Cou-u- (C<^' ' ^*^:

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 /vv^

-/ -/
MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE,
AirrHOiiESS OP " uncle tom's cabin."
 :

U N C I. E
T MS CABIN.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
WITH

BY

GEOEGE CRUIK SHANK, ESQ,

BVA AND TOPST.

LOKDON
JOHN CASS ELL, LUDGATE HILL.
1852.
^
 ;
;

'^xtlm tn tifj liEBrimu dEMtinn.

The scenes of this story, as its title indicates, lie among a race
hitherto ignored by the associations of polite and refined 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 becoming more and

our times, is

more in unison -svith 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 allure-
ments of fiction, breathe a humanising and subduing 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 op-
pressed, and the forgotten.
In this general movement, unhappy Africa at last is remembered
Africa, who began the race of civilisation and human progress, in
the dim, grey dawn of early time ; but who, for centuries, has lain
bound and bleeding at the foot of civilised and Christianised
humanity, imploring compassion in vain.
But the heart of the dominant race, who have been her con-
querors, 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 !
iv PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.

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 necessarily cruel and unjust as to

defeat and do away the good effects of all that can be attempted
for them by their best friends under it.
In doing this the author can sincerely disclaim any invidious
feeling towards those individuals who, often without any fault of
their own, are involved in the trialsand embarrassments of the
legal relations of slavery.
Experience has shown her that some of the noblest of minds and
hearts are often thus involved and no one knows better than they
;

do, that what may be gathered of the from sketches

evils of slavery

like these is not the half that could be told of the unspeakable
whole.
In the northern states, these representations may, perhaps, be
thought caricatures in the southern states are witnesses who
;

know their fidelity. What personal knowledge the author has had
of the truth of incidents such as here are related, will appear in
its time.
comfort to hope, as so many of the world's sorrows and
It is a
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 Christianised 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 remembrance of Egypt to the Israelites a motive
like the —
of thankfulness toHim who hath redeemed 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 needy when he crieth,
shall deliver the
The poor, and him that hath no helper.''
" He shall redeem their souls from deceit and violence,
And precious shall their blood be in His sight."
 —

CONTENTS.
PAGR
Introduction ix
Notice of Mrs, Stowe and her Family xv
Opinions of the Press xxii

Chapter I. — Business Transactions between a Slave-holder and a

Slave-dealer — Uncle Tom sold to Haley — Little Harry, and his
Quadroon Mother — The Slave-dealer's Offer ^The Mother's Alarm
—A Slave-dealer boasting of his Humanity —A kind Mistress
appealed to by the alarmed Mother < . . . 1

Chapter — George Harris, the Quadroon's Husband—A Labour-

II.
saving Machine—Tyrannical Ingenuity exercised 9

Chapter III. —A Husband, "Wife, and Child, Bond-slaves —The

all

Reasonings of a free-spirited Man — George's Recital of vindictive

Rage —Determines to be Free or Die —His Farewell ! .... 12

Chapter IV. —An Evening in Uncle Tom's Cabin — Aunt Chloe and
her Cookery —Uncle Tom at Home, learning to Write — Mas'r
George Shelby, Mose, and Pete, at Supper —Aunt Chloe exposes
a Rival's Pretensions —A peart Young Un —A Negro Prayer
Meeting —A wicked Bargain 16

Chapter V. —Pecuniary Embarrassments. — How living Property feel

on changing Owners — The Reflections and Remonstrances of a
humane Mistress—Lame Excuses — The Mother's Anguish, and
Determination to with her Child— A Dog's Affection — Alas!
fly
Poor Tom! 26

Chapter VI. —The Flight Discovered—Haley determines to pursue

the Fugitive — Andy and Sam's kind Trickeries — Horses can't be
cotch'd in a minnit" —The Faculty "
•'
bobservation" ....
o' 33

Chapter VII. —The Mother's Struggle— A kind Hostess — A Dinner

kindly delayed —Uncle Tom's Gratitude —Andy and Sam at their
Tricks again — The Pursviit after the Fugitive Mother and Child
Eliza's desperate Escape across the River — An honest Kentuckian
Haley's Disappointment and Rage 41

—
Chapter VIII. Haley gets Reinforcements— A Recital of Troubles
Marks and Loker, the Slave-hunters, boasting their Cleverness
—
Frightful Narrations over the " Blow out" The Pursuit determined
—
upon and the Dogs prepared Sam's Report of Eliza's Escape to
•' Hio" —
Sam's " coUusitation" of the great Principles of Action . '52
 VI CONTENTS.

PAGE
Chapter IX. —The Senator's House—Senator Bird made ashamed of
his Vote —Missis summoned to the Kitchen—The Fugitive Mother
and Child— The Senator's Determination to help them—An Ohio
Railroad —The Fugitives are conveyed in safety to Van Trompe's
Farm . 65

Chapteb, X. —Uncle Tom's Farewell—A Comforter—Tom in Shackles

— Handcuflfs —Blacksmith's Shop — Mas'r George's Sympathy
" Be quiet, Nigger !" 79

Chapteb, XI. —A —
Kentucky Hotel An assembly of the Free and Easy
— —
Niggers advertised George is disguised Discussion on Slavery —
— —
Harrowing Recitals Benevolent Feeling 87

Chapter XII. — Select Incident in lawfulTiade— Sale of Human Beings

by Auction—Hagar and her Child —Heart-rending Separations —
Word for Humanity — Desperation and Death 99

Chapter XIII. —A —
Quaker Settlement The Fugitives Sheltered —An
—
Indiana Breakfast Friends' Colloquy 112

Chapter XIV. — —
Evangeline Tom and his Bible Comforts — —A Child
—
snatched from a Watery Grave Tom is sold again 121

Chapter XV, —Tom's new Master, St. Clare —

Miss Ophelia — Order
— St. Clare's Dwelling —Mr. Adolph's Accomplishments — Marie
St. Clare 129

Chapter XVI. —Tom's Mistress and her Opinions—Have Slaves got

Souls—Nothing like flogging —^What Religion —Tom decorated
? is ?

by Eva—The Bible speaks, and Tom explains 143

Chapter XVII. — The Free Man's Defence—The Fugitives pursued

Pliineas Fletcher— A Desperate Encounter — Good for Evil—The
Fugitives once more safe , . . . 159

Chapter XVIII. —Tom promoted — Old Dinah, the Head Cook—Miss

Ophelia's interference in the Kitchen —Tom advocating Temperance
ui,d Religion 173

Chapter XIX. —Drunkenness and Death — Opinion on Slavery—Illus-

trative Narratives —Effects of kind Treatment—Tom and Eva trying
to write a Letter 1S7

Chapter XX. —Black Topsy—Not "born," but "raised" —A hopeful

Pupil —^The Lash, or Kindness r " I's so wicked " ! 203

—
Chapter XXI. Uncle Tom's old Cabin-^Aunt Chloe's Resolve to bui/

—
her Husband Hires herself out 217

Chapter XXII. —^Master George's Letter —Tom and Eva's Friendship

—Eva's Meditations on another World—Her alarming Illness . . 220

\
\
 CONTENTS. Vll

PAGE
Chapter XXIII. —Pride and Passion — Poor Dodo —Discussion on
Slavery 226

Chapter XXIV. —Foreshadowings—Deceitful Symptoms—Bible Teach-

ings — Plea for the Slaves—Thoughts of Heaven 234

Chapter XXV.— Topsy's " wicked Heart"—Eva takes her in Hand . 239

Chapter XXVI. —Eva's dying Gifts — " She is dying !'' — " Farewell
beloved child !" 244

Chapter XXVII. —Topsy's Lament—Tom preaches to St. Clare, and

prays for him 256

—
Chapter XXVIII. — St. Clare becomes Serious Freedom promised to
— —
Tom Topsy made Free "Dies TrcB" Good Resolves St. Clare—
assassinated—Earnest Prayer "Mother!" —He dies
is ! . , . . 262

Chapter XXIX. — Clare's Funeral —The unprotected Slaves — Female

St.
Cruelty —A "Whipping Establishment—Vain Remonstrances . . 275

Chapter XXX. —The Slave Warehouse — Slaves prepared for Sale

Susan and Emmeline —The Mother's Advice— Slaves sold off. . . 281
—
Chapter XXXI. ^The Middle Passage —Tom's new Master, Legree
Brute Force —Robbery and Defiance —Emmeline and the Mulatto
Woman 292

Chapter XXXII. —Legree's Plantation —Emmeline in Danger —Tom

and his Bible again 296

Chapter XXXIII. — Cassyin the Field—Tom's Kindness —The Driver's

Cruelty —Tom refuses to be cruel, claims another's Right in his
Soul, and Suffers fearfully 304

Chapter XXXIV. —The Quadroon's Sympathy—Her sad Story . . 310

Chapter XXXV. —Legree conscience-stricken—A Woman's Feelings

The Love Token—A Drunken Revel , ... 320

Chapter XXXVI. — —
Emmeline and Cassy Legree's Drunkenness and
Terror— Interview with Poor Tom "Eternity!" 326

Chapter XXXVII. —Tom Loker— George and his Wife and Child on
Free Ground 332

Chapter XXXVIH. —Uncle Tom obtains True Liberty — Cassy's re-

vengeful Plans defeated , 33S

Chapter XXXIX. —Female Stratagem—Legree more and more alarmed

— Ghosts —An Escape Planned —A Slave Hunt—The Hunters
foUed 347
 CONTENTS.

Chapter XL. — Legree's Disappointment and Rage —Emmeline and

—Tom's Firmness and Martyrdom
Cassy 356

Chapteb XLI. —Yisit from George Shelby to Poor Tom—Kindness too

late— Tom Free for ever— George punishes Legree 362

Chapter XLII. —Authentic Ghost Story — Legree drinks Brandy in

vain— Cassy and Emmeline Escape — Marvellous Revelations 367 . .

Chapter XLIII. —Results of the whole — George and Eliza at Home^-

Improvement in Cassy's Character— Strange Re-unions — George's
Plans —Topsy's rapid Improvement 373

Chapter XLIV. —The Widow Chloe, " My heart's broke— dat's all
!'

— George Shelby liberates his Slaves " The Year of Jubilee is

come !" 380

Chapter XLV. — Concluding Remarks —Illustrations and Appeal 383

LIST .OF THE ILLUSTRATIONS.

Frontispiece — Portrait of Mrs. H. Beeclier Stowe'' PAGE.
Valuing the Uuman Article ...
3

Uncle Tom at Home 22

Prayer Meeting in Uncle Tom's Cabin 25

Andy and Sam's Trick 39

Eliza crosses the Ohio on the floating Ice 51

Maternal Desperation 65

The Fugitire Mother and her Child in the Senator's Kitchen 69

Persecuted Virtue ...
95

The Separation of Mother and Child ... . .

,. 103
The '* Poor bleeding Heart " ,
111

Uncle Tom saving Eva from a watery Grave ,. 126

Eva dressing Uncle Tom ...

152

Phineas Fletcher's alarming Communication .. 161

The " Friendly " Arm 170

Scipio hunted " as Men hunt a Deer " .. 200

Topsy with Miss Ophelia's Wardrobe 214
Tom and Eva in the Arbour 223
Eva and Topsy .. 242
Eva's last Gifts .. 249
Death of St. Clare 274

Inside of a Slave Warehouse .. 283

Emmeline about to be Sold to the Highest Bidder
290

Tom reading his Bible .. 302

Ca8.sy tending Tom 311

The Death of Uncle Tom .. 364

Aimt Chloe hearing of Uncle Tom's Death 382

George Shelby giving Liberty to his Slaves .. 382

 INTRODUCTION.

