that
—thing, Tom, unless you tell me what you know about these yer gals!
Tom stood silent. .
"D'ye hear?" said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an in¬
censed lion. "Speak!"
2?§ UNCLE TOil'3 cabin', OS
" I han't got nothing to tell, mas'r" said Tom, with a slow, firm, deli®
berate utterance. .
" Do you dare to tell me, ys old black Christian, ye aon t know I
said Legree.
Tom was silent. .
" Speak!" thundered Legree, striking him furiously. Do you know
anything ?"
" I know, mas'r; but I can't tell anything. I can die !"
Legree drew in a long breath, and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by
the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said, in a terrible voice,
" Hark'e, Tom—ye think 'cause I've let you off before, I don't mean
what I say ; but this time I've made up my mind, and counted the cost.
You've always stood it out agin me—now I'll conquer you or kill you !
one or t'other. I'll count every drop of blood there is in you, and take
'em, one by one, till ye give up!"
Tom looked up to bis mas'r, and answered, "Mas'r, if you wss sick,
or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I'd give ye my heart's blood;
and if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your
precious soul, I'd give 'em freely, as the Lord gave his for me. O mas'r,
don't bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you mere than
'twill me ! Do the worst you can, my troubles '11 be over soon; but if
ye don't repent, yours won't never end !"
Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull of a tem¬
pest, this burst of feeling made a moment's blank pause. Legree stood
aghast, and looked at Tom ; and there was such a silence that the tick
of the old clock could be heard, measuring, with silent touch, the last
moments of mercy and probation to that hardened heart.
It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause, one irresolute,
relenting thrill, and the spirit of evil came back with sevenfold vehe¬
mence ; and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the ground.
****###
Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What
man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear. What brother-man
and brother-Christian must suffer cannot be told us, even in our secret
chamber, it so harrows up the soul. And yet, O my country! these
things are done under the shadow of thy laws! O Christ! thy Church
sees them, almost in silence!
But of old there was One whose suffering changed an instrument of
torture, degradation, and shame, into a symbol of glory, honour, and
immortal life; and where his spirit is, neither degrading stripes, nor
blood, nor insults, can make the Christian's last struggle less than
glorious.
Was he alone that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was bearing
up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes ?
N ay ! There stood by him One, seen by him alone, " like unto the
Son of God."
The tempter stood by him, too, blinded by furious, despotic will, every
moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the inno¬
cent. But the brave, true heart was lirm on the Eternal Bock. Like
his Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save;
nor could utmost extremity wring from him words, save of prayer and
holy trust.
" He's most gone, mas'r," said Sambo, touched, in spite of himself,
Dy the patience of his victim.
" Pay away till he gives up ! Give it to him, give it to him !" shouted
Legree. " I'll take every drop of blood he has, unless he confesses."
£lP2 AMONG THE LOvvLY. 279
Jotn opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. " Ye poor, mise¬
rable critter he said, " there an't no more ye can do! I forgive ye,
^ « t , .ruy soul!" and he fainted entirely away.
I b lieve my soul, he's done for, finally," said Legree, stepping for¬
ward, to look at him. " Yes, he is! Well, his mouth's shut up at last
—that's one comfort!"
Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up tha,t voice in thy seal—that
soul, past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire that never
shall be quenched is already burning ?
Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers
had struck upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks who had been* the
instruments of cruelty upon him ; and, the instant Legree withdrew,
they took him down, and, in their ignorance, sought to call him back to
lif i—as if that were any favour to him.
' Sartin, we's been doin5 a drefiul wicked thing!" said Sambo
" hopes mas'r '11 have to 'count for it, and not we."
They washed his wounds—they provided a rude bed of some refuse
cotton for him to lie down on ; and one of them, stealing up to the house,
begged a drink of brandy of Legree, pretending that he was tired, and
wanted it for myself. He brought it back, and poured it down Tom's
throat.
" O Tom!" said Quinbo, " we's been awful wicked to ye!"
" I forgive ye, with all my heart!" said Tom, faintly.
" OTom! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow?" said Sambo—"Jesus
that's been a standin' by you so, all this night!—Who is he ?"
The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a few
energetic sentences of that wondrous one—his life, ms death, his ever¬
lasting presence, and power to save.
They wept—both the savage men.
" Why didn't I never hear this before?" said Sambo: "but I do
believe!—I can't help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us !"
" Poor critters!" said Tom, "I'd be willing to bar' all I have, if it'll
only bring ye to Christ! O Lord! give me these two more souls, I pray !"
That prayer was answered !
CHAPTEK XLI.
THE YOUNG MASTER.
Two days after, a young man drove a light waggon up through the
avenue of China trees, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horses'
necks, sprang out and inquired for the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby; and, to show how he came to be there, we
must go back m our story.
The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by some unfortunate
accident, been detained for a month or two at some remote post-office,
before it reached its destination; and, of course, before it was received.
Tom was already lost to view among the distant swamps of the Bed
Biver.
Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest concern; but any
immediate action upon it was an impossibility. She was then in attend¬
ance on the sick bea of her husband, who lay delirious in the crisis of a
fever. Master George Shelby, who, in the interval, had changed from
a boy to a tall young man, was her constant and faithful assistant, and
her only reliance in superintending his father's affairs. Miss Ophelia
280 tTttCLS TOM58 CABItf, OE
had taken the precaution to send the name of the lawyer who did bjisi«
ness for the St. Clares; and the most that in the emergency could be
done was, to address a letter of inquiry to him. The sudden death of
Mr. Shelby, a few days after, brought, of course, an absorbing prsssure
of other interests for a season. _ _
Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife's ability by appointing
her sole executrix upon his estates; and thus immediately a large and
complicated amount of business was brought upon her hands.
Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself to the work
of straightening the entangled web of affairs, and she and George were
for some time occupied with collecting and examining accounts, selling
property and settling debts; for Mrs. Shelby was determined that every¬
thing should be brought into tangible and 'ecognizable shape, let the
consequences to her prove what they might. In the mean time, thay
received a letter from the lawyer to whom Miss Ophelia had referred
them, saying that he knew nothing of the matter; that the man was
sold at a public auction, and that, beyond receiving the money, he knew
nothing of the affair.
Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result; and,
accordingly, some six months after, the latter, having business for his
mother down the river, resolved to visit New Orleans in person, and
push his inquiries, in hopes of discovering Tom's whereabouts and
restoring him.
After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest accident,
George fell in with a man in New Orleans who happened to be pos¬
sessed of the desired information; and with his money in his pocket,
our hero took steamboat for lied Biver, resolving to find out and re¬
purchase his old friend.
He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legres in the
sitting-room.
Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality.
"1 understand," said the young man, "that you bought, in New
Orleans, a boy named Tom. He used to be on my father's place, and I
came to see if I couldn't buy him back."
Legree's brow grew dark, and he broke out passionately: " Yes, I did
buy such a fellow, and a h—1 of a bargain I had of it, too! The most
rebellious, saucy, impudent dog! Set up my niggers to run away, got off
two gals worth eight hundred or a thousand dollars apiece. He owned
to that, and, when I bid him tell me where they was, he up and said
he know, but he wouldn't tell; and stood to it, though I gave him the
cussedest flogging I ever gave nigger yet. I b'lieve he's trying to die;
but I don't know as he'll make it out."
" Where is he ?" said George, impetuously. "Let me see him." The
cheeks of the young man were crimson, and his eyes flashed fire; but he
prudently said nothing as yet.
" He's in dat ar shea," said a little fellow, who stood holding George's
horse.
Legree kicked the boy, and swore at him; but George, without saying
another word, turned and strode to the spot.
Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night; not suffering,
for every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed. He lay, for the
most part, in a quiet stupor; for the laws of a powerful and well-knit
frame would not at once release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth, there
had been there, iij the darkness of the night, poor desolated creatures,
who stole from ttieir scanty hours' rest, that they might repay to him
some of those ministrations of love in which he had always been so
fclffi AMONG tHE lowly. 281
abundant. Truly, those poor disciples had little to give—only the cup
m° wa*er; but it was given with full hearts.
Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face —tears of late
repentance m the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dying love and.
patience had awakened to repentance, and bitter prayers breathed over
him to a late-found Saviour, of whom they scarce knew more than the
name, but whom the yearning ignorant heart of man never implores in
vam.
Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and, by
over-hearing, learned the sacrifice that had been made for her and
Emmeline, bad been there, the night before, defying the danger of
detection; and, moved by the few last words which the affectionate soul
had yet strength to breathe, the long winter of despair, the ice of years,
had given way, and the dark, despairing woman had wept and prayed.
When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart
Bick.
"Is it possible?—is it possible?" said he, kneeling down by him.
" Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!"
Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He
moved his head gently, smiled, and said—
" Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are."
Tears which did honour to his manly heart fell from the young man's
eyes as he bent over his poor friend.
"O, dear Uncle Tom! do wake—do speak once more! Look up!
Here's Mas'r George—your own little Mas'r George. Don't you know
me ?"
" Mas'r George!" said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble
voice, " Mas'r George!" He looked bewildered.
Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacant eye became
fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped,
and tears ran down the cheeks.
" Bless the Lord! it is—it is—it's all I wanted! They haven't forgot
me. It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die
content! Bless the Lord, O my soul!"
" You shan't die! you mustn't die, nor think of it! I've come to buy
you, and take you home," said George, with impetuous vehemence.
" O, Mas'r George, ye're too late. The Lord's bought me, and is
foing to take me home—and I long to go. Heaven is better than
[entuck."
" Oh, don't die! It'll kill me!—it'll break my heart to think what
you've suffered—and lying in this old shed, here ! Poor, poor fellow !"
" Don't call me poor fellow!" said Tom, solemnly. " I have been
poor fellow, but that's all past and gone now. I'm right in the door,
going into glory ! O, Mas'r George! Heaven has come ! I've got the
victory !—the Lord Jesus has given it to me ! Glory be to His name I"
George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power with
ivhich these broken sentences were uttered. He sat gazing m silence.
Tom grasped his hand, and continued—"Ye mustn't, now, tell
Chloe, poor soul! how ye found me; 'twould be so drenul to her.
Only tell her ye found me going into glory; and that I couldn t stay for
no one. And tell her the Lord stood by me everywhere and alays,
and made everything light and easy. And oh, the poor chil'en, and the
babv—my old heart a been most broke for 'em, time and agm. lell
'em all to follow me—follow me ! Give my love to mas'r, and dear good
282 t?XCLB TOM'S CAS IN, OS
missis, and everybody in the place! Ye don't know! 'Pears like I loves
'em all! I loves every creatm**, everywhar!—it's nothing but love. v,
Mas'r George! what a thing 'tis to be a Christian !"
At this moment Legree sauntered up to the door of the shed, looked
hi with a dogged air 01 affected carelessness, and turned away.
" The old Satan!" said George, in his indignation. " It's a comfort
to think the devil will pay him for this some of these days!"
" Oh, don't1—oh, ye mustn't!" said Tom, grasping his hand; hes
a poor, mis'able critter. It's awful to think on't! Oh, if he oily
could repent, the Lord would forgive him now; but I'm 'feared he
never will." , .
" I hope he won't!" said George. " I never want to see Turn i.
heaven."
" Hush, Mas'r George! it worries me. Don't feel so. He an
done me no real harm—only opened the gate of the kingdom for me.
that's all!"
At this moment the sudden flush of strength which the joy of meet¬
ing his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sud¬
den sinking fell upon him; he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and
sublime change passed over his face that told the approach of other
worlds.
He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations; and his
broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that of
a conqueror.
" Who—who—who shall separate us from the love of Christ ?" he
said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and with a smil'
he fell asleep.
George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that the place
was holy; and as he closed the lifeless eyes, and rose up from the dead,
only one thought possessed him—that expressed by his simple old friend,
" What a thing it is to be a Christian!"
He turned. Legree was standing sullenly behind him.
Something in that dying scene had checked the natural fierceness of
youthful passion. The presence of the man was simply loathsome to
George, and he felt only an impulse to get away from him with as few
words as possible.
Fixing his keen, dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, pointing to the
dead, " You have got all you ever can of him. What shall I pay you
for the body ? I will take it away, and bury it decently."
" I don't sell dead niggers," said Legree, doggedly. " You are welcome
to bury him where and when you like."
" Boys," said George, in an authoritative tone, to two or three negroes
who were looking at the body, " help me lift him up, and carry him to
my waggon; and get me a spade."
One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted George to carry
the body to the waggon.
George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did not counter¬
mand his orders, but stood whistling with an air of forced unconcern.
He sulkily followed them to where tne waggon stood at the door.
George spread his cloak in the waggon, and had the body carefully
disposed of in it, moving the seat so as to give it room. Then he turned,
fixed his eyes on Legree, and said, with forced composure,—
" I have not as yet said to you what I think of this most atrocioua
affair; this is not the time and place. But, sir, this innocent blood shall
have justice. I will proclaim this murijer. I will go to the very first
magistrate, and expose you."
IISTE AMONG TUB LOWLY. 283
* Bo !* said Legree, snapping his fingers scornfully. " I'd like to see
you doing it. Where you going to get witnesses ?—how you going to
prove it ? Come, now!"
George saw at once the force of this defiance. There was not a
white person on the place j and, in all southern courts, the testimony
ol coloured blood is nothing. _ He felt at that moment as if he could
have rent the heavens with his heart's indignant cry for justice: but
in vain.
" After all, what a fuss for a dead nigger!" said Legree.
The word was as a spark to a powder-magazine. Prudence was never
a cardinal virtue of the Kentucky boy. George turned, and, with one
indignant blow, knocked Legree fiat upon his face; and, as he stood over
him, blazing with wrath and defiance, he would have formed no bad per¬
sonification of his great namesako triumphing over the dragon.
Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being knocked down.
If a man lays them fairly flat in the dust, they seem immediately to con¬
ceive a respect for him; and Legree was one of this sort. As he rose,
therefore, and brushed the dust from his clothes, he eyed the slowly-
retreating waggon with some evident consideration; nor did he open his
mouth till it was out of sight.
Beyond the boundaries of the plantation George had noticed a dry,
sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees; there they made the grave.
" Shall we take off the cloak, mas'r ? " said the negroes, when the grave
was ready.
" No, no; bury it with him. It's all I can give you now, poor Tom,
and you shall have it."
Tliey laid him in; and the men shovelled away silently. They banked
it up, and laid green turf over it.
" You may go, boys," said George, slipping a quarter into the hand of
each. They lingered about, however.
" If young mas'r would please buy us—" said one.
" We'd serve him so faithful!" said the other.
" Hard times here, mas'r I" said the first, " Do, mas'r, buy us,
please I"
" I can't!—I can't," said George, with difficulty, motioning them
off, " it's impossible!"
The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence.
" Witness, eternal God," said George, kneeling on the grave of his
poor friend, " oh, witness that, from this hour, I will do what one man
can to drive out this curse of slavery from my land !"
There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our friend.
He needs none. His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up
immortal, to appear with him when he shall appear in his glory.
Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity. Not in the
riches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God, out in self-denying,
suffering love. And blessed are the men whom he calls to fellowship
with him. bearing their cross after him with patience. Of such it is
written, " Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.'
CHAPTER XLII.
AN AUTHENTIC GHOST STOET.
Fob soma remarkable reason, ghostly legends were uncommonly rift
about this time, among the servants on Legree's place.
£84 WHOLE TOM'S CABIW, OS
It was whisperingly asserted that footsteps, in the dead of night, bad
been heard descending the garret-stairs, and patrolling the house, in
vain the doors of the upper entry had been locked; the ghost either
carried a duplicate key in its pocket, or availed itself of a ghost s imme¬
morial privilege of coming through the keyhole, and promenaded as
before, with a freedom that was alarming.
Authorities were somewhat divided as to the outward form of the
spirit, owing to a custom quite prevalent_ among negroes—and, for
aught we know, among whites too—of invariably shutting the eyes, and
covering up heads under blankets, petticoats, or whatever else might
come in use for a shelter, on these occasions. Of course, as everybody
knows, when the bodily eyes are thus out of the lists, the spiritual eyes
are uncommonly vivacious and perspicacious; and therefore there were
abundance of full-length portraits of the ghost, abundantly sworn and
testified to, which, as is oiten the case with portraits, agreed with each
other in no particular, except the common family peculiarity of the
ghost tribe—the wearing of a vjhite sheet. The poor souls were not
versed in ancient history, and did not know that Shakspeare had authen¬
ticated this costume, by telling how
" the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Rome."
And therefore their all hitting upon this is a striking fact in pneumato-
logy, which we recommend to the attention of spiritual media generally.
Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing that a tall figure
in a white sheet did walk, at the most approved ghostly hours, around
the Legree premises—pass out the doors, glide about the house—dis¬
appear at intervals, and, reappearing, pass up the silent stair-way, into
that fatal garret; and that, in the morning, the entry doors were all
found shut and locked as firmly as ever.