To commend a book which, contains in itself its own commendation,

seems almost as superfluous as to write an eulogy on light. The orb of
day needs no praise, and fears no blame. Every ray it emits is " a letter
of commendation ;" and whether we worship it, bless it, or anathematise
it, yet the world will, in spite of us, rejoice in its beams. Children love
the sun, and so do full-grown manhood, and old age and we may add, the
;

savage, the barbarian, the learned, the polished, the refined, and the
philosophical, and, in fact, all but the sickly, the dying, and the guilty,
delight themselves in the luminary which rules our day. " Truly, the
light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun."
To the vicious, the return of morn may be "as the shadow of death ;" to
those whose vision is delicate, or are too near eternity and the great cen-
tral light of the universe, to care much about our material and grosser
heavens, the softest sunbeam may be an intrusion but to all healthy
;

people, all intelligent people, and all good and godlike people, the light of
the glorious sun is felt to be one of the choicest gifts of the Creator.
And not only the corporeal eye, but the mental perception, has its fir-
mament, its stars, and its sun. Tkuth is light, and far more valuable
than any material illumination. Nothing so beautiful, nothing so beauti-
fying as truth, and especially religious truth. As in nature, the rose
would have no hue, the fields no beauty, the diamond no brilliancy, and
the heavens no glory ; but all would be dark, and the shadow of death,
without the sun ; so without the light of science and religion, the intellect
would be an eternal midnight, and the heart remain for ever dark and
dead. If Milton, Newton, and others were diamonds of the first water,
it was mental illumination that revealed to us their splendour and their
worth. The souls of real poets and true philosophers have been perfect
reflectors ; what they have received they have given back ; or (f they
have absorbed or dissected the mental ray, they have always repaid us
in the beautiful and glorious radiance of their thoughts. Virgil and
Homer could not have been Shakspeares. They wanted the materials
out of which our great bard "wove his immortal verse. As flowers and
—
precious stones the organic and inorganic gems of earth, and Jupiter,
—
Mars, and Venus those gems of the skies, all tell us the same tale, that
they have seen the sun and di-ank its beams ; so the " Paradise Lost"
isnothing but a vestige of beauty and mirror of glory, which reveal to
us the mental light which was the aliment of the soul of the poet.
The charm and the reproach of Mi-s. Stowe's book is its truthfulness.
She has thrown the rays of pure celestial light on man, on religion, on
salvation, and the Saviour of man; and all ages and ranks are fascinated
with her pages. It is true the sickly are tortm-ed, and the guilty are
scared Young says, " The keen vibration of bright truth is hell ;" but
:
 ;

X INTRODUCTION,

stilleven these are obliged to read and shudder, and we fear that some of
them will " marvel, and wonder, and perish." They are firmly caught,
the hook is in theii- jaws if they swallow it, it will not digest, and if
;

they struggle to get free, they only lacerate themselves the more with
its barbs. She has armed herself with truth generally, and with Gospel
truth in particular; she has also written and published it, and the enemies
of right, of liberty, and of man, proclaim the truth, when the pulpit is
bribed into sUence. She has brought slavery and the Christianity of the
Scripture into juxta-position, and, as contrasts illustrate one another, the
abominations of the one, and the simple and sublime glory of the other,
are seen in their true colours. Doctors in divinity had for a long time
attempted to dilute both slavery and the Gospel, to render them capable
of blending; they doctored their divinity, until it had so little of^God,
or Christ, or justice, or love in it, that even planters received it without
a wry face, or a qualm of conscience. They have laboured to imprint
the great seal of heaven upon theft, debauchery, murder and cruelty, of
every kind, and have done so for dollars. The love of gold has prompted
them to

''
Embalm the base, perfume the stench of guilt.
Earn daily bread, by washing Ethiops fair ;

Eemoving filth, or sinking it from sight,

Scavengers in scenes where vacant posts,
Like gibbets yet untenanted, expect
Their future ornaments."

But a woman has come forward, has exposed these false prophets, and
told us what slavery is. We beg pardon for our rashness, she has not
told us what it is; the planters know she has told us only apart of the
truth. Mankind could not endure to hear the whole truth. Bad as the
world is, it would blush, and weep, and burn with indignation, and rise
in mutiny, if the entire history of the horrors of slavery were fully and
fairly written. The backs that haA'e been lacerated the innocent blood
;

that has been shed ; the ties that have been mercilessly severed for ever
the purity that has been violated ; the labours that have been exacted ;
the souls that have been degraded, brutalized, and voluntarily and
deliberately hurled to perdition; were all the facts concerning these,
and a thousand other evils inherent in slavery to be related, the world
—
could not bear the boobs that would be written, myriads of volumes
would be too few to record what insulted humanity has endured, and
indignant Heaven has beheld in the slavery of the West Indian Islands
and America. The cruelties which the blacks and their offsprings have
endured under the bondage of the West," have thrown the Book of
Martyrs into the shade. Far greater numbers of innocent men and
women have been tortured and destroyed, to gratify the lust, the avarice,
and despotism of baptized planters, than have ever been immolated for
the faith of Jesus Christ.
Strange to say, but, courteous reader, if you want to see tyranny in
absolute perfection, unbridled and unrestrained, —
aye and licensed by
law, and blessed by an obsequious and time-serving priesthood, to
oppress, ill-treat, exact, scourge, pollute, degrade, torture, mm-der and
destroy down-trodden humanity, you must cross the Atlantic to the
vaunted land of the free There Liberty and Despotism shake hands,
!
 INTRODUCTION. Xi

and embrace and kiss one another Well, indeed, is it for the systeni
!

that exposure has come from the pen of a female. Mrs. Stowe
its last
has applied herself to the work with a woman's heart, and has, with a
weeping eye and tender hand, lifted the veil, but partially, and has
shown only a few of its abominations, and all has been done in tender-
ness and mercy.
Never had the planters before so sincere, so gentle, or so ardent a friend.
"What if some stern Cato of the other sex had undertaken the matter, and
torn away the garb ! What if the slave-owners themselves would un-
bm-den their consciences, make a clear breast on the subject, and tell all
they know ! What if we coidd open God's record of every single act of
tjT-anny, cruelty, aad pollution, and blood, which has ever been practised
on the slave, or if we could only read what will be read at the great day,
when the Judge of all shall " open the books," and judge the quick and
the dead according to their deeds, and " give to every one according to
his works, whether good or evil." Could we only have the whole truth
from any one of these sources, it would then be seen, that slavery was
never exposed with so merciful a pen, nor rebuked with so lenient a
voice, as when Mrs. Hahriet Beecher Stowe undertook the task of
pleading for outraged humanity. All in any way connected with the
planters, know full well the truthfulness of the book, and know too that
the half, that the thousandth part, has not been told and further they
;

must feel that the truth has been spoken in love, and that the anguish
which her arrows have produced has arisen solely from the fact that they
all had been carefully pointed by Christian benevolence. If the lords of
the negro felt as they ought, they would instantly erect a monument to
the gentle authoress of Uncle Tom's Cabin.
Mrs. Stowe's volume has thus shown us human nature in its lowest
debasement the slave degraded, and his owner degrading himself. You
;

have the patient and the agent, and you see in a few words, that one
man cannot injure, crush, or oppress his brother without inflicting a
gi-eater cruelty on himself. The slave is low, and his condition is pitiable
indeed but his tyrants are lower, and far more pitiable. Hence you have
;

here a truthful lesson on the baneful influence of despotism in all ages,

ranks, countries and climes. Its victims are indeed scom-ged, but the
oppressor is far more debased, degraded and accursed. Some persons
will not believe in the doctrine of fallen humanity but tyranny in all its
;

manifestations, and especially in modern slavery, sets the question at rest

for ever. No one can read Uncle Tom's Cabin and disbelieve the fall
of man. Here you behold human nature in its lowest, filthiest, vilest
—
form, the slave bad indeed, but his oppressors infinitely worse.
But if the authoress has shown us how low we can fall, she has also
proved how high we can rise, and, like the Gospel, she has gone to Naza-
I'eth for her examples. Those who disbelieve the ruin of our nature bj
sin, very generally have but low conceptions respecting the moral and
spiritual eminence to which we can rise, and are not very active in their
efibrts to elevate their brother man. The Redeemer took his disciples
—
the men who were to regenerate the world from Galilee. Peter spoke
a V!Ov?,o patois than Uncle Tom or Haley, and his range of thought was
not one whit more extensive. The ignorant girl who made the fire at
the judgment-hall laughed at his provincial jargon " Thy speech
:

bewrayeth thee," said the by-standcrs; and yet this same ignorant fisher-
 !

XU INTRODUCTION.

man converted thousands, became a rock in Christian firmness, and a

pillar of the chm-ch. " Father," said the Saviour, " I thank Thee that
Thou hast hid these things from the vs'ise and prudent, and revealed
them unto babes !" The Gospel delights in raising " up chiidi-en to
Abraham" from " stones," and creating the apostles of the world out of
the most ignorant Nazarenes. Christ " raises the poor from the dust,
and the needy from the dunghill, and sets them among princes, even the
princes of his people." The majority of the peers of heaven have no
human ancestry. Not a few of them will be found, if we examine their
heraldry, to have been " Syrians ready to perish," Egyptian slaves, beg-
gars at the rich man's gate, poor and illiterate Galileans, and African
negroes. The mob, the mass, the multitude who " knew not the law"
and were deemed "accursed," the "common people" who "heard Christ
gladly," and appreciated his doctrine, were not much more learned than
negroes. Paul could say to the Corinthians, " For ye see your calling,
how that not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many
noble are called but God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to
:

confound the wise and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to
;

confound the mighty and base things of the world, and things which are
;

despised hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to
nought things that are that no flesh should glory in his presence that
:

according as it is written. He that glorieth, let him glory in the Lord !"
Such is the old-fashioned Gospel of the Scriptures but the rich, the
;

learned, the polite, the press, and, in too many cases, even the pulpit, had
forgotten that a Galilean might become an apostle, or a Lazarus lise to
Abraham's bosom and, therefore, it was left for a woman to bring us
;

back to the truth, by showing us its ennobling influence on a modern

slave and to do so in such an enchanting form that all of every age and
;

rank should read and ponder this spiritual miracle. Mrs. Stowe's volume
has eclipsed all our popularpublications. Even the " Dairyman's Daughter,"
and " Pilgrim's Pi-ogress" must now take a second place in our Evan-
gelical literature. It has been rather humbling to the schools, that tlie
most marvellous book, next to the Bible, should have been written by a
tinker, and have come from the cell of a jail ;and now, to moderate the
pride of man, a woman has shown us the Gospel, and a negro is the hero
And she has done it so well, that every one, who can, buys the book,
and reads the narrative. The Tract Society spends thousands a year in
the gratuitous distribution <J. religious publications, but here is a work
which the poorest, and even children, tax themaelves to purchase. 'I he
confectioner is abandoned for the book-stall and the hoop and the top,
;

for an opportunity of reading the volume and the narratives which thus
;

interest all, are copied from the cruelties of slave-holders, and the piety,
benevolence, patience, and forgiveness of a Christian slave.
For in Uncle Tom's Cabin we have Christianity brought out in
its primitive and Scriptural purity, simplicity, and grandeur. We are
sorry to say that the face of the heavenly visitant has been so rarely seen
of late, that men did not at first know its features. All admired Uncle
Tom, but so ignorant were many of them of the Gospel and the grace of
God, that they said it was only a beautiful fiction of the fair authoress.
Some had never read, and some had forgotten, that the Christian slave,
the hero of the tale, was only a simple and truthful exhibition of the
religion of the Nazarene fisherman, and that it breathed nothing but the
 INTRODUCTION.