Legree could not help overhearing this whispering; and it was all the
more exciting to him from the pains that were taken to conceal it from
him. He drank more brandy than usual; held up his head briskly, and
swore louder than ever in the daytime; but he had bad dreams, and the
visions of his head on his bed were anything but agreeable. The night
after Tom's body had been carried away he rode to the next town for a
carouse, and had a high one. Got home late and tired; locked his door,
took out the key, and went to bed.
After all. let a man take what pains he may to hush it down, a
human soul is an awful, ghostly, unquiet possession for a bad man to
have. Who knows the metes and bounds of it ? "Who knows all its
awful perhapses—those shudderings and tremblings, which it can no
more live down than it can outlive its own eternity ! What a fool is he
who locks his door to keep out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit he
dares not meet alone—whose voice, smothered far down, and piled over
with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the forewarning trumpet of
loom!
But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it; he set a night-
lamp at the head of his bed ; and he put his pistols there. He examined
the catchings and fastenings of the windows, and then swore he "didn't
care for the devil and all his angels," and went to sleep.
Well, he slept, for he was tired—slept soundly. But, finally, there
came over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an apprehension of something
dreadful hanging over him. It was his mother's shroud, he thought;
but Cassy had it," holding it up, and showing it to him. He heard a
confused noise of screams and groanings; and with it all, he knew he
was asleep, and hp struggled to wake himself. He was half awake. He
IIFB AMONG THE LOWLY. 285
was sure something was coming into hi; room. He knew the door was
opening, but he could not stir hand or foot. At last he turned with a
start; the door was open, and he saw a hand putting out his light.
It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it!—something
white, gliding in ! He heard the still rustle of its ghostly garments. It
stood still by his bed: a cold hand touched his ; a voice said, three times, -
in a low5 fearful whisper, " Come! come ! come!" And. while he lay
sweating with terror, he knew not when or how, the thing waa gone.
He sprang out of bed, and pulled at the door. It was shut and locked,
and the man fell down in a swoon.
After this, Legree became a harder drinker than ever beflYe. He no
longer drank cautiously, prudently, but imprudently and recklessly.
There were reports around the country, soon after, that he was sick
and dying. Excess had brought on that frightful disease that seems to
throw the lurid shadows of a coming retribution back into the present
life. None could bear t he horrors of that sick-room, when he raved and
screamed, and spoke of sights which almost stopped the blood of those
who heard him; and, at his dying bed, stood a stern, white, inexorable
figure, saying, ' Come! come! come !"
Ey a singular coincidence, on the very night that this vision appeared
to Legree, the liouse-door was found open in the morning, and some of
the negroes had seen two white figures gliding down the avenue towards
the high-road.
It was near sunrise when Cassy and Emmeline paused, for a moment,
in a ; ittle knot of trees near the town.
Cassy was dressed after the manner of the Creole Spanish ladies—
wholly in black. A small black bonnet on her head, covered by a veil
thick with embroidery, concealed her face. It had been agreed that, in
their escape, she was to personate the character of a Creole lady, and
Emmeline that of her servant.
Brought up, from early life, in connexion with the highest society,
the language, movements, and air of Cassy were all in agreement with
this idea; ana she had still enough remaining with her of a once splendj.d
wardrobe, and sets of jewels, to enable her to personate the thing to
advantage.
She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had noticed
trunks for sale, and purchased a handsome one. This she requested the
man to send along with her. And, accordingly, thus escorted by a boy
wheeling her trunk, and Emmeline behind her, carrying her carpet-bag
and sundry bundles, she made her appearance at the small tavern, like
a lady of consideration.
The first person that struck her, after her arrival, was George Shelby
who was staying there, awaiting the next boat.
Cassy had remarked the young man from her loop-hole in the garret,
and seen him bear away the body of Tom, and observed, with secret
exultation, his rencontre with Legree. Subsequently, she had gathered,
from the conversations she had overheard among the negroes, as she
glided about in her ghostlv disguise after nightfall, who he was, and in
what relation he stood to Tom. She therefore felt an immediate acces¬
sion of confidence when she found that he was, like herself, awaiting the
next boat. .
Cassy's air and manner, address, and evident command of money,
prevented any rising disposition to suspicion in the hotel. People never
inquire too closely into those who are fair on tk# main point, of paying
well—a t.hing which Cassy had foreseen when she provided herself witlj
m ivffhe edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along, and George
286 trjrcle tom's cab in, on
Shelby handed Cassy aboard, with the politeness wh^ch oomes naturally
to every Kentuckian, and exerted himself to provide her with a good
state-room.
Cassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, during the whole
time they were on Red BAver; and was waited on with obsequious
devotion by her attendant.
.When they arrived at the Mississippi River, George, having learned
that the course of the strange lady was upward, like his own, proposed
to take a state-room for her on the same boat with himself—good-
naturedly compassionating her feeble health, and desirous to do what
he could to assist her.
Behold, therefore, the whole party safely transferred to the good
steamer Cincinnati, and sweeping up the river under a powerful head
of steam.
Cassy's health was much better.^ She sat upon the guards, came to
the table, and was remarked upon in the boat as a lady that must have
been very handsome.
From the moment that George got the first glimpse of her face, he
was troubled with one of those fleeting and indefinite likenesses which
almost everybody can remember, and has been, at times, perplexed with.
He could not keep himself from looking at her, and watching her per¬
petually. At table, or sitting at her state-room door, still she would
encounter the young man's eyes fixed on her, and politely withdrawn
when she showed, by her countenance, that she was sensible of the
observation.
Cassy became uneasy. She began to think that he suspected some¬
thing ; and finally resolved to throw herself entirely on his generosity,
and intrusted him with her whole history.
George was heartily disposed to sympathize with any one who had
escaped from Legree's plantation—a place that he could not remember
or speak of with patience; and, with the courageous disregard of conse¬
quences which is characteristic of his age and state, he assured her that
he would do all in his power to protect and bring them through.
The next state-room to Cassy's was occupied by a French lady,
named De Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little daughter, a
child of some twelve summers.
This lady, having gathered from George's conversation that he was
from Kentucky, seemed evidently disposed to cultivate his acquaintmce;
in which design she was seconded by the graces of her litlle girl, v,ho
was about as pretty a plaything as ever diverted the weariness of a
fortnight's trip on a steamboat.
George's chair was often placed at her state-room door; and Cassy, as
she sat upon the guards, could hear their conversation.
Madame de Thoux was very minute in her inquiries as to Kentucky,
where she said she had resided in a former period of her li fe. George
discovered, to his surprise, that her former residence must have been in
his own vicinity; and her inquiries showed a knowledge of people and
things in his region that was perfectly surprising to him.
" Do you know," 6aid Madame do Thoux to him one day; " of any
man in your neighbourhood of the name of Harris V "
" There is an old fellow of that name lives not far from my father's
place," said George. " "VVe never have bnd much intercourse with liim
though."
" lie is a large slave-owner, I believe," said Madame de Thoux, with
a manner which seemed to betray more interest than she was exactly
willing to show.
IIFE AMONG TEE LOWLY. 28?
Vs'" sa^ Georga, looking rather surprised at her manner.
x>id you ever know of his having—perhaps you may have hoard oi
« rvum^ a mu'atto b°y, named George ?"
Oh, certainly—George Harris. I know him well; he married a
<7tt i my mother's, but has escaped now to Canada."
He has P" said Madame de Thoux, quickly. " Thank God."
George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing.
Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst into tears.
He is my brother !" she said.
|| Madame ! " said George, with a strong accent of surprise.
Yes," said Madame de Thoux, lifting ner head proudly, and wiping
her tears, " Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my brother!"
" I am perfectly astonished," said George, pushing back his chair a
pace or two, and looking at Madame de Thoux.
" I was sold to the South when he was a boy," said she. " I was
bought by a good and generous man. He took me with him to the
West Indies, set me free, and married me. It is but lately that he died,
and I was coming up to Kentucky to see if I could find and redeem my
brother."
" I have heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold South," said
George.
" Y es, indeed .' I am the one," said Madame de Thoux. " Tell me
what sort of a—"
" A very tine young man," said George, " notwithstanding the curse of
slavery that lay on him. He sustained a first-rate character, both for
intelligence and principle. I know, you see," he said, "because h6
married in our family."
" What sort of a girl ?" said Madame de Thoux, eagerly.
"A treasure!" said George. "A beautiful, intelligent, amiable girl.
Tory pious. My mother had brought her up, and trained her as care¬
fully, almost, as a daughter. She could read and write, embroider and
sew, beautifully ; and was a beautiful singer."