spirit of the Son of Go6. They knew not that this God -like character was
nothing more than a modern Abel, John, or Stephen. The Gospel had
been studied in creeds and catechisms, in some of which the chief creed
of all, love to God and love to man, was entirely omitted. It had been
looked at in crusades, in persecutions, in inquisitions, in conclaves of
cardinals, in star chambers, in battle-fields, in state chm-ches, in worldly
priests, in rich livings, in formal worship, in Mammon-worshipping
counting-houses, ambitious statesmen, cruel laws, and ungodly professors,
so that not a divine lineament was seen; and hence practical unbelievers
were to theoretical sceptics as a thousand to one. The thing seemed to
be a malignant, crafty, cruel, haughty, proud, unbrotherly thing,
invented to frighten the people to pay tithes and taxes, to create sects and
sectarians, and consecrate despotism, injustice, and cruelty. It was so
heathenish and absurd, that men who viewednt only in the majority of
its professors, priests, and advocates, could not, without doing violence
to their common sense, believe that it came from Heaven. Some, indeed,
of easy faith and ardent temperament, fought for it, bled for it, and died
for it, but died " as a fool dieth," for in consequence of never having
understood or caught the spirit of the '•'
Prince of Peace," they lost their
crown. It seemed to have been left to Mrs. Stowe to interpret the
religion of the Son of God in a manner that all should read and under-
stand. Hence her book is the finest commentary on the Gospel that has
ever appeared. In the character of a poor oppressed negro, it has brought
out the purity, the faithftdiiess, the devotion, the benevolence, the for-
giveness, of that Godlike system of faith and love taught in the Scrip-
tures ; and thus, even that abominable monster, Slavery, shall further the
cause of God, for by testing the piety of one of its victims, it has made
itself to be more than ever abhorred, and the purity, loveliness and
divinity of the Gospel to be for ever admired.
All the tales, characters, and descriptions are so admirably wrought,
as to approach nearer perfection than those of any other uninspired
book. The test of the truth of this assertion is, that all classes, ages,
and rahks read with a zest. Those who sleep over other religious books,
or who snore at church, can pass the midnight hour as they peruse these
pages without a nod. She has shown us what fiction founded on fact
can do. The course she has pursued, is that which was before trodden
by the prophets and the Son of God. Holy men of old " opened their
mouths with a parable," and it is said of the Redeemer, that " without
a parable spake he not unto them." It was for this reason that the
people hung upon his Hps. The Scriptures abound with histories,
similes, metaphors, allegories, descriptions of scenery, biographies, anec-
dotes, and parabolic illustrations. Hence they throw all romance and
profane poetry into the shade. In our common run of sermons, theolo-
gical essays, and moral descriptions, religion is often given to us as a
mere skeleton that smells of the sepulchre but in God's revelations it
;

is exhibited as a living thing, and vice and virtue stand forth in your
Jezebels or Marys, in your Cains and Judases, or Abrahams and Pauls,
and above all, in the life, discourses, and death of Him who " spake as
never man spake." The charm of Uncle Tom's Cabin is, that Mrs.
Stowe has followed in the footsteps of prophets and evangelists, and
given us truth in a living form, instead of deckirg it in the shroud, and
placing it in the coffin of the schools. Instead of vice and virtue lying
XIV INTRODUCTION.

in state, she introduces her Shelbys, Haleys, St. Clares, Ophelias, Halli-
days, Evas, Uncle Toms, Legrees, &c. &c., to show the various workings
of the good and evil principle. Here slavery, that abomination of
abominations, is executed and gibbeted for ever and here Christianity
;

stands out m
her heaven-born characteristics of justice, purity, compas-
sion, and love.
It has also been a high gratification to us to perceive the importance
that the writer has everywhere attached to the influence of love, espe-
cially the love of mothers. The book shows that hearts too hard
to be moved by any other power upon earth, can be melted by love.
Kindness is the key to the human heart, and we believe there is not a
soul under heaven but can be acted upon and opened by this omnipotent
power. This sentiment is amply sustained in the following pages.
Reader, we must caution you in reading this book to take care of your
heart. You must hold yourself ready to weep and to smile, to exult
with joy, and to burn with indignation. Your contempt and pity will
often be called forth. If any sense of humanity and justice dwell in
your bosom, you wiU be in danger of having your wrath kindled to such
a degree as to forget that you are a Christian, by invoking the vengeance
of Heaven on the. oppressors of your race. If you are an unbeliever, it
will be fatal to your scepticism to read the Christianity of these pages.
The fair authoress is a female Orpheus, endowed with skill to strike the
chords of every heart, and make them all respond to her touch. None
have felt her magic power so keenly as the supporters of slavery ; and
certain it is that this monstrous system of despotism is now doomed for
ever.
One glorious result of the book already is, that the advocates of this
human scourge are smitten into second cliildhood. Their two arguments
are, " That the slaves are not human heings ;" and that " They are con-
tented." If the Jirst be true, then certain laws of the civilised world
ought to be put in force against a race of monsters who have chosen crea-
tures " not human beings" for their concubines And then, what shall
!

we such paragons of. intellect as Frederick Douglass, Dr. Pennington,

call
and others ? If the second be correct, then slavery has sunk the negro
below the most savage of the brute creation. The she-bear, the lioness, the
tigress, the \T,ilture, &c., have the love of then- offspring strong within
them and if the negress is contented to have her offspring torn fi-om her
;

bosom for ever, then the planter may boast that he has perfected the
tyranny of his system. To say that the slaves are contented to be
crushed, oppressed, lashed, murdered, and have, during Hfe, every human
tie and affection violated, is to avow an exploit which covers its per-
petrators with eternal shame. But we leave slavery to the pen ot Mrs.
Stowe, assured that the reader will not peruse the following facts, and
examine the numerous graphic illustrations from the faithful and bene-
volent pencil of our good ftiend, George Cruikshank, without vowing
eternal antagonism to American slavery.

Ludgate-hiIjL, London ; December, 1852.

 MES. STOWE AND HEE FAMILY.

Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, the authoress of this inimitable volume,

isa member of a large and interesting family, well known and highly-
esteemed throughout the United States of America, and, some portion
of them, through the medium of the press, known in every quarter of
the globe.
The father, Lyman Beecher, D.D., isnow nearly eighty years of age.
He was the son of a New England blacksmith, was brought up to the
trade of his father, and continued in it till his arrival at mature age. He
then quitted the anvil, and entered on a course of study at Yale College,
New Haven. He was for some time pastor of a church at Litchfield.
Thence he removed to Boston, and in 1832 he quitted Boston to take the
charge of the Seminary at Lane, Cincinnati, an institution intended to
combine collegiate studies with self-supporting labour. In the labours
connected with this institution Professor Stowe took part, and for a
time it prospered, and became the hope and the rejoicing of the church.
But its prospects were darkened by the baleful shadow of slavery, and a
number of other circumstances combined. The French revolution of
1830; the agitation in England against colonial slavery the fine and
;

imprisonment, by American courts of justice, of citizens who had dared to

—
attack the slave trade,'carried on under the Federal flag, these, and some
other events, had begun to direct the attention of a few American phi-
lanthropists to the evils of slavery. At first the discussion had been
encouraged by the president and the professors of the Lane Seminary ;

but when they saw it swallowing up everything like regular study, they
attempted to arrest the current, but in vain. The commercial interests
of Cincinnati took the alarm; manufactm-ers feared the loss of their
southern trade. Public sentiment exacted the suppression of the dis-
cussion and excitement. Slave-holders came over from Kentucky, and
urged the mob on to violence. For several weeks it was feared that
Lane Seminary, and the houses of Dr. Beecher and Professor Stowe,
would be burnt or pulled down by a drunken rabble. At length the
Board of Trustees interfered, and allayed the excitement of the mob, by
forbidding all further discussion of slavery in the Seminary. The students
responded to this act by withdrawing in a body, so that Lane Seminary
was comparatively deserted. For several years after this. Dr. Beecher
and Professor Stowe remained there, endeavouring in vain to revive iLs
prosperity. In 1850 they returned to the eastern states, the great pro-
ject of their life having been defeated. Professor Stowe accepted an
appointment to the chair of Biblical literature, in the Theological Semi-
nary at Andover, and Dr. Beecher still exercises the office of the ministry
at Cincinnati.
Dr. Lyman Beecher has always been distinguished for energy of charac-
ter, vigour, activity, tenacity of pm-pose, deep sympathies, and a spirit of
XVI MRS. STOWE AND HER FAMILY.

self-sacrifice. Asa minister, he has dealt chiefly with vital, practical,

every-day Christianity. Temperance, foreign and home missions, the
influence of commerce on public morahty, the conversion of young men,
the establishment of theological seminaries, education, the abolition of
—
slavery, the political obligations of Christians, these and similar move-
ments are those in which he has chiefly expended his energies. As
a public speaker. Dr. Beecher is eloquent, though not perhaps what some
would call graceful his style is vigorous, pungen* and manly, often
; ,

pointed, occasionally sarcastic, bearing hard upon public and private

vices, however eminent the pei'sons by whom they are practised. The
personal manners and habits of Dr. Beecher are marked by simplicity and
a slight degree of eccentricity. We were honoured for a fortnight with
his company as an inmate during his visit to England, in 1846, and
rejoice to be able to bear testimony to the simplicity of his manners, to
his unafi'ected piety, to his complete resignation to what he regarded
as the will of Providence, even as to those minor troubles and difficulties
which fall to the lot of most mortal beings. The inflexible determination
of himself and his family to adhere to what they conscientiously believed
to be just principles, exposed him on many occasions to great detriment
and danger, but " none of these things " appear to have " moved " him,
except to more earnest endeavours to accomplish the objects he had at
heart. Of his calmness and fortitude in the hour of peril, his resignation
to the Divine will, his tender concern for others, and his acknowledg-
ment of God in all things, striking proofs were given on his return to
America, in September, 1846, with his beloved partner and several of his
brethren and friends. We refer to the fearful hurricane by which the
Great Western was assailed on its passage across the Atlantic. Many
hours of the most dreadful suspense were passed, amidst the roarings of
the tempest, the crashing of timbers, and the drenchings of the waves.
But during this terrible conflict of the elements which raged around, our
venerable friend engaged with his companions in prayer and other
religious exercises; and when, after thirty-six hours exposure to accu-
mulated dangers, they Were mercifully delivered, he called upon them to
unite in solemn thanksgivings to Almighty God.
The majority of the Beecher family are authors. Besides contributing
to various periodicals, and taking part in several public controversies, Dr.
Beecher has published a volume of sermons on practical subjects, and
" Six Sermons on the Nature, Occasions, Signs, Evil, and Kemedy of
Intemperance." These latter sermons have gone through several large
editions, and still circulate very extensively. By the delivery and
publication of them he gave life to a work of reformation of incalculable
extent, and created a new era in the world's history. The originality and
boldness of his conceptions, his vigour and dauntless courage, and his
intimate acquaintance with the human character, eminently quaUfied
him for undertaking fhe duties which dev(^ved upon him as one of the
earliest pioneers in the Temperance Reformation. A portion of one of
the addresses he delivered daring his visit to England, in 1846, is so
characteristic of his energy, and of his confidence in a right principle,
that we here subjoin it, the more especially as it is equally adapted to
encourage those who are now exerting themselves to put down the
atrocious system of negro slavery :
—" Dr. Beecher said, he had watched
this cause for the last thii'ty-six years. He had seen it falter, but never
 MRS. STOWE AND HER FAMILY.