" Was she born in your house?" said Madame de Thoux.
"No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New CHeans,
and brought her up as a present to mother. She was about eight or
nine years old then. Father would nevor tell mother what he gave for
her; but, the other day, in looking over his old papers, we came across
the bill of sale. He paid an extravagant sum for her, to be sure—I
suppose, on account of her extraordinary beauty."
George sat with his back to Cassy, and did not see the absorbed
expression of her countenance as he was giving these details.
At this point in the story she touched his arm, and, with a face per¬
fectly white with interest, said, " Do you know the names of the people
he bought her of ?"
" A man of the name of Simmons, I think, was the principal in the
transaction—at least, I think, that was the name on the bill of sale."
"O my God!" said Cassy, and fell insensible on the floor of the
cabin.
George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de Thoux. Though
neither of them could conjecture what was the cause of Cassy's fainting,
etill they made all the tumult which is proper in such cases—George
upsetting a wash-pitcher, and breaking two tumblers, in the warmth of
his humanity ; and various ladies in the cabin, hearing that somebody
had fainted, crowded the state-room door, and kept out all the air they
possibly could, so that, on the whole, everything was done that could be
expected-
288 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
Poor Cassy! when she recovered, turned her face to the wall, ta
wept and sobbed like a child—perhaps, mother, you can tell what she
was thinking of ? Perhaps, you cannot; but she felt as sure, m that
hour, that God had had mercy on her, and that she should see her
daughter—as she did, months afterwards—when—but we anticipate.
CHAPTEK XLIIL
results.
The rest of our story is soon told. George Shelby, interested, as any
other young man might be, by the romance of the incident, no less than
by feelings of humanity, was at the pains to send to Cassy the bill of sale
of Eliza, whose date and name all corresponded with her own know¬
ledge of facts, and left no doubt upon her mind as to the identity
of her child. It remained now only for her to trace out the path of the
fugitives.
Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the singular
coincidence of their fortunes, proceeded immediately to Canada, and
began a tour of inquiry among the stations, where the numerous fugi¬
tives from slavery are located. At Amherstberg they found the mis¬
sionary with whom George and Eliza had taken shelter on their first
arrival in Canada, and through him were enabled to trace the family to
Montreal.
Georg6 and Eliza had now been five years free. George had found
constant occupation in the shop of a worthy machinist, where he had
been earning a competent support for his family, which, in the mean
time, had been increased by the addition of another daughter.
Little Harry, a fine bright boy, had been put to a good school, and was
making rapid proficiency in knowledge.
The worthy pastor of the station in Amherstberg, where George had
first landed, was so much interested in the statements of Madame de
Thoux and Cassy, that he yielded to the solicitaticas of the former
to accompany them to Montreal in their search—slis bearing all the
expense of the expedition.
The scene now changes to a small, neat, tenement, in the outskirts of
Montreal; the time evening. A cheerful fire blazes on the hearth; a
tea-table, covered with a snowy cloth, stands prepared for the evening
meal. In one corner of the room was a table covered with a green cloth,
where wss an open writing-desk, pens, paper, and over it a shelf of well-
selected books.
This was George's study. The same zeal for self-improvement which
led him to steal the much-coveted arts of reading and writing, amid all
the toils and discouragements of his early life, still led him to devote all
his leisure time to-self cultivation.
At this present time he is seated at the table, making notes from a
volume of the family library he has been reading.
" Come, George," says El'za " you've been gone all day. Do put down
that book, and let s talk, while I'm getting tea—do."
And little Eliza seconds the ellort by toddling up to her father, and
trying to pull the book out of his hand, and install herself on his knee
as a substitute.
" Oh, you little witch !" says George, yielding, as, in such circum¬
stances, man always
Lt££ AM0N6 TSB LOWT.Y. 58P
That's right," says Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf of bread. A
attle older she looks; her form a little fuller; her hair more matroiuy
«nr> y°re j hat evidently contented and happy as woman need be.
Harry, my hoy, how did you come on in that sum to-day?" says
George, as he laid his hand on his son's head.
Harry has lost his long curls; but he can never lose those eyes and
eyelashes, and that fine, b<?ld brow, that flushes with triumph, as lie
answers, "I did it, every bit of it, myself\ father; and nobody helped
me.
" That's right," says his father; "depend on yourself, my son. iTou
have a better chance than ever yo r poor father had."
At this moment there is a rap at the door; and Eliza goes and opens
it. The delighted " Why—this you?" calls up her husband: and the
Rood pastor of Amherstberg is welcomed. There are two women with
him, and Eliza asks them to sit down.
Now, if the truth must be told, the honest pastor had arranged a
little programme, according to which this a tiki r was to develope itself:
and, on the way up, all had very cautiously and prudently exhorted
each other not to let things out, except according to previous ar¬
rangement.
What was the good man's consternation, therefore, just as he had
motioned to the ladies to be seated, and was taking out his pocket-
handkerchief to wipe his mouth, so as to proceed to his introductory
speech in good order, when Madame de Thoux upset the whole plan by
throwing her arms around George's neck, and letting all out at once by
saying, " O George ! don't you know me r I'm your sister Emily!"
Cassy had seated herself more composedly, and would have carried
on her part very well, had not little Eliza suddenly appeared before her
in exact shape and form, every outline and curl, just as her daughter
was when she saw her last. The little thing peered up in her lace; and
Cassy caught her up in her arms, pressed her to her bosom, saying, what,
at the moment she really believed, " Darling, I'm your mother !"
In fact, it was a troublesome matter to do up exactly in proper order ;
but the good pastor, at last, succeeded in getting everybody quiet, ana
delivering the speech with which he had inlended to open the exercises;
and in which, at last, he succeeded so well that his whole audience were
sobbing about him in a manner that ought to satisfy any orator ancient
or modern.
They knelt together, and the good man prayed — for there are some
feelings so agitated and tumultuous, that they can find rest only by being
poured into'ihe bosom of Almighty love—and then, rising up, the new¬
found family embraced each other, with a holy trust in Him who, from
such peril and dangers, and by such unknown ways, had brought them
together.
The note-book of a missionary among the Canadian fugitives con¬
tains truth stranger than fiction. I low can it be otherwise when a
system prevails which whirls families and scatters their members, the
wind whirls and scatters the leaves of autumn ? These shores of reiuge,
like the eternal shore, often unite again, in glad somrnunion, hearts that
lor long years have mourned each other as lost. And affecting beyond
expression is the earnestness with which every new arrival among them
is met, if, perchance, it may bring tidings of mother, sister, wife, or child,
still lost to view in the shadows of slavery.
Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of romance, when,
defying torture, and braving death itself, the fugitive voluntarily threads
ayO tracts tom®3 CAfliK, oa
tb way oaok to the terrors and perils of that dark land, that hs
bring out his sister, or mother, or w ife.
One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twice re-captured,
and suffering shameful stripes for his heroism, had escaped again ; and,
in a letter which we heard read, tells his friends that he is going back a
third time, that he may, at last, bring away his sister. My good sir, ia
this man a hero or a criminal ? Would not you do as much for your
sister ? And can you blame him ?
But to return to our friends, whom we left wiping their eyes, and
recovering themselves from too great and sudden a joy. They are now
seated around the social board, and are getting decidedly companionable;
only that Gassy, who keeps iitile Eliza on her lap, occasionally squeezes
the*little thing in a nannur that rather astonishes her, arid obstinately
refuses to have her r> -uth stuffed with cake to the extent the little one
desires—alleging, wb-e the child rather wonders at, that she hay got
something better than cake, and doesn't want it.
And, indeed, in two or three days, such a change has passed over Gassy
that our readers would scarcely know her. The despairing, haggard
expression of her face had given way to one of gentle trust She seemed
to sink at once into the bosom of the family, and take the little ones into
her heart, as something for which it long had waited. Indeed, her love
seemed to flow more naturally to the little Eliza than to her owq
daughter; for she was the exact image and body of the child whom she
had lost. The little one was a flowery bond between mother and
daughter, through whom grew up acquaintanceship and affection. Eliza's
steady, consistent piety, regulated by the constant reading of the sacred
word, made her a proper guide for the shattered and wearied mind of her
mother. Gassy yielded at once, and with her whole soul, to every good
influence, and became a devout and tender Christian.
After a day or two Madame de Thoux told her brother more parti¬
cularly of her affairs. The death of her husband had left her an ample
fortune, which she generously offered to share with the family. "When
she asked George what way she could best apply it for him, he
answered, " Give me an education, Emily; that has always been my
heart's desire. Then I can do all the rest."
On mature deliberation, it was decided that the whole family should
go, for some years, to France; whither they sailed, carrying Emmeliue
with them.
The good looks of the latter won the affection of the first mate of the
vessel; and, shortly after entering the port, she became his wife.
George remained four years at a French University, and, applying
himself with an umntermitted zeal, obtained a very thorough education.
Political troubles in France at last led the family again to seek an
asylum in this country.
George's feelings and views, as an educated man, may be best expressed
in a letter to one of his friends.
" I feel somewhat at a loss as to my future course. True, as you
have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the whites in this
country, my shade of colour is so slight, and that of my wife and family
scarce perceptible. Well, perhaps, on sufferance, I might. But, to teil
you the truth, I have no wish to.
" My sympathies are not for my father's race, but for my mother's.
To him I was no more than a fine dog or horse; to my poor heart¬
broken mother I was a child; and, though I never saw her after the
cruel sab that separated us till she died, yet I know she always loved
me dearly, I know it by my own heart. When I think of all sfaf
tlFS AMOK<i THE LOWLY. 291
suffered, of mv own early sufferings, of the distresses and struggles of my
heroic wife, of ray sister, sold in the New Orleans slave-market—though
1 hope to have no unchristian sentiments, yet I may be excused for
eayi 113, I have no wish to pass for an American, or to identify myself
with them.
" It is with the oppressed, enslaved African race that I cast in my
lot; and if I wished anything, I would wish myself two shades darker,
rather than one lighter.
The desire and yearning of my soul is for an African nationality.
I want a people that shall have a tangible, separate existence of its
own ; and where am I to look for it ? Not in Hayti; for in Hayti they
had nothing to start with. A stream connot rise above its fountain.
The race that formed the character of the Haytiens was a worn-out,
effeminate one; and, of course, the subject race will be centuries in
rising to anything.
" Where, then, shall I look ? On the shores of Africa I see a republio
—a republic formed of picked men, who, by energy and self-educating
force, have, in many cases, individually, raised themselves above a con¬
dition of slavery. Having gone through a preparatory stage of feeble¬
ness, this republic has at last become an acknowledged nation on the face
of the earth—acknowledged by both France and England. There it is
my wish to go, and find myself a people.
" I am aware, now, that I shall have you all against me; but, before
you strike, hear me. During my stay in France, I have followed up,
with intense interest, the history of my people in America. I have
noted the struggle between abolitionist and colonisationist, and have
received some impressions, as a distant spectator, which could never
have occurred to me as a participator.
" I grant that this Liberia may have subserved all sorts of purposes,
by being played off. in the hands of our oppressors, against us. D:ubt-
less, the scheme may have been used in unjustifiable ways, as a means of
retarding our emancipation. But the question to me is, is there not a
God above all man's schemes ? May lie not have overruled, their designs,
and founded for us a nation by them ?
" In these days, a nation is born in a day. A nation starts now with
all the great problems of republican life and civilisation wrought out to
its hand; it has not to discover, but only to apply. Let us, then, all
take hold together with all our might, and see what we can do with this
new enterprise, and the whole splendid continent of Africa opens before
us and our children. Our nation shall roll the tide of civilisation and
Christianity along its shores, and plant there mighty republics, that,
growing with the rapidity of tropical vegetation, shall be for all coming
ages.
" Do you say that I am deserting my enslaved brethren ? I think
not. If I forget them one hour, one moment of my life, so may God
forget me. But what can I do for them here? Can I break their
chains? No, not as an individual; but let me go and forni part of a
nation, which shall have a voice in the councils 01 nations, and then we
can speak. A nation has a right to argue, remonstrate, implore, and
present the cause of its race, which an individual has not.
" If Europe ever becomes a grand council of free nations—as I trust
in God it will—if there serfdom, and all unjust and oppressive social
inequalities, are done away ; and if they, as 1 ranee and England have
done acknowledge our position—then, in the great congress of nations,
we will make our appeal, and present the cause of our enslaved and
suffering race ; and its cannot be that free, enlightened America will cot
u 3
282 tTNCLB TOM'S CABIN, OB
then desire to wipe from her escutcheon that bar sinister which disgraces
her among nations, and is as truly a curse to her as to the ensla\ea.
"But you will tell me our race have equal rights to mingle m toe
American republic as the Irishman, the German, the Swede. _ G ran tea,
they have. We ought to be free to meet and mingle to rise by our
individual worth, without any consideration of caste or colour; ana
they who deny us this right are false to their own professed principles
of human equality. We ought, in particular, to be allowed here, vv e
have more than the rights of common men—we have the_ claim of an
injured race for reparation. But, then, I do not want it; I want a
country, a nation, of my own. I think that the African race has pecu-
1 liarities yet to be unfolded in the light of civilization and Christianity,
1 which, if not the same with those of the Anglo-Saxon, may prove to be
morally, of even a higher type.
"To the Anglo-Saxon race have been intrusted the destinies of the
world, during its pioneer period of struggle and conflict. To that mis¬
sion its stern, inflexible, energetic elements were well adapted ; but, as
a Christian, I look for another era to arise. On its borders I trust we
stand ; and the throes that now convulse the nations are, to my hope,
but the birth-pangs of an hour of universal peace and brotherhood.
_ " I trust that the development of Africa is to be essentially a Chris¬
tian one. If not a dominant and commanding race, they are,-at least,
an affectionate, magnanimous, and forgiving one. Having been called
in the furnace of injustice ana oppression, they have need to bind closer
to their hearts that sublime doctrine of love and forgiveness, through
which alone they are to conquer, which it is to be their mission to spread
over the continent of Africa.
" In myself, I confess, I am feeble for this—full half the blood in my
veins is the hot and hasty Saxon; but I have an eloquent preacher of the
Gospel ever by my side, in the person of my beautiful wife. When I
wander, her gentler spirit ever restores me, and keeps before my eyes the
Christian calling and mission of our race. As a Christian patriot, as a
teacher of Christianity, I go to my country—my chosen, my glorious
Africa!—and to her, in my heart, I sometimes apply those splendid
words of prophecy. ' Whereas thou hast been forsaken and hated, so
that no man went through thee; I will make thee an eternal excellence,
a joy of many generations I"
"You will call me an enthusiast; you will tell me that I have not well
considered what I am undertaking. But I have considered, and counted
f,he cost. I go to Liberia, not as to an Elysium of romance, but as to
a, field of work. I expect to work with both hands — to work hard; to
work against all sorts of difficulties and discouragements; and to work
till I die. This is what I go for; and in this I am quite sure I shall not
he disappointed.
" Whatever you may think of my determination, do not divorce me
from your confidence; and think that, in whatever I do, I act with a
heart wholly given to my people.
"George Harris."
George, with his wife, children, sister, and mother, embarked for
A frica, some few weeks after. If we are not mistaken, the world will
yet hear from him there.
Of our other characters we have nothing very particular to write,
except a word relating to Miss Ophelia and Topsy, and a farewell
chapter, which we shall dedicate to George Shelby.
JSiiss Ophelia took Topsy home to Vermont with her, much to the
Burprise of that grave deliberative body whom a Mew Englander recsg-
life among the lowly, 293
nises under the term " Our folks." " Our folks," at first, thought it an
odd and unnecessary addition to their well-trained domestic establish¬
ment; but, so thoroughly efficient was Miss Ophelia in her conscien¬
tious endeavour to do her duty by her eleve, that the child rapidly grew
in grace and in favour with the family and neighbourhood. At the age
of womanhood, she was, by her own request, baptised, and became a
member of the Christian Church in the place; and showed so much intel¬
ligence, activity, and zeal, and desire to do good in the world, that she
was at last recommended and approved as a missionary to one of the
stations in Africa; and we have heard that the same activity and
ingenuity which, when a child, made her so multiform and restless ir
her developments, is now employed, in a safer and wholesomer manner,
in teaching the children of her own country.
P.S.—It will be a satisfaction to some mother also to state, that some
inquiries_ which were set on foot by Madame de Thoux have resulted
recently in the discovery of Cassy's son. Being a young man of energy,
he had escaped some years before his mother, and been received and
educated by friends of the oppressed in the north. He will soon follow
his family to Africa.
CHAPTER XLIV.
the liberatob.
Geobge Shelby had written to his mother merely a line, stating the
day that she might expect him home. Of the death-scene of his old
friend he had not the heart to write. He had tried several times, and
only succeeded in half choking himself; and invariably finished by
tearing up the paper, wiping his eyes, and rushing somewhere to get
quiet.