Stop. After it had faltered, its clastic powers increased when it moved
again. He did not expect that he should have lived so long, or that lie
should have seen the splendid sights he had witnessed in connexion wilh
the movement. It was said that Buonaparte, in one of his battles, took
down his telescope while the war was raging at its height, and calmly said
to his generals,'
The battle is won !' And he (Dr. Beecher) had lived to
see the indications, the progiess, and the results of the temperance cause,
till he could say, not with faith, bu*" with firm conviction,'
The battle is
won !' He had seen the beginning of the end, and he could now die,
not mourning, but shouting victory his heart exulted at what had been
!

done, and he therefore glorified God, and magnified His name " Our
most recent advices fi'om the United States inform us that Dr. Beecher
is still actively employed, attending congregational and temperance con-
ventions, cheering on his colleagues and juniors in the various enter-
prises of benevolence and religion in which they ai'e engaged.
We should not have thought it needful to say so much respecting Dr.
Lyman Beecher, had he not been the father of the authoress of Uncle
Tom's Cabin. And though it by no means necessarily follows that the
children of a great man must be great, yet it is worthy of remark, that
the whole of this family are more widely and favourably known than
almost any other in the United States. The following list has recently
appeared in a number of " Frase7-'s Magazine" to which we are indebted
for a large portion of this biographical sketch :

The Rev. Lyman Beecher, D.Y>., the father.

Rev. William Beecher, pastor of ChUicotte, Ohio.
Rev. Edward Beecher, pastor at Boston, Massachusetts.
Rev. H. Ward Beecher, pastor at Brooklyn.
Rev. Charles Beecher, pastor at Newark, New Jersey.
Rev. Thomas Beecher, pastor at Williamsburg, New Jersey.
Rev. George Beecher, killed some years since by the accidental dis-
charge of a gun.
Mr. James Beecher, a merchant at Boston.
Miss Cathei'ine Beecher.
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe.
Mrs.- Perkins, and Mrs. Hooker.
Of these twelve, the father and six of the sons have for several years
exercised the ofiBce of the Christian ministry, besides contributing to
general and local literature. The other son is engaged in honourable
commerce. Two of the daughters have benefited the world by their
pens another conducts a flourishing school and the remaining two are
; ;

married to lawyers of respectable standing, and are mothers of families,

absorbed by the affection and duties of domestic life. All the members
of the family have contributed, more or less, to perpetuate and widen the
renown conferred upon it by the energy and eloquence of the father.
Like him, they have energy of character, restless activity, strong convic-
tions, tenacity of purpose, deep sympathy, and a spirit of self-sacrifice.
And it is remarkable that, however they may have come into collision
with the abuses that prevail in some portions of American society, few
persons have been found even to suspect the purity of their motives, or
the honesty of their intentions.
Harriet Beecher .was born at Litchfield, in 1812. On the removal
of the family to Boston, she received the best education that city could
XVIU ME,S. STOTVE AND HER FAMILY

afford, and at an early age began to aid her sister Catherine in the con-
duct of a training school for female teachers. When Dr. Beecher went
West, the sisters accompanied him, and opened a similar establishmc-it
in Cincinnati, a city situated on the northern bank of the Ohio. The
high hill, whose point, now crowned with an observatory, overhangs the
city on the west, stretches away to the east and north in a long sweep
of table land. —
On this is situated Lane Seminaiy Mrs. Stowe's home
for eighteen long years. Near the Seminary building, and on the public
road, are certain comfortable brick residences situated in yards, green
with tuft grass, and half concealed from view by acacias, locusts, Rose-
bushes, and vines of honeysuckle and clematis. These were occupied by
Dr. Beecher and the professors. There are other residences, more pre-
tending in appearance, occupied by bankers, merchants, and men of
fortune. The little village thus formed is called Walnut Hills, and is
one of the prettiest in the environs of Cincinnati.
For several years after her removal to this place, Harriet Beecher
continued to teach in connexion with her sister. She did so until her
marriage with the Rev. Calvin E. Stowe, professor of Biblical literature
in the seminary of which her father was president. This gentleman
was already one of the most distinguished ecclesiastical savans in
America. After graduating with honour at Bowdoin College, Maine, and
taking his theological degree at Andover, he had been appointed pro-
fessor at Dartmouth College, New Hampshire, whence he had been
called to Lane Seminary. Mrs. Stowe's married life has been of that
equable and sober happiness so common in the families of Yankee clergy-
men. It has been blessed with a numerous offspring, of whom five
are still living. Mrs. Stowe has known the fatigues of watching over
the sick bed, and her heart has felt that grief which eclipses all others
— that of a bereaved mother. Much of her time has been devoted to
the education of her children, while the ordinary household cares have
devolved on a fi.-iend or distant relative, who has always resided with
her. She employed her leisure in contributing occasional pieces, tales,
and novellettes, to the magazines and newspapers. Her writings were of
a high moral tone, and deservedly popular. Only a small portion of
them are comprised in the volume, " The May Flower" some of the—
interesting narratives contained in which have recently appeared in the
" Working Man's Friend," the "Temperance Almanack for 1853," the
" Pathway," &c. This part of Mrs. Stowe's life, spent in literary plea-
sures, family joys and cares, and the society of the pious and intelligent,
would have been a season of as unalloyed happiness as mortals can
expect, had it not been darkened at almost every instant by the baleful
shadow of slavery. That "peculiar institution" and its workings
thwarted the grand project in life of Mrs. Stowe's father and husband,
and led, as we have ah-eady stated, to those repeated outrages which
caused the breaking up of that favourite and, for a season, useful
establishment, and to the removal of Professor Stowe to the chair of
Biblical literature in the Theological Seminary at Andover.
It is to that period of fearful excitement that Mrs. Stowe alludes,
when she says, in the closing chapter of her book :
—
" 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 advancino- light and civilisation would live down." The
 MRS. STOWE AND HER FAMILY. xix

terrible and dramatic scenes which occurred in Cincinnati, between

1835 and 1847, were calculated to increase the repugnance of a lady to
mingling actively in the melee. That city was the chief battle-ground
of freedom and slavery. Every month there was some event to attract
attention to the strife
: either a press destroyed, or a house mobbed, or a
free negro kidnapped, or a trial for freedom before the courts, or the
confectionary of an English abolitionist riddled, or a public discussion,
or an escape of slaves, or an armed attack on the negro quarter, or a
negro school-house razed to the ground, or a slave in prison and killing-
his wife and children to prevent their being sold to the south. The
abolition press, established there in 1835, by James G. Birney, whom,
on account of his mildness and firmness, Miss Martineau called " the
gentleman of the abolition cause," and continued by Dr. Bailey, the
moderate and able editor of the National Era, of Washington city, in
which Uncle Tom's Cabin first appeared in weekly numbers, was
destroyed five times. On one occasion the mayor dismissed, at midnight,
the rioters, who had also pulled down the houses of some coloured people,
with the following pithy speech : —
" Well, boys, let's go home ; we've
done enough." One of these mobs deserves particular notice, as its
victims enlisted deeply the sympathies of Mrs. Stowe.
" In 1840, the slave-catchers, backed by the riff-raff of the population,
and urged on by certain politicians and merchants, attacked the quarters
in which the negroes reside. Some of the houses were battered down by
cannon. For several days the city was abandoned to violence and crime.
The negro quarters were pUlaged and sacked negroes who attempted
;

to defend their pi'operty were killed, and their mutilated bodies cast
into the streets women were violated by ruffians, and some afterwards
;

died of the injm-ies received houses were burnt; and men, women, and
;

children, were abducted in the confusion, and hurried into slavery.

From the brow of the hill on which she lived, Mrs. Stowe could hear
the cries of the victims, the shouts of the mob, and the reports of the
guns and cannon, and could see the flames of the conflagration. To
more than one of the trembling fugitives she gave shelter, and wept
bitter tears with them. After the fury of the mob was spent, many of
the colom-ed people gathered together the little left them of worldly
goods, and started for Canada. Hundreds passed in front of Mrs.
Stowe's house. Some of them were in Kttle waggons; some were
trudging along on foot after their household stuff; some led their
children by the hand and there were even mothers who walked on,
;

suckling their infants, and weeping for the dead or kidnapped husbands
they had left behind.
" This road, which ran through Walnut Hills, and within a few feet of
Mrs. Stowe's door, was one of the favourite routes of the 'underground
railroad,' so often alluded to in Uncle Tom's Cabin. This name was
given to a line o£ Quakers and other abolitionists, who, living at inter-
vals of ten, fifteen, or twenty mUes between the Ohio River and the
Northern Lakes, had formed themselves into a sort of association to aid
fugitive slaves in their escape to Canada. Any fugitive was taken by
night on horseback or in covered waggons, from station to station, until
he stood on free soil, and found the folds of the lion banner floating over
him, and the artillery of the British empire between him and slavery.
The first station north of Cincinnati was a few miles up Mill-creek, at
 — a

XX MRS. STOWE AND HER FAMILY.

the house of the pious and lion-hearted John Vanzandt, who figures in
chapter nine of Uncle Tom's Cabin, as John Van Trompe. Mrs. Stowe
must have often been roused from her sleep by the quick rattle of the
covered waggons, and the confused galloping of the horses of constables
and slave-catchers in hot pursuit. * Honest John was always ready to
'

turn out with his team, and the hunters or men were not often adroit
enough to come up with him. He sleeps now in the obscure grave of a
martyr. The " gigantic frame " of which the novelist speaks was worn
down at last by want of sleep, exposure, and anxiety and his spirits
;

were depressed by the persecutions which were accumulated on him.

Several slave owners who had lost their property by his means sued
him in the United States courts for damages and judgment after
;

judgment stripped him of his farm and all his property.

" During her long residence on the frontier of the slave states, Mrs.
Stowe made several visits to them. It was then, no doubt, she made the
observations which have enabled her to paint noble, generous, and humane
slaveholders, in the characters of Wilson the manufacturer, Mrs. Shelby
and her son George, St. Clare and his daughter Eva, the benevolent pur-
chaser at the New Orleans auction sale, the mistress of Susan ana
Emmeline, and Symmes who helped Eliza and her boy up the river
bank.
" Mrs. Stowe has observed slavery in every phase she has seen masters
;

and slaves at home. New Orleans markets, fugitives, free coloured people,
pro-slavery politicians and priests, abolitionists, and colonisationists. She
and her family have suffered from it seventeen years of her life have
;

been clouded by it. For that long period she stifled the strongest
emotions of her heart. No one but her intimate friends knew their
strength. She has given them expression at last. Uncle Tom's Cabin
is the agonising cry of feelings pent up for years in the heart of
a true woman."
One cu'cumstance has occurred since Uncle Tom's Cabin became popu-
lar in America, which has been the subject of considerable animadversion.
In page 111, Mrs. Stowe, referring to the slave trade, speaks of it as
" a trade which is the vital support of an institution which an Amefcan
divine tells us has no evils hut such as are inseparable from any other
'

relation in social and domestic life! " This sentence is ascribed, in a foot
note, to " Dr. Joel Parker, of Philadelphia." No notice was taken of
this sentence when the work first appeared, but as soon as it became
popular, the Dr. took the alarm, denied that he had used the words,
declared himself greatly injured by the imputation, placed the matter, as
a case of libel, in the hands of a legal adviser, and demanded a clear certi-
ficate of character, or 20,000 dollars damages. The true merits of the
case will be best understood from the following extracts from a note by
Mrs. Stowe :

" This sentiment and language has been quite extensively and publicly
attributed to Mr. Parker, in the most respectable public prints in this
country and in England. It was quoted at the meeting of an ecclesiasti-
cal body there, and, in connexion with many remarks of the same
character from other American ministers, formed the basis of a discussion
on the propriety of admitting American clergy to English pulpits —
discussion which excited at the time a considerable sensation. Finally,
it was published among the historic documents of the Anti-Slavery
 MRS. STOWE AND HER FAMILY.

Society for the year 1850, and a copy of the report placed in the hands of
Mr. Parker but no public denial was ever made.
;

" The author therefore quoted it as an acknowledged sentiment of Mr.