There was a pleased bustle all through the Shelby mansion that day,
in expectation of the arrival of young Mas'r George.
Mrs. Shelby was seated in her comfortable parlour, where a cheerful
hickory fire was dispelling the chill of the late autumn evening. A
supper-table, glittering with plate and cut glass, was set out, on whose
arr» igements our former friend, old Chloe, was presiding.
Arrayed in a new calico dress, with clean, white apron, and high,
well-starched turban, her black polished face glowing with satisfaction,
she lingered, with needless punctiliousness, around the arrangements of
the table, merely as an excusa for talking a little to her mistress.
"Laws, now ! won't it look natural to him P" she said. Thar—I set
his plate just whar he likes it—round by the fire. Mas'r George allers
wants de warm seat. Oh, go way ! Why didn't Sally get out de best
tea-pot—de little new one Mas'r George got for missis, Christmas ? 111
have it out! And missis has heard from Mas'r George ? she said, m-
^ " Yes,^3hloe; but only a line, just to say he would be home to-night,
if he could—that's all." .
" Didn't say nothin' 'bout my old man, s pose ? said Chloe still
fidgeting with the tea-cups.
"No, he didn't. He did not speak of anything, Chloe. He said he
would tell all when he got home." f , ... , ...
"Jes like Mas'r George; he's allers so ferce for tellm' everything
hisselt. I allers minded dat ar in Mas'r George. Don't see, for my
28-1 TJNCL1S XOM'S CABIN, OS
part, how white people gen'lly can bar to hev to write things muck £9
they do—writin' 's such slow, oneasy kind o' work."
Mrs. Shelby smiled. T n
" I'm a thinkin' my old man won't know de boys and de baby. Lor .
she's de biggest gal, now; good she is, too, and peart, Poll is. She s out
to the house, now, watchin' de hoe-cake. I's got jist de very pattern my
old man liked so much a bakin'. Jist sich as I gin him the raornin
he was took off. Lord bless us! how I felt dat ar morning !J
Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy weight on her hearty at this
allusion. She had felt uneasy ever since she received her son's letter,
..est something should prove to be hidden behind the veil of silence which
he had drawn.
" Missis has got dem bills ?" said Chloe anxiously.
" Yes, Chloe."
" 'Cause I wants to show my old man dem very bills de perfeciloner
gave me. ' And,' says he, ' Chloe, I wish you'd stay longer.' ' Thank
you, mas'r,' says I,' I would, only my old man's coming home, and mi.-sis,
she can't do without me no longer.' There's jist what I telled him.
Berry nice man, that Mas'r Jones was."
Chloe had pertinaciously insisted that the very bills in which her
wages had been paid should be preserved to show to her husband, in
memorial of her capability; and Mrs. Shelby had readily consented to
humout her in the request.
" He won't know Polly—my old man won't. Laws, it's five year since
they tuck him! She was a baby den—couldn't but jist stand. Kemember
how tickled he used to be, 'cause she would keep a fallin' over, when she
sot out to walk. Laws a me!"
The rattling of wheels now was heard.
"Mas'r George !" said Aunt Chloe, starting to the window.
Mrs. Shelby ran to the entry door, and was folded in the arms of her
son. Aunt Chloe stood anxiously straining her eyes out into the
darkness.
"O poor Aunt Chloe!" said George, stopping compassionately, and
taking her hard, black hand between both his, I'd have given all my
fortune to have brought him with me, but he's gone to a better
cpuntry."
There was a passionate exclamation from Mrs. Shelby, but Aunt
Chloe said nothing.
The party entered the supper-room. The money of which Chloe was
so proud was still lying on the table.
' Thar," said she, gathering it up, and holding it with a trembling
hand to her mistress, " don't never want to see nor hear on't again.
Jist as I knew 'twould be—sold and murdered on dem ar' old clanta-
tions!"
Chloe turned, and was walking proudly out of the room. Mrs. Shelby
followed her softly, an& took one of her hands, drew her down into a
chair, and sat down by her.
" My poor, good Chloe," said sh8.
Chloe leaned her head on her mistress's shoulder, and sobbed out " O
missis, 'scuse me, my heart's broke—dat's all!"
" 1 know it is," said Mrs. Shelby, as her tears fell fast; " and I cannot
heal it, but Jesus can. He healeth the broken-hearted, and bindeth up
'heir wounds."
There was a silence for some time, and all wept together. At last
George, sitting down beside the mourner, took her hand, and, with
LIFE AMONG THE JWYVVtr. 295
simple pathos repeated the uiumpuam; scone of hor husband's death,
6nd his last messages of '?t»
About a month after Mis, one morning, all the servants of the Shelby
6state wsrs convened together in the great hall thit ran tlv/c. 1.311 the
house, to hear a few words from their young master.
To the surprise of all, he appeared among them with a bundle
papers in his hand, containing a certificate of freedom to every one on the
place, which he read successively, and presented, amid the sobs and tears
and shouts of all present.
Many, however, pressed around him, earnestly begging him not to
eend them away; and, with anxious faces, tendering back their free
papers.
" We don't want to be no freer than we are. We's allers nad all we
wanted. We don't want to leave de ole place, and mas'r and missis, and
de rest!"
" My good friends," said George, as soon as he could get a silence,
"there'll be no need for you to leave me. The place wants as many
hands to work it as it did before. "We need the same about the house
that we did before. But you are now free men and free women. ] shall
pay you wages for your work, such as we shall agree on. The advantage
is, that in case of my getting in debt or dying—things that might
happen—you cannot now be taken up and sold. I expect to carry on
the estate, and to teach you what, perhaps, it will take you some time to
learn—how to use the rights 1 give you as free men and women. I
expect you to be good, and willing to learn ; and I trust in God that I
shall be faithful and willing to teach. Ana now, my friends, look up,
and tnank God for the blessing of freedom."
An aged, patriarchal negro, who had grown grey and blind on the
estate, now rose, and, lifting his trembling band, said, " Let us give
thanks urn to the Lord!" As all kneeled by one consent, a more touching
and hearty Te Deum never ascended to heaven, though borne on the
peal of organ, bell, and cannon, that came from that honest old heart.
On rising, another struck up a Methodist hymn, of which the burden
was—
" The year of Jubilee is come—
Return, ye ransomed sinners, home."
K One thing more," said George, as he stopped the congratulations of
the throng. "You ail remember our good old Uncle Tom ?"
George here gave a short narration of the scene of his" death, and of
his loving farewell to all on the place, and added—
" It was on his grave, my friends, that I resolved, before God, that I
would never own another slave while it wis possible to free him; that
nobody, through me, should ever run the risk of being parted from home
and friends, and dying on a lonely plantation, as he died. So, when you
rejoice in your freedom, think that you it to that good old soul,
and pay it back in kindness to his wife and children. Think of your
freedom, every time you see Uncle Tom's Cabin; and let it be a
memorial to put you all in mind to follow m his Steps, wd be as isontst,
nod faithful, and Christian as he was."
296
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, O,
CHAPTER XLV.
CONCLUDING EEII^BKS.
I'he writer has often been inquired of, by correspondents from dif¬
ferent parts of the country, whether this narrative is a true one; and
to these inquiries she will give one general answer.
The separate incidents that compose the narrative are to a very
great extent authentic, occurring, many of them, either under her own
observation^ that of her personal friends. She or her friends have
observed characters the counterpart of almost all that are here intro¬
duced ; and many of the sayings are word for word as heard herself, or
reported to her.
The personal appearance of Eliza, the character ascribed to her, ar-i
sketches drawn from life. The incorruptible fidelity, piety, and honesty
of Uncle Tom, had more than one development to her personal know¬
ledge. Some of the most deeply tragic and romantic, some of the most
terrible incidents, have also their parallel in reality. The incident of
the mother's crossing the Ohio river on the ice is a well-known fact.
The story of "old rrue" (Chapter XIX.) was an incident that fell
under the personal observation of a brother of the writer, then collect¬
ing-clerk to a large mercantile house in New Orleans. Prom the same
source was derived the character of the planter Legree. Of him her
brother thus wrote, sneaking of visiting his plantation on a collecting
tour : " He actually made me feel of his fist, which was like a black¬
smith's hammer or a nodule of iron, telling me that it was ' calloused
with knocking down niggers.' When I left the plantation, I drew a
long breath, and felt as if I had escaped from an ogre's den."
That the tragical fate of Tom, also, has too many times had its
parallel, there are living witnesses all over our land to testify. Let it be
remembered, that in all southern states it is a principle of jurisprudences
that no person of coloured lineage can testify in a suit against a white,
and it will be easy to see that such a case may occur wherever there is a
man whose passions outweigh his interests, and a slave who has man¬
hood or principle enough to resist his will. There is actually nothing
to protect the slave's life but the character of the master. Facts too
shocking to be contemplated occasionally force their way to the
public ear, and the comment that one often hears made on them is
more shocking than the thing itself. It is said, "Very likely such cases
may now and then occur, but they are no. sample of general practice."
If the i»«s of New England were so arranged that a master could novo
and then torture an apprentice to death without a possibility of being
brought to justice, would it be received with equal composure?
"Would it be said, "These cases are rare, and no samples of general
practice ?" This injustice is an inherent one in the slave system, it can¬
not exist without it.
The public and shameless sale of beautiful mulatto and quadroon
girls has acquired a notoriety from the incidents following the capture
rf the 1'eorl. We extract the following from the speech of Hon. Horace
Mann, one of the legal counsel for the defendants in that case. He
says:—"In that company of seventy-six persons, who attempted, in
1818, to escape from the district of Columbia in the schooner Pearl,
whoso officers ] assisted in defending, there were several young and
LIFE AMONG THE LOWLY. 29?
healthy girls, who had those peculiar attractions of form and feature
nwoh connmsseurs prize so highly. Elizabeth Russell was one of them,
cue immediately fell into the slave-trader's fangs, and was doomed for
is ew Orleans market. The hearts of those that saw her were touched
w ith pity for her fate. They offered eighteen hundred dollars to redeem
her; and some there were who offered to give that would not have much
leit after the gift; but the fiend of a slave-trader was inexorable. She
was despatched to New Orleans; but, when about half-way there, God
had mercy on her, and smote her with death. There were two girls
named Edmundson in the same company. When about to be sent to
the same market, an elder sister went to the shambles to plead with the
wretch who owned them, for the lovo of God to spare his victims.
He bantered her, telling what fine dresses and fine furniture they
would have. ' Yes,5 she said,' that may do very well in this life, but
what will become of them in the next?' They, too, were sent to New
Orleans; but were afterwards redeemed at an enormous ransom and
brought back." Is it not plain from this, that the histories of Emmeline
and Cassy may have many counterparts ?
Justice, too, obliges the author to state that the fairness of mind and
generosity attributed to St. Clare are not without a parallel, as the fol¬
lowing anecdote will show. A few years since, a young southern gentle¬
man was in Cincinnati, with a favourite servant, who had been his per¬
sonal attendant from a boy. The young man took advantage of this
opportunity to secure his own freedom, and fled to the protection of a
Quaker, who was quite noted in affairs of this kind. The owner was
exceedingly indignant. He had always treated the slave with such in¬
dulgence, and his confidence in his affection was such, that he believed
he must have been practised upon to induce him to revolt from liim. Ha
visited the Quaker, in high anger; but, being possessed of uncommon
candour and fairness, was soon quieted by his arguments and representa¬
tions. It was a side of the subject which he never had heard—never
had thought on; and he immediately told the Quaker that, if his slave
would, to his own face, say that it was his desire to be free, he would
liberate him. An interview was forthwith procured, and Nathan was
asked by his young master whether he had ever had any reason to com¬
plain of his treatment, in any respect ?
" No, mas'r," said Nathan; " you've always been good to me."
" Well, then, why do you want to leave me ? "
"Mas'r may die, and then who get me ?—I'd rather be a free man."
After some deliberation, the young master replied, " Nathan, in your
place I think I should feel very much so myself. You are free."
He immediately made him out free papers; deposited a sum of
money in the hands of the Quaker, to be judiciously used in assisting
him to start in life, and left a very sensible and kind letter of advice to
the young man. That letter was for some time in the writer's hands.
The author hopes she has done justice to that nobility, generosity,
and humanity, which in many cases characterize individuals at tho
South. Such instances save us from utter despair of our kind. But
she asks any person, who knows the world, are such characters common
anywhere ? .
For many years of her life, the author avoided all reading upon or
allusion to the subject of slavery, considering it as too painful to be
inquired into, and one which advancing light and civilization would
certainly live down. But since the legislative act of 1850, when sha
heard with perfect surprise and consternation Christian and humane
people actually recommending the remanding escaped fugitives rate
2S3 TJHCL3 TOM'3 CABIN, OB
slavery, as & duty binding oil good citizens— when she heard on all
hands, from kind, compassionate, and estimable people, in the free states
of the North, deliberations and discussions as to what Christian duty
could be on this head—she could only think: These men and Christians
cannot know what slavery is; if they did, such a question could never
be open for discussion. And from this arose a desire to exhibit it in a
living dramatic reality. She has endeavoured to show it fairly, in its
best and its worst phases. In its best aspect she has, perhaps, been
successful; but, oh! who shall say what yet remains untold in that
valley and shadow of death that lies the other side ?
To you, generous, noble-minded men and women of the South—you,
whose virtue, and magnanimity, and purity of character, are the greater
for the severer trial it has encountered—to you is her appeal. Have you
not, in your own secret souls, in your own private conversings, felt that
there are woes and evils in this accursed system far beyond what are
here shadowed, or can be shadowed? Can it be otherwise? Is man
ever a creature to be trusted with wholly irresponsible power ? And
does not the slave system, by denying the slave all legal right of testi¬
mony, make every individual owner an irresponsible despot ? Can any¬
body fail to make the inference what the practical result will be ? If
there is, as we admit, a public sentiment among you, men of honour,
justice, and humanity, is there not also another kind of public sentiment
among the ruffian, the brutal, and debased ? And cannot the ruffian,
the brutal, the debased, by slave law. own just as many slaves as the best
and purest ? Are the honourable, liie just, the high-minded and com¬
passionate, the majority anywhere in this world ?
The slave-trade is now, by American law, considered as piracy. But
a slave-trade as systematic as ever was carried on on the coast of
Africa is an inevitable attendant and result of American Blavtry. And
its heart-break and its horrors, can they be told ?
• The writer has only given a faint shadow, a dim picture of the
anguish and despair that are at this very moment riving thousands of
hearts, shattering thousands of families, and driving a helpless and
sensitive race to frenzy and despair. There are those living who know
the mothers whom this accused traffic has driven to the murder of their
children, and themselves to seek in death a shelter from woes more
dreaded than death. Nothing of tragedy can be written, can be spoken,
can be conceived, that equals the frightful reality of scenes daily and
hourly acting on our shores, beneath the shadow of American law, and
the shadow of the cross of Christ.
And now, men and women of America, is this a thing to be trifled
with, apologized for, and passed over in silence ? Farmers of Massa¬
chusetts, of New Hampshire, of Vermont, of Connecticut, who read
this book by the blaze of your winter-evening fire — strong-hearted,
generous sailors and ship-owners of Maine, is this a thing for you to
countenance and encourage ? Brave and generous men of New York,
farmers of rich and joyous Ohio, and ye of the wide prairie states,
answer is this a thing for you to protect and countenance ? And you,
mothers of America, you, who have learned, by the cradles of your own
children, to love and feel for all mankind, by the sacred love you bear
your child ; by your joy in his beautiful, spotless infancy; by the
motherly pity and tenderness with which you guide his growing years;
by the anxieties of his education; by the prayers you breathe for his
soul's eternal good—I beseech you, pity the mother who has all your
affections, and not one legal right to protect, guide, or educate the
child of her bosom ! By the sick hour of your child; by those dying
LITE AMONG THE LOWif. 2S9
eyes winch you can never forget; by those last cries that \m.ng your
rieai t when you could neither help nor save; by the desolation ol that
empty cradle, that silent nursery, I beseech you, pity those mothers thai
are constantly made childless by the American slave-trade ! And say-
mothers of America, is this a thing to be defended, sympathized with,
passed over in silence ?
. y°u say that the people of the free states have nothing to do with
it, and can do nothing ? Would to God this were true ! But it is not
true. The people of the free states have defended, encouraged and
participated; and are more guilty for it, before God, than the South, in
that they have not the apology of education or custom.
If tlie mothers of the free states had all felt as thev should in times
past, the sons of the free states would not have been'the holders, and,
proverbially, the hardest masters of slaves; the sons of the free states
would not have connived at the extension of slavery in our national
body ; the sons of the free states would not, as they do, trade the souls
and bodies of men as an equivalent to money in their mercantile dealings.
There are multitudes of slaves temporarily owned, and sold again, by
merchants in northern cities ; and shall the whole guilt or obloquy of
slavery fall only on the South?