Parker's, with the same freedom with which the well-known uncontra-
dicted sentiments of public men are commonly alluded to and quoted.
" Since coming to this city, she has learned with some surprise, by
correspondence and personal interviews with Mr. Parker, that he con-
siders himself misrepresented and injured by the quotation in the con-
nexion, and she feels that justice and honour require a fair statement of
what may justly be said on his side of the subject.
" As, in the first place, the language of the quotation in the book is not
the precise language of Mr. Parker, and that the reader may fairly
judge of this, the two quotations are placed side by side :

Booh. Mr. Parker.

Slavery " has no evils but such as are " \yhat, then, are the evils inseparable
inseparable from any other relation in so- from slavery ?
cial and domestic life." " There is not one that is not equally
, inseparable from depraved human nature
in other lawful relations."

" But, as it is the connexion which fairly interprets the sense of any
detached sentence, it is further proper that the reader be made aware of
the connexion in which the remark occurs.
" In the year 1846, a discussion was held in the Philadelphia Observe];
between the Rev. Mr. Rood and Mr. Parker, to the following effect: —
" Mr. Rood held that the various evils of slavery, such as the severing
of families, the holding for mere purposes of gain, the forbidding of
education, and the various physical sufferings inflicted on the sla^e,
were inevitably connected with the system of American slavery, and
could not be separated from it.
" Mr. Parker maintained that these various evils could be separated
from the system of slavery, and that there was no evil that could not be
separated from it, excepting such as attend every lawful relation.
" It will be seen that, as the remark stands by itself, it would appear
to justify American slavery as it is, and to state that its evils as they
now exist are no greater than the evils of other lawful relations but ;

that in its connexion it simply asserts that it is practicable to separate

these evils from slavery in every case.
" Although the author does not agree with tliis statement of Dr.
Parker's in itself, nor with most of the things he adduces in support of it,
yet she considers it far more favourable to his character as a man and
Christian than the other, and regrets that through Mr. Parker's delay to
rectify the very general misunderstanding as to his language and senti-
ments, she has been betrayed into an unintentional injustice."
Dr. Parker declared himself not satisfied with this explanation.
Many interviews took place, and a lengthy correspondence ensued.^
Some modifications were at length made, which, we are given to under-
stand, has set the matter at rest. But however uncomfortable Dr. Parker
may have felt under the imputation of being a pro-slavery man, we have
seen American papers containing some of his published opinions, in
which he more than insinuates that slave-traders and slave-buyers are
the real apostles of Africa, and that to tliem is to be attributed the merit
of anv benefits that have accrued to the crushed descendants of Ham.
 XXU MRS. STOWE AND HER FAMILY.
" We may," he sajs, in a paper now on our table, " perceive at least
one
good slavery has done to Africa and the question may with propriety be
;

asked, whether it has not done for Africa more good than harm ?"
•' —
Slavery has done Africa and the African race a good a great good —
and we believe that all must admit the fact." And, again " No seemino-
:

of logic can ever convince the American people that thousands

of our
slave-holding hrethren are not excellent, humane, and even Christian
men, FEARING God and keeping His Commandments !" " I am thoroughly
convinced that there is a better thing than the doing away ivith slavery,
namely, the elevation of the coloured race." Surely after publishing such
sentiments. Dr. Parker need hardly have manifested such extreme sensi-
tiveness. But the disclosm-es made by Mrs. Stowe operate, and will
continue to operate, upon various guilty pai-ties, as the touch of Ithuriel's
spear operated upon the Great Tempter. Well will it be if these dis-
closures make them ashamed of their doings For a gieat morahst has
!

said, " Where there is now shame there may one day be repentance."

OPIKIONS OF THE PEESS.

"We are not aware that any -work has ever received so large a tribute of prsiae
from public men and the public press as Uncle Tom's Cabin. And tiiia
praise is not confined to one hemisphere. In her own coxmtry, Mrs. Stowe has
received praise irom the numerous papers friendly to the abolition of slavery,
aijj^ the attacks which have been made upon her by journals of another class

may be regarded as testimonies to the stern truth of her statements. In England,

the volume has been received with a feeling bordering upon enthusiasm. " The
number of its readers," says a writer in the North British Revieiv, " is one of
the chief literary and social pljenomena of the age. "Within a few months it
'
has been more than twenty times reprinted. It has spread in hundreds of
thousands on both sides of the Atlantic, and has occupied the minds and tongues
of men more than any book of our time." A writer in the Eclectic Review says,
" "We have had nothing like it in the previous history of books. "Wherever we
go we see it. "With whomsoever we converse, we bear of it. Talk of what we
may, the conversation reverts to it. It is every where and on every person's
lips ; on the steamboat and in the railway carriage ; in the drawing-room, the
nursery, and the kitchen ; the library of the student, and the waiting-room of
the physician. It has found its way to the extremes of society, and its efiect is
everywhere the same. In the palace, the mansion, and the cottage, it has
rivetted attention. The sons of toil, as well as the children of opulence, have
wept over its pages. It has invaded the house of rest, has chained thousands to
its perusal, regardless of fatigue or health ; has broken up the monotony of
human feeling, and given birth to emotions more deep and powerful than the
h«art of man often encounters." " The fact is notorious that men of aU classes,
persons of every conceivable grade, the mechanic, the maniifactuj-er, peers and
rustics, literary men and children, lawyers, physicians, and divines, members
of both sexes, of every age, and of all conceivable varieties of disposition, have
pBrueed its touching narrative with moistened eye and with agonised hearts.
It has acted like a charm on the old and the young, and its impression remains,
in a thousand cases, with the permanence and Hotvm of a master passion."
" Other facts also testify the marvellous popularity oi this book. "Various artists
have been employed to exhibit to the eye its most striking scenes ; the harmo-
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

nies of song liave been used to convey its sentiments to the heart; and our
theatres are now rivalling each other in their eiforts to invest it with dramatic
interest. Such an event, so universal and so deep, is a moat significant fact.
It is sheer folly to treat it lightly. The pretence of duing bo is a mere bravado,
the hollowness of which is instantly detected."
This amazing popularity is founded upon the intrinsic merit of the work. The
—
Ea.rl of Carlisle says " Its genius, its pathos, its humoiu-, must sufficiently
commend themselves to its nearly unparalleled niimber of readers. I feel that
I have seen and known enough to convince my own mind equally of its general
faiiness, fidelity, and truth."
—
Tne Rev. James Shermax says, " By the verdict of the people of England
and America, Uncle Tom's Cabin hajs taien its place as a standard work among
the beauties of English literature. The genius which has strung together so
—
many incidents in slave life the dramatic beauty with which the scenes are
—
painted the rich vein of humour which pervades almost every dialogue the —
variety of characters introduced, as well among slave-holder.' as slaves— and the
genuine nature displayed in every page, render it as irresistibly attractive to the
learned and imleained as Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or De Foe's 'Robin-
son Crusoe.' Resides all that is beautiful in the work as a composition, its
truthfulness and piety are, in my estimation, its chief charms. To exquisite
womanly tenderness, it unites the most dignified and Scriptural sentimems. It
equally opens the flood-gatts of the affections and enlightens and sanctifies the
judgment. Not only is the imagination pleased with the graphic sketches as
the eve would be with the beauties of a landscape, but the miud becomes
ennobled and strengthened by the doctrines advanced"
Mrs. Mart Howixr, in a letter to a friend at New York, sa^s, " Of course
you are aware of the wonderful excitement produced here (in England) by
Uncle Tom's Cabin. Everybody is reading it Hundreds of thousards of
copies are in ciriulation. My daughter saw a bak r's boy sitting on his bread
cart in the street reading it. Masters and mistresses read it in the parlour, and
t/:eir servants at the same time in the kitchen. High and low, all read it."
The success of Jlra. Stowe's volume on the Continent has been very nearly
as remarkable as in this country and in America. At Paris, the Presse, the
Steele, and the Fays, three of the principal daily newspapers, are giving literal
translations of it in their pages. Many of the other French journals have noticed
the work and quoted from it, and five or six complete translations of it have been
bought by publishers. It has also been translatsd into Italian, and is to be pro-
.

duced in Spanish, at Madrid. In Germany several trajislations are preparing,

and it will probably appear in Danish, Swedish, Polish, and Russian. The
Augsburgh Allffemeine Zeitung has a long review of Uncle Tom's Cabin. The
writer says, " For a long time we have not read a book that has afi'ected us so
deeply, or so continuoasly enchained our interest. "We overlook certain inequa-
lities in the style, in the profoimd truth to nature which prevails from beginning
to end. The abolitionist party in the United States should vote the author a
civic crown; for a more powerful ally than Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowb
and her book they could not have. It deserves the immense popularity it has
attained in Europe as well as in America for it is drawn from the life, and
;

touches the most vital chords in the reader's soul. We know of no novel to be
considered equal to this. In comparison with this flowing language that never
fails of its purpose, this wonderful truth to nature, the largeness of these ideas,
and the artistic faultlessness of the machinery of this book, George Sand,
Dickens, Bulwer, and others, appear petty and artificial."
Many pages might be fiUed with similar testimonies.
We may add thut Mr. John Cassell is preparing an Edition of Uncle Tom's
Cabin in Welsh, which wUl, no doubt, be hailed with delight by the inhabitania
of the Principality.
 RESULTS.
Among the practical results of the extensive circulation of Uncle Tom's
Cabin, two important movements may be mentioned which have recently bten
made in this country, and vrbich cannot fail to encourage the hearts of the
friends of negro abolition. The first is a meeting which was held at Stafford
House on the 26th of November last, over which the Duchess of Sutherland
presided, at which a number of ladies, including a large portion of the iemale
aristocracy, united in an Appeal to the women of the United States, in behalf of
the slaves in the New World. This Address has been sent to all the public
papers by the Eight Hon. the Eakl of Shaftesbury, who remarks that " in the
ditj s in which we live, more is to be permanently effected by public opinion,
and by appeals to the great sympathies of mankind, than by force, or by statute
law." The Appeal is entitled, " The Affectionate and Christian Address of
maj-jj thousands of the Women of England to their Sisters, the Women of the
United States of America." It is now rapidly receiving signatures. The two
great features in American slavery to which " the Women of England"
esptciaJly direct attention in this address, are, the denial, in effect, by tite slave-
holders, of " the sanctity of marriage, with all its joys, rights, and obligations,"
and the existence of " that awful system which, either by statute or by custom,
interdicts to any race of man, or any portion of the human family, education
in the truths of the Gospel, and the ordinances of Christianity." Though
this address recognises the principle of gradual abolition only, yet, as proposing
a remedy for two of the most enorm-ous evils in this aggregation of evil, we
cannot but rejoice at the movement.
A second result is, the formation of a fund, to consist of subscriptions from
one penny upward, the amount to be presented to Mrs. Harriet Beechee
Stowe, for the purpose of assisting her and her noble compeers to carry for-
ward their exertions to put down slavery. This fund was commenced at Birming-
ham, by the committee of the Ladies' Anti-slavery Association of that town, but
is intended to include the whole of the United Kingdom. This fund will be
a most marked, and, at the same time, most delicate tribute to the writer of
Uncle Tom's Cabin, and may also greatly aid the movement to which she and
her family have for so many years industriously devoted themselves.
An important atmoimcement has just been made in reference to the Southern
States of the American Union. It is an Address from the South Central Agri-
cultural Society of Georgia, inviting the cultivators of the soil to assemble in
agricultural Congress of the slave holding states. The principal object of this
Congress, is to effect an improvement in the condition of the slaves, including
" the ctcltivation of the aptitudes of the negro race for civilization and Christianity,
with a view to the period when they shall be set free." Very far short of the
proper mark as this movement is, it is nevertheless interesting to observe that
one great feature in it is, a concession that slavery is to be regarded only as a
temporary system, instead of being, as some have insisted, a natural and per-
mament condition in which the negro race should exist. Certainly, this is the
first time we have been called upon to listen to such a voice from the South, and
we rtgard it as a sign of hopeful progress.