Northern men, northern mothers, northern Christians, have some¬
thing more to do than denounce their brethren at the South ; they have
to look to the evil among themselves.
But what can an individual do ? Of that every individual can
judge. There is one thing that every individual can do, they can see to
it that they feel right. An atmosphere of sympathetic influence encircles
every human being; and the man or woman who feels strongly,
healthily, and justly, on the great interests of humanity, is a constant
benefactor to the human race. Sec, then, to your sympathies in this
matter! Are they in harmony with the sympathies of Christ? or are
they swayed and perverted by the sophistries of worldly policy ?
Christian men and women of the north ! still further, you have
another power; you can pray! Do you believe in prayer ? or has it
become an indistinct apostolic tradition? You pray for the heathen
abroad, pray also for the heathen at home. And pray for those dis¬
tressed Christians whose whole chance of religious improvement is an
accident of trade and sale—from whom any adherence to the morals of
Christianity is, in many cases, an impossibility, unless they have given
them from above the courage and grace of martyrdom.
But still more. On the shores of our free states are emerging the
poor, shattered, broken remnants of families, men and women escaped,
by miraculous providences, from the surges of slavery,;—feeble in know¬
ledge, and, in many cases, infirm in moral constitution,—from a sys¬
tem which confounds and confuses every principle of Christianity and
morality. They come to seek a refuge among you; they come to seek
education, knowledge, Christianity. .
\V hat do you owe to these poor unfortunates, O Christians ? 1/oes
not every American Christian owe to the African race some effort at
reparation for the wrongs that the American nation has brought upon
them? Shall the doors of churches and school-houses be stiut upon
them? Shall states arise and shake them out? Shall the Church of
Christ hear in silence the taunt that is thrown at them, and shrink
away from the helpless hand that they stretch out, and, by her sna:::<v
encourage the cruelty that would chase them from our borders ?
must be so, it will be a mournful spectacle. If it must be tiia
country will have reason to tremble, when it remembers that the ista ©I
300 JNCLE TOM'S CABIN, OB
nations is in the hands of One who is very pitiful, one of tender com*
passion.
Do you say, "We don't want them here; let them go to Africa?"
That the providence of God has provided a refuge in Africa, is,
indeed, a great and noticeable fact; but that is no reason why the Church
of Christ should throw off that responsibility to this outcast race which
her profession demands of her.
To fill up Liberia with an ignorant, inexperienced, half-barbari2ed
race, just escaped from the chains of slavery, would be only to prolong
for ages the period of struggle and conflict which attends the inception
of new enterprises. Let the Church of the north receive these poor
sufferers in the spirit of Christ; receive them to the educating advantages
of Christian republican society and schools, until they have attained to
somewhat of a moral and intellectual maturity, and then assist them in
their passage 1o those shores where they may put in practice the lessons
they have learned in America.
There is a body of men at the north, comparatively small, who have
been doing this; and, as the result, this country has already seen
examples of men, formerly slaves, who have rapidly acquired property,
reputation, and education. Talent has been developed, which, con¬
sidering the circumstances, is certainly remarkable; and, for moral
traits of honesty, kindness, tenderness of feeling, for heroic efforts and
self-denials, endured for the ransom of brethren and friends yet in
slavery, they have been remarkable to a degree that, considering the
influence under which they were born, is surprising.
The writer has lived, for many years, on the frontier-line of slave
states, and has had great opportunities of observation among those who
formerly were slaves. They have been in her family as servants; and,
in default of any other school to receive them, she has, in many cases,
nad them instructed in a family school, with her own children. She
has also the testimony of missionaries among the fugitives in Canada in
coincidence with her own experience; and her deductions, with re¬
gard to the capabilities of the race, are encouraging in the highest
degree.
The first desire of the emancipated slave, generally, is for education.
There is nothing that they are not willing to give or do to have their
children instructed; and, so far as the writer has observed herself, or
taken the testimony of teachers among them, they are remarkably in¬
telligent and quick to learn. The results of schools founded for them
by benevolent individuals in Cincinnati fully establish this.
The author gives the following statement of facts, on the authority
of Professor C. E. Stowe, then of Lane Seminary, Ohio, with regard to
emancipated slaves, now resident in Cincinnati; given to show the
capability of the race, even without any very particular assistance or
encouragement.
The initial letters alone are given. They are all residents of Cin¬
cinnati.
" E . Furniture maker; twenty years in this city; worth ten
thousand dollars, all his own earnings; a Baptist.
"C . Full black; stolen from Africa; sold in New Orleans;
been free fifteen years; paid for himself six hundred dollars; a farmer;
owns several farms in Indiana; Presbyterian; probably worth fifteen
or twenty thousand dollars, all earned by himself.
"K . Full black; dealer in real estate; worth thirty thousand
'■ iJUra; about forty years old; free six years; paid eighteen handrsd
liIFB AMONG 5PHE LOWLT. SOI
dollars for his family ; member of the Baptist cburc'i : reeoivrd a legacy
irom his master, which he has taken good care of. and increased.
. • Full black; coal dealer; about thirty years old; worth
eighteen thousand dollars ; paid for himself twice b ing one a defrauded
to the amount of sixteen hundred dollars ; made all Lis money by hi*
own efforts—much of it while a slave, hiring his time of his ruasttr, ant*
doing business for hims-lf; a flue gentlemanly fellow,
" W . Three-fourths black ; barber and waiter; from Ken¬
tucky ; nineteen years free; paid for self and family over three thou¬
sand dollars; worth twenty thousand dollars, all his own earnings;
deacon in the Baptist church.
" Gr. I) . Three-fourths black; whitewashes; from Kentucky;
nine years free; paid fifteen hundred dollars for self and family; re¬
cently died, aged sixty; worth six thousand dollara"
Professor Stowe says, " With all these, except G , I have been for
some years personally acquainted, and make my statements from my
own knowledge."
The writer well remembers an aged coloured vroman who was em¬
ployed as a washerwoman in her father's family. The daughter of this
woman married a slave. She was a remarkably active and capable young
woman, and by her industry and thrift, and the most persevering self-
denial, raised nine hundred dollars for her husband's freedom, which
she paid as she raised it, into the hands of his master. She yet wanted
a hundred dollars of the price when he died. She never recovered any
of the money.
These are but few facts among multitudes which might he adduced
to show the self-denial, energy, patience, and honesty which the slave
has exhibited in a state of freedom.
And let it be remembered that these individuals have thus bravely'
succeeded in conquering for themselves comparative wealth and social
position in the face of every disadvantage and discouragement. The
coloured man, by the law of Ohio, cannot be a voter ; and, till within a
few years, was even denied the right of testimony in legal suits with
the white. Nor are these instances confined to the State of Ohio. In
all states of the U nion we see men, but yesterd ay burst from the shackles
of slavery, who, by a self-educating force, which cannot be too much
admired, have risen to highly respectable stations in society. Penning¬
ton, among clergymen, Douglas and Ward, among editors, are well-
known instances.
If this persecuted race, with every discouragement and disadvantage,
have done thus much, how much more they might do if the Christian
Church would act towards them in the spirit of her Lord !
This is an age of the world when nations are trembling and con¬
vulsed. A mighty influence is abroad, surging and heaving the world,
as with an earthquake. And is America safe? Every nation that
carries in its bosom great and unredressed injustice has in it the elements
of this last convulsion. .
For what is this mighty influence thus rousing m all nations and
languages those groanings that cannot bs uttered for man's freedom
and equality ?
O Church of Christ read the signs of the times ! Is not this po^ei
the Spirit of Him whose kingdom is yet to come, and »ho?e will lobe
dune on ear h as it is in heaven.
But who may abid > 'he day of his appearing? For tl:at day shall
burn as an oven ; and ha sha'l appear as a SAifo witness agains. those
802 TKCLB TOM'S CABIS.
that oppress the hireling in his wages, the widow and the fatherless^ and
that turn aside the stranger in his right: and he shall break in pieces
the oppressor."
Are not these dread words for a nation bearing in her bosom so
mighty an injustice? Christians! every time that you pray that the
kingdom of Christ may come, can you forgot that prophecy associates,
in dread fellowship, the day of vengeance with the year of his re¬
deemed ?
A day of grace is yet held out to us. Both North and South have
been guilty before God; and the Christian Church has a heavy account
to answer. Not by combining together to protect injustice and cruelty,
End making a common capital of sin, is this Union to be saved —but
by repentance, justice, and mercy; for not surer is the eternal law
by which the millstone sinks in the ocean, than that stronger law
by which injustice and cruelty shall bring on nations the wrath of
Almighty God.
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