^
 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

CHAPTER I.

IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO A MAN OF HUMANITY.

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 we have said, hitherto, two gentlemen. One of
sake,
the parties, however, when critically examined, did not seem, strictly
speaking, to come under the species. He was a short, thick-set man,
witi coarse, commonplace features, and that swaggering air of pretension
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. His
hands, large and coarse, were plentifully bedecked with rings and he ;

wore a heavy gold watch-chain, with a bimdle 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 evident
satisfaction. His conversation was in free and easy defiance of Murray's
Grammar, and was garnished at convenient intervals with various pro-
fane expressions, which not even the desire to be graphic in our account
shall induce us to transcribe.
His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gentleman and ;

the arrangements of the house, and the general air of the housekeeping,
indicated easy and even opulent circumstances. As we before stated, the
two were in the midst of an earnest conversation.
" That is the way I shoiild 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.
JB
 a
;

TJKCLE TOM S CABIN.

" Wty, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow; h.e is certainly
worth, that sum anywhere, —steady, honest, capahle, manages my whole
farm like a clock."
" You mean honest, as niggers go," said Haley, helping himself to a
glass of hrandy.
"No, I mean really, Tom is a good, steady, sensible, pious fellow.
He got religion at a camp-meeting, four years ago and I believe he
;

really did get it. I've trusted him, since then, with everything I have,
—money, house, horses—and let him come and go round the country
and I always found him true and square in everything."
" Some folks don't believe there is pious niggers, Shelby," said Haley,
with a candid hand " / I had a fellow, now, in
flourish of his
this yer last lot I took to Orleans
;

— but
was as
't
do.
good as a meetia' now,
really, to and he was quite gentle and quiet hke.
hear that critter pray ;

He fetched me bought him cheap of a man that

a good sum, too ; for I
was 'bliged to sell out so I realized six hundred on him. Yes, I con-
;

sider religion a valeyable thing in a nigger, when it's the genuine article,
and no mistake."
" Well, Tom's got the real article, if ever a fellow had," rejoined the
other. " Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati alone, to do business
for me, and bring home five hundred dollars. Tom,' says I to him, I ' •

trust you, because I think you're a Christian I know you wouldn't cheat.' —
—
Tom comes back sure enough I knew he would. Some low fellows,
they say, said to him Tom, why don't you make tracks for Canada ?'
:
'

'Ah, master trusted me, and I couldn't They told me about it. I !'

am Sony to part with Tom, I must say. You ought to let him cover the
whole balance of the debt and you would, Haley, if you had any con-
;

science."
"Well, I've got just as much conscience as any man in business can
afford to keep, —just a little, you know,
swear by, as 'twere," said the to
trader, jocularly " and then I'm ready to do anything in reason, to
;

'blige friends, but this yer, you see, is a leetle too hard on a fellow —
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, have n't you a boy or gal that you could throw in with Tom ?"
" Hum —
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 ap-
pearance remarkably beautiful and engaging. His black hair, fine as
floss silk, hung in glossy curls about his round, dimpled face, while a
 t

o
l-H

P
w
w
w
H
 :

ITNCI-E TOM S CABIN".

pair of large dark eyes, full of five 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 ofi"
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 to being petted and noticed by his master.
"Hulloa, Jim Crow!" said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and snapping a
bunch of raisins towards him, " pick that up, now !"
The child scampered, with all his little strength after the prize, while
his master laughed.
" Come here, Jim Crow," said, he.
The child came up, and the master patted the curly head, and chucked
him under the chin.
" Now, Jim, show this gentleman how you can dance and sing."
The boy commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common among
the negroes, in a rich clear voice, accompanying his singing with many
comic evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all in perfect time to
tlie music.
" Bravo !" said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an orange.
" Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe when he has 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 Robbins leads
the psalm."
The boy drew his chubby face down to a formidable length, and
conlmenced toning a psalm-tune through his nose with impertm*bable
gravity.
"Hurrah! bravo! what a young 'un!" said Haley; "that chap's a
case, I'll promise. Tellyou 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 tiling up about the rightest."
At this moment, the door was pushed gently open, and a young quad-
roon woman, apparently about twenty-five, entered the room.
There needed only a glance from the child to her, to identify her as
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 dress was of the neatest possible fit, and set off to advantage
her finely-moulded shape. A delicately formed hand, and a trim foot
B 2
 4 UNCLE TOM S OABIN.

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 fine female
article.
" Well, Eliza ?" said her master, as she stopped and looked hesitatingly
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 with- ;

drew, carrying the child on her arm.

" By Jupiter !" said the trader, turning to him in admiration, " there's
an article now ! You might make your fortune on that ar gal 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 slapping
;

his hand on Shelby's shoulder, he added " Come, how will

familiarly :

you trade about the gal ? what shall I say for her ? what '11 you take ?"
" 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 trinkets
one's weight in gold would buy, and that alters the case, I reckon."
" I tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of. I say no, and I mean
no," said Shelby, decidedly.
" Well, you'U let me have the boy though ?" said the ti-ader ; " you
must own come down pretty handsomely for him."
I've
" What on earth can you want with the child ?" said Shelby.
i " Why, going into this yer branch of the busi-
I've got a friend that's
ness —wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for the market. Fancy
articles entirely— waiters, and so on, to
sell for rich 'uns, that can pay
for handsome 'uns. It sets off one of yer great places a real handsome —
boy to open door, wait, and tend. They fetch a good sum and this little ;

devil is such a comical, musical concern, he 's just the article."

" I would rather not sell him," said Mr. Shelby, thoughtfully " the ;

fact is, sir, I'm a humane man, and I hate to take the boy from his mother,
sir."
" Oh, you do ? —^La ! yes —something of that ai" nature. I understand,
perfectly. mighty onpleasant getting on with women sometimes.
It is
I al'ays hates these yer screechin', screamin' times. They are mighty
onpleasant but, as I manages business, I generally avoids 'em, sir.
;

Now, what if you get the girl off for a day, or a week, or so then the ;

thing's done quietly, —

all over before she comes home. Your wife might
 ITNCLE TOM S CABIN.

get her some ear-rings, 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 things, 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 imfit for service sometimes. I knew a real
handsome gal once, in Orleans, as was entirely ruined by this sort C
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 my experience."
And the trader leaned back ia his chair, and folded his arm, with an
air of virtuous decision, apparently considering himself a second Wilber-
force.
The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply for while Mr. ;

Shelby was thoughtfully peeHng an orange, Haley broke out afresh, with
becoming diffidence, but as if actually driven by the force of truth to say
a few words more.
" It don't look well, now, for a feller to be praisin' himself; but I say
it jest because it's the truth. I believe I'm reckoned to bring ia about
the finest droves of niggers that is brought iu at least I've been told —
so if I have once, I reckon I have a hundred times- —all in good case fat
; —
and hkely, and I lose as few as any man in the business. And I lays
it all to my management, sir and humanity, sir, I may say, is the great
;

my management."
pillar of
!"
Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said, " Indeed
" Now, been laughed at for my notions, sir, and I've been talked
I've
to. They an't pop'lar, and they an't common but I stuck to 'em, sir ;

I've stuck to 'em, and realized well on 'em yes, sir, they have paid their
;

passage, I may say ;" and the trader laughed at his joke.
There was something so piquant and original in these elucidations of
humanity, that Mr. Shelby could not help laughing ia company. Perhaps
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

thiugs that hxmiane people will say and do.
 —;

6 UJN'CLK TOM's cabin

Mr. Shelby's laugh encouraged the trader to proceed.

" It's 'strange, now, but 1 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 —
'twas you see, for a better-hearted feller never broke bread; 'twas his
systerh, sir. I used to talk to Tom. Why, Tom,' I used to say, ' when
'

your gals takes on and cry, what's the use o' cracking on 'em over the
head, 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 wiU 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 ? Depend on it, Tom,
a little humanity, thrown in along, goes a heap further than aU your
jawin' and crackin' and it pays better,' says I, 'depend on't.' But
;

Tom couUn'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 better than
Tom's.?" said Mr. Shelby.
" Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any ways can, I takes
a leptle 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 inow 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, yoa
know, that's fetched up properly, ha'n 't no kind of 'spectations of no
kind so all these things comes easier."
;

" I'm afraid mine are not properly brought up, then," said Mr.
Shelby.
" S'pose not. You Kentucky
folks spile your niggers. You mean well
by 'em, but no real kindness, arter all. Now, a nigger, you see,
'taint
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 venture 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 possessed.
Every man, you know, Mr. Shelby, natui'ally thinks well of his 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 shght
shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a disagreeable nature.
 —

UNCXE TOM 3 CABIN. 7

« Well," said Haley, after they had both silently picked their nuts for
a season, " what do you say ?"
" I'll think the matter over, and talk with my wife," said Mr. Shelby.
" 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 neighbom-hood 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
promise 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 overcoat.
" Well, call up this evening, between six and seven, and you shall
have myanswer," 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 door fairly closed, •' with his impudent
assurance ; but he knows how much he hasme at advantage. If anybody
had ever said to me that I shoidd sell Tom down south to one of those
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 So much for being in debt

Tom, too.

heigho ! The fellow sees his advantage, and means to push it."
Perhaps ^he 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 seasons of huriy
and pressure that are called for in the business of more southern districts,
makes the task of the negro a more healthful and reasonable one while ;

the master, content with a more gradual style of acquisition, has not
those temptations to hardheartedness which always overcome frail human
nature when the prospect of sudden and rapid gain is weighed in the
balance, with no heavier counterpoise than the interests of the helpless
and unprotected.
Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the good-humoured
indulgence of some masters and mistresses, and the affectionate loyalty
of some slaves, might be tempted to dream the oft-fabled poetic legend of
a patriarchal institution, and all that; but over and above the scene there
broods a portentous shadow— the shadow of law. So long as the law con-
siders 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 exchange a life of kind protection and indulgence for
to
—
one of hopeless misery and toil so long it is impossible to make anything
beautiful or desirable in the best-regulated administration of slavery.
 — — ;

8 rNCLE tom's cabin.

Mr. 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 lack 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 infor-
mation is the key to the preceding 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
offers to her master for somebody.
She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as she came out
but her mistress just then calling, she was obliged to hasten away.
Still she thought she heard the trader make an offer for her boy ;

could she be mistaken? Her heart swelled and throbbed, and she
involuntarily strained him so tight thg,t the little fellow looked up into
her face in astonishment.
"Eliza, girl, what ails you to-day?" said her mistress, when EKza
had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked down the work-stand, and finally
was abstractedly offering her mistress a long night-gown in place of the
silk dress she had ordered her to bring from the wardrode.
Eliza started. " 0, missis !" she said, raising her eyes ; then, bursting
into tears, she sat down in a chair and began sobbing.
" Why, Eliza, child ! what ails you ?" said her mistress.
" O missis, missis," said Eliza, " there's been a trader talking with
!

master in the parlour I heard him."

!

" WeU, silly cMld, suppose there has !"

" O, missis, do you suppose mas'r would sell my Harry ?" And the
poor creature threw herself into a chair and sobbed convulsively.
" Sell him No, you foolish girl
! You know your master never deals
!

with those southern traders, and never means to sell any of his servants,
as long as they behave well. Why, you silly child, who do you think
would want to buy your Harry ? Do you think all the world are set on
him as you are, you goosie ? Come, cheer up, and hook my dress. 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, ehUd to be sure, I shouldn't. What do you talk so for ?
!

I would as soon have one of my own children sold. But really, Eliza,
you 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 buy
him."
Re-assured by her mistress's confident tone, Eliza proceeded nimbly
and adroitly with her toUet, laughing at her own fears as she proceeded.
Mrs. Shelby was a woman of a high class, both intellectually and
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 9

morally. To that natural magnanimity and generosity of mind which

one often mark*: an characteristic of the women of Kentucky, she added
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 reUgious character, nevertheless reverenced
and respected the consistency of hers, and stood, perhaps, a little in awe
of her opinion. Certain it was, that he gave her unlimited scope in all
her benevolent efforts for the comfort, instruction, and improvement of
her servants, though he never took any decided part in them himself. In
fact, if not exactly a believer in the doctrine of the efficiency 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 mind, after his conversation with the trader,
lay in the foreseen necessity of breaking to his wife the arrangement con-
—
templated meeting the importunities and opposition which he knew he
should have reason to encounter.
Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband's embarrassments,
and knowing only the general kindliness of his temper, had been quite
sincere in the entire incredulity with which she had met Eliza's suspi-
cions. In fact, she dismissed the matter from her mind without a second
thought; and, being occupied in preparations for an evening visit, it
passed out of her thoughts entirely.

CHAPTER 11.

THE MOTHER.
Eliza had been brought up by her mistress, from girlhood, as a petted
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 mistress, 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
10 uifCiiE tom's cabix.

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 circumstances
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 vidgar, 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 him 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 coimtry, 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 f"
" 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."
" But, sir, he seems peculiarly adapted to this business."
" Dare say he maybe; never was much adapted to anything that I
sethim 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, anytime. They are all labour-
saving machines themselves, every one of 'em. No, he shall tramp."
George had stood Uke one transfixed, at hearing his doom thus sud-
* A machine of this description was really the invention of a young coloured man in
Kentucky.
 UNCLE TOM's cabin. 11

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 yeins. 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, felt 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 bribe'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 jfrom 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
tranquUlised and settled and every bleeding tie and throbbing nerve,
;

once more entwined with that little life, seemed to become sound and

healthful, and EUza was a happy woman up to the time that her husband
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
afterGeorge 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.
 12 UNCLE TOm's cabin.

" "You need n't trouble yourself to talk any longer," said he doggedJy •

" I know my own business, sir."

" I did not presume to interfere with, it, sir. I only thouo-ht that
you might think it for your interest to let your man to us on the terms
proposed."
" Oh, I understand the matter well enough. saw your winking and
I
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 tnine, and I'll do
what I please with him —that's it
!"

—
And so fell George's last hope nothiag before him but a life of toil
;

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 use you can put a man
:

to is to hang him." No there is another use that a man can be put to

;

that is WORSE

CHAPTEE III.

THE HUSBAND AND FATHER.

Mrs. Shelbt had gone on her and Eliza stood in the verandah,
visit,

rather dejectedly looking after the retreating carriage, when a hand was
laid on her shoulder. She turned, and a bright smile lighted up her fine

" George,
is it you ? How you frightened me Well I am so glad ! ;

you'scome Missis is gone to spend the afternoon so come into my little

! ;

room, and we'U have the time all to ourselves."

Saying this, she drew him into a neat littlS- apartment opening on
the verandah, where she generally sat at her sewing, within call of her
mistx'ess.
" How glad I am —
why don't you smile ? and look at Harry how
!
— —
he grows." The boy stood shyly regarding his father through his curls,
holding close to the skirts ol his mother's dress. " Is n'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
husband's shoulder, and burst into tears.
" There now, Eliza, it's too bad for me to make you feel so, poor girl !"
Baid he, fondly " it's too bad. Oh, how I wish you never had seen mo
;

— you might have been happy !"

 "

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 13

" George ! George how can you talk so ? What 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 ; but, oh, I wish I'd never seen
you, nor you me !"
. " Oh, George, how can you \"

" Yes, Eliza, it's all misery, misery, misery ! My life is bitter as worm-
wood ; the very burning out of me. I'm a poor, miserable, forlorn
life is

drudge I shall only drag you down with me, that's aU. What's the
;

use of our trying to do anything, trying to know anything, trying to be

anything ? What's the use of living ? I wish I was dead ?"
" Oh, now, dear George, that is really wicked I know how you feel !

about losing your place in the factory, and you have a hard master; but
pray be patient, and perhaps something
—
" Patient !" said he, interrupting her " have n't I been patient ? Did;

I say a word when he came and took me away, for no earthly reason,
from the place where evei^body 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 better
; ;

hand; and I've learned it aU 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
put me to work that any horse can do ? He tries to do it he says he'U ;

bring 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 gi-owing ;

—
worse and worse flesh and blood can't bear it any longer. Every chance
he can get and torment me, he takes. I thought I could do my
to insult
work and keep on quiet, and have some time to read and learn out
well,
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
14 UNCXE tom's cabix.

me, and lie 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 EHza, mournfully.
" It was only yesterday," said George, " as I was busy loading stones
into a cart, that young mas'r Tom stood there, slashing hiswhip 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 bim 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 worUt bear it no, I wonH!" 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 " the ;

creature has been about all the comfort that I've had. He has 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 came
along, and said I was feeding him up at his expense, and that he couldn't
afibrd to have every nigger keeping his dog, and ordered me to tie a stone
to his neck, and throw him in the pond." :

" Oh, George, you didn't do it !"

—
" Do it not I but 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 flogging because I

wouldn't do it myself. I don't care Mas'r wUl 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 going to do ? Oh, George, don't do anything wicked ;
if you only trust in God, and try to do right, he'll deliver you."
 UiNCLE TOM S CABIN. 15

" I an't a Christian, like you, Eliza ; my heart's full of bitterness j

God. Why does he let things be so ?"

I can't trust in
" 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 bums, and
;

can't be reconciled anyhow. You couldn't in iny place you can't now,
;

if I tell you all I've got to say. You don't know the whole yet."
" What can be coming now ?"
" WeU, lately Mas'r has been saying, that he was a fool to let me
marry off the place ; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all 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 things ; but yesterday he told me

tliat I should take Mina for a wife, 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 ? There is no law in this
country for that : you for my wife, if he chooses to part us.
I can't hold
—
That's why I wish I'd never seen you why I wish I'd never been bom ;

it would have been better for us both —

it would have been better for

this poor child if he had never been born. All this may 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 smaJct,
and bright ? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword wiU pierce through yoiu*
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, tu-ed 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."
;

" So, Eliza, my girl," said the husband mournfully, " bear up, now
and good bye for I am going."
;

" Going, George going where ?"—

 " ;

16 UNCLE XOM'S OA.Bi:jf.

" To Canada," said he, straightening himself " and when I'm
up ;

there, I'll buy you — that's ail 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, dreadful 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
me down the river alive."
" Oh, George, for my sake, do be careful Don't do anything wicked
!

don't lay hands 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 right Mr. Symmes, that lives a mile past.
by here, with a 3fcte to
I believe he expected I should come here to tell you what I have. It
would please him, if he thought it would aggravate Shelby's folks,' as '

he calls 'em. I'm going home quite resigned, you understand, as if all
was over. I've got 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 wiU
h€£ir you."
" Oh, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in him then you won't ;

do anything wicked."
" Well, now, good bye" 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 weepings such parting as those may make —
whose hope to meet again is as the spider's web ; and the husband and
w^fe were parted.

CHAPTER 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 dwelling.
In front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, strawberries,
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, en twisting and interlacing, left scarce
a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in summer, various
 ;
;

TTKCLE TOM's CABIN. 17

brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four o'clocks, found an

indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendours, and were the
delight and pride of Aunt Chloe's heart.
Let us erfter 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 wash-
ing dishes, and come out into her own snug territories, to " get her ole
man's supper;" therefore, doubt not that it is her you see by the fire,
presiding with anxious interest over certain frilling items in a stewpan,
and anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from
whence steam forth indubitable intimations of " something good." A
round, black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that
she might have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of her own
tea rusks. Her whole plump countenance _^beams with satisfaction and
contentment from under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it,

however, if we must 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 barn-yard, but looked grave when
they saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting ou their
latter end; and certain it was that she was always meditating on 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 hoe-
cake, dodgers, muffins, and other numerous to mention, was a
species too
sublime mystery to all less and she would shake
practised compounders ;

her fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would narrate the
fruitless efibrts that one and another of her compeers had made to attai'.i
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 flnish our picture
of the cottage.
In one corner of stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread
it

and by the was a piece of carpeting, of some considerable size.

side of it

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 fiom 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 preten-
c
18 TJKC1.E TOM S CABIN.

sions, and evidently designed for use. The wall over the fire-place vpas
adorned with some very brilliant Scriptural prints, and a portrait of
General Washington, drawn and eoloiu-ed in a manner which would
certainly have astonished that 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 fii'st walking operations of the baby, which, as is usually the
case, consisted in getting" up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then
tumbling down —each.successive failure being violently cheered, as some-
thing decidedly clever.
A table, somewhat rheumatic in its hmbs, was drawn out in front of
the and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and saucers of a
fire,

decidedly brUIiant pattern, with other symptons 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 lai'ge, broad-chested, powerfully-made man, of a fuU glossy

black, and a face whose truly African featm-es were characterized by
an expression of grave and steady good sense, united with much kind-
liness and benevolence. There was something about his whole au' self-
resjjecting and dignified, yet united with a confiding and humble
simplicity.
He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before
liim, on which he was carefully and slowly endeavouring to accomplish
a copy of some letters, in which operation 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 g's and ^'s
innumerable for his edification and then, taking the pencil in his big,
;

heavy he patiently recommenced.

fingers,
" 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 Mas'r George with pride. " The way he can write
noAV 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 skiUet almost done ?"

" Jtlose done, Mas'r George," said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid, and
peeping in; "browning beautiful —a real lovely brown. Ah, let me
alone for dat ! INIissis let Sally try to make some cake t'other day, jes to
 "

UNCLE TOM's C.IBIN. 19

torn her, she said. Oh, go away, missis says I

' it really hurts my
!'
;
'

feelin's,now, to see good vittles spiled dat ar way Cake ris all to oas !

side — no shape at all, no more than my shoe go away — !'

And with this final expression of contempt for Sally's greenness. Aunt
Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclossd to view a
neatly baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been
ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment,
A\int 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'U give her baby somefin Ijy and by.
; Now, Mas'r
George, you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old man,
and 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 ;

I knew what was what ;oo well for that, Aunt Chloe."
" So you did —
so you did, honey," said Aunt Chloe, heaping the smoking
batter-cakes on his plate " you kuow'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," said Master George, when the activity of the
giiddle 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, mth earnestness,
catching hisarm " you wouldn't be for cuttin' it \vid 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 pm-pose. Dar 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 Jinny Is a better cook than you."
" Dem
Lincons an't much count, no way !" said Aunt Chloe, contemptu-
ously; " I mean, set along side our folks. They's spectable folks enough
in a kinder plain way ; but, as to gettin' up anything in style, they don't
begin to have a notion on't. Set Mas'r I/incon, now, alongside Mas'r
Slielby ! Good Lor! and Missis Lincon —can she kinder svveep it into a
room lilie my missis —so kinder splendid, yer know O, go way don't ! !

me nothin' of dem
tell Lincons !" and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one
who hoped she did know something of the world.
" Well, though, I've heard you say," said George, " that Jinny was a
pretty fair coolr."
" So I did," said Aunt Chloe ;
" I may say dat. Good, plain, common
cookin' Jinny'll do; make a good none o' bread —bile her taturs/a;—her
 !

20 UNCLE TOM's cabin.

corn cakes isn't extra, not extra now, Jinny's corn cakes isn't, but then
— but. Lor, come to de higher branches and what can she do
they's far ?
Why, she makes pies —sartin she does; but what kiader crust? Can she
make your real flecky paste, as melts in yoiir mouth and lies all up like a
puff?Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be manied,
and Jenny she jest showed me de weddin' pies. Jenny and I is good
friends, ye know. I never said nothin'; but go long, Mas'r George!
Why, 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 'tall."
" I suppose. Jinny thought they were ever so nice," said George.
" Thought so —
didn't she ? Thar she was, showing 'em, as innocent
;

— ye see, it's jest here. Jinny dotit know. Lor, the family an't nothing
She can't be spected to know! 'Ta'nt no fault o' hern. Ah, Mas'r George,
you doesn't know half your privileges in yer family and bringin' up !"
Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her 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 him, every
time I meet him."
Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a heavy guffaw of
laughter, at this witticism of young Mas'r's, laughing till the tears rolled
down her black shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfullj'^

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, Lor 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 could'nt," said Aunt Chloe, on whose benevolent
heart the idea of Tom's benighted condition seemed to make a strong
impression. " Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner, some o' these
times, Mas'r George," she added " it would look quite pretty of ye. Ye
;

know, Mas'r George, ye oughtenter feel 'bove nobody, on 'count yer privi-
leges, 'cause all our privileges is gi'n to us ; we ought al'ays to 'member
that," said Aunt Chloe, looking quite serious.
" Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week," said George.
" and you do your prettiest, Aunt Chloe, and we'll make him stare. Won't
we make him eat so he won't get over it for a fortnight?"
" Yes, yes —
sartin," said Aunt Chloe, delighted " you'll see. Lor to
; !

think of some of our dinners Yer mind dat ar great chicken pie I made
!
 tTxNCLE IOM's cabin. 21

•when we guv de dinner to General Knox ? I and missis, we come pretty

near quaiTelling about dat ar cnist. What does get into ladies sometimes,
I don't know ; but, sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o' 'spon-
sibility on'em, as ye maj^ say, and is all kinder '
sens' and taken up, dey
takes dat ar time to be hangin' round and kinder interferin' Now, missis,
!

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 missis, do jist look at dem
beautiful white hands o' yourn, with long fingers, and all a sparkling with
rings, like my white when de dew's on' em; and look at my great
lilies

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 't is I can't do nothin'
; —
with ladies in de kitchen !"
" Well, you made oitt well with that dinner ^I remember everybody —
said so," said George.
" Didn't I? And wan't I behind de dinin'-rqpm door dat bery day.f
and did'nt I see de General pass his plate three times for some more dat
bery pie ? 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, drawing
herself up with an
air. " Bery nice man, de Gineral He comes of one !

of de bery fustest families in Old Virginny He know's 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 his operations
hungrily from the opposite corner.
" Here, you Mose, Pete," he said, breaking off liberal bits, and throw-
ing them at them ; " you want some, don't you ? Gome, 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
22 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

as they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling each other, and
occasionally pulling the baby's toes.
" ! go long, will ye ?" said t-he mother, giving now and then a kick,
in a kind of general way, under the table,when tfie movement became too
obstreperous. " Can't ye be decent when white folks come to see ye ?
Stop dat ar, now, will ye ? Better 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
littleimpression on the young sinners addressed.
" La, now !" said Uncle Tom, " they are so full of tickle aU the while,
they can't behave theirselves."
Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with hands and
faces well plasteredwith molasses, began a vigorous kissing of the baby.
" Get along wid ye !" said the mother, pushing away their woolly
heads. " Ye'U all stick together, and never get clar, if ye do dat
fashion. Go long to de spring and wash yourselves !" she said, seconding
her exhortations by a slap, which resounded very formidably, but which
seemed only to knock out so much more laughter from the young ones, as
they tumbled precipitately over each other out of doors, where they fairly
screamed with merrimei^t.
" Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns ?" said Aimt Chloe,
rather complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept for such emer-
gencies, she poured a little water out of the cracked tea-pot on it, and
began rubbing off the molasses from the baby's face and hands; and
having polished her till she shone, she set her down in Tom's lap, while
she busied herself in clearing away supper. The baby employed the in-
tervals in pulling Tom's nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat
hands in his woolly hair, which last operation seemed to afford her special
content.
" Aint she a peart ^xa ?" said Tom, holding her from him to
young
take a full-length view; then getting up, he set her on his broad
shoulder, and began capering and dancing with her, while Mas'r George
snapped at her with his pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and Pete, now
retm-ued again, roared after her like beai's, tiU Aunt Chloe declared that

they " fairly took her head off" vpith 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 com-
posure.
" 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 thar ; for we's going to have the meetin'."
 UNCLE TOM AT HOME.
" Aint 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 hroad shoulder, and began capering and dancing
;

with her, while Mas'r George snapped at her with his pocket handkerchief, and Mose and
Pete, now retiirned again, roared after her Uke bears, till Aunt Chloe declared that they
'
—
fairly took her head off' with their noise." Page 22.
 •

uwcLE iom's cabin. 23

" Oh mother, we don't wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin' —

meetin's 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 delighted
topush the thing under, saying, as she did so, " Well, mebbe 'twill do
'em some good."
The house now resolved itself into a committee of the whole, to con-
accommodations and aiTangements for the meeting.
sider the
" we's to do for cheers, now, I declar I don't know," said Aunt
What
Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle Tom's, weekly, for an
indefinite length of time, without any more " cheers," there seemed some
encouragement to hope that a way would be discovered at present.
" Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last week,"
suggested Mose.
" You go along! I'll boim you pulled 'em out; some o' your shines,"
said Aunt Chloe.
" Well, it'll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall !" said Mose.
" Den Uncle Peter mus'n't sit in it, cause he al'ays hitches when he
gets a singing. He hitched pretty nigh across de room, t'other night,"
said Pete.
" Good Lor ! get him in then," said Mose, "
and den he'd begin,
it,

' Come saints and sinners hear me

and den down he'd go," and tell,' —
^Mose imitated precisely the nasal tones of the old man, tumbling on the
floor, to illustrate the supposed catastrophe.
" Come now, be decent, can't ye ?" said Aunt Chloe ;
" an't yer
ashamed ?"

Mas'r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and declared
decidedly that Mose was a " buster." So the maternal admonition seemed
rather to fail of effect.
" WeU, old man," said Aunt Chloe, " you'll have to tote in them 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', warnt it ?"
;

During tliis Mose and Pete, two empty casks had been
aside between
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, and the disposing of the rickety
chairs, at lastcompleted the preparation.
" Mas'r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know he'll stay
to read for us," said Aunt Chloe " 'peara like 'twill be so much more
;

interestin'."
24 uNCi-E tom's cabin.

George very readily consented, for your boy is always ready for any

tiling that makes Hm 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
Li2;zy that spotted muslin gown, when she'd got her new berage made
up ;" and 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 does 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 chm'ches 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 vrith 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 repeated the words •

" Oh, I'm going to glory— won't you come along with me ?
Don't you see the angels beck'ning, and 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 to hymns and
expressions 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-
mingled with the singing. One old gray-headed woman, long past work,
but much revered as a sort of chronicle of the past, rose, and leaning on
her staff, said
" Well, child'en ! Well, I'm mignty giad to near ye all and see ye
all once more, 'cause I don't know when
be gone to glory; but I've
I'll

done got ready, child'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
 1^
^1o
4)

S o

^t3

U in

fl OJ y
g rf cS

O s-
P

S ^^:S>

3 o §i.

§rd bo

B ^ o

o ^ d

5 '« HI
 UNCIiE TOM S CABIN. 25

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," she said, striking her staflf hard on the floor, " dat ox 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 whoUy overcome, while the whole circle struck up

" 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 sokes 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 organisation 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 in prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing
could exceed the touching simplicity, the child-like earnestness of his
prayer, enriched with the language of Scripture, which seemed so entirely
have become a part of himself,
to have vsrought itself into his being, as to
and drop from his lips unconsciously in the language of a pious old
to ;

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 of the responses
which broke out everywhere around him.

•While this scene 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
afore-named, at a table covered with papers and writing utensils.
Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bUls, 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
26 UKCLE TOM's CABItf.

them, like a man that hurries over some disagreeable business, 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 eager-
ness.
" Wal, now the thing's done .'" said the trader, getting up.
" It's done .'" said Mr. Shelby, in a musing tone and, fetching a long ;

breath, he repeated, " Ifs done .'"

" Yer don't seem to feel much pleased with it, 'pears to me," said the
trader.
" Haley," said Mr. Shelby, " I hope you'U remember that you pro-
mised, on 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 'blige me, too," said the trader. " How-
eomever, 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 fer, 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 re-assured by
these declarations but as they were the best comfort the case admitted
;

of, he allowed the trader to depart in sUence, and betook himself to a

solitary cigar.

CHAPTER V.

SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON CHANGING OWNERS,

Mr. 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
arranged her hair for, noticing her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she
;

had excused her attendance that night, and ordered her to bed. The
employment, naturally enough, suggested her conversation with the gu-1
in the morning ; and, turning to her husband, she said carelessly :
" By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you lugged
in 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.
" Haiej- Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray ?"
!
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 27

" 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, ay ?"
" Whj, I invited him ; I had some accoimts 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 E;liza came in here, after dinner, in a great woiry,
crying and taking on, and said you were talking with a trader, and that
—
she heard him make an offer for her boy the ridiculous little goose !"
" She did, hey ?" said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper which he
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 weU now as e^er."
;

" I told Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing her hair,
" that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had anything

to do with that sort of persons. Of course, I knew you never meant to

sell any of our people —
least of all, to such a fellow."
" Well, Emily," said her husband, " so I have always felt and said

biit the fact is, that my business lies so that I cannot get on without. I
shall have to sell some of my hands."
" To that creature ? Impossible Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious."
!

" I'm sorry to say that I am," said Mr. Shelby. " I've agreed to sell
Tom."
" What our Tom ?
! —
that good, faithful creatm-e —
been your faithful
!

servant fi'om a boy O, Mr. Shelby

! !
—
and you have promised him his
—
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 seU little
;

Harry, poor Eliza's only child !" said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between
grief and indignation.
" WeU, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to stU 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 aU others, choose these ?" said IMrs. Shelby. " Why
seU them, of aU 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 woxdd suit you any better," said Mr. Shelby.
" The wretch !" said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.
—
" WeU, 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, recoUecting herself, " forgive me. I
28 UNCLE TOM S CABIJSr.

have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared for this ; but
surely you wiU 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."
" Whynot make I'm willing to bear my part
a pecuniary sacrifice ?
of the inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have
ti'ied tried most faithfully, —
—
as a Christian woman should to do my duty to these poor, simple, de-
pendent creatures. I have cared for them, instructed them, 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 a little paltry
gain, we sell such a faithful, excellent, confiding creature as poor Tom,
and tear from him in a moment all we have taught him to love and
value ? I have taught them the duties of the family, of parent and child,
and husband and wife and how can I bear to have this open acknow-
;

ledgment that we care for no tie, no duty, no relation, however sacred,

compared with money ? I have talked with Ehza about her boy her —
duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch over him, pray for 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, unprincipled 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 beheve me when she
;

sees us turn round and sell her child ?

!"
—
sell him, perhaps, to certain ruin

of body and soul

" I'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily indeed I am," said Mr. —
Shelby ; " and I respect your feehngs, too, though I don't pretend to
share them to their full extent you now, solemnly, it's of no
; but I tell

use — I can't help myself. I didn't mean

you this, Emily but, in
to tell ;

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've 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 accm'sed thing!
—a curse to the master anda curse to the slave I was a fool to think !

I could make anything good out of such a deadly evil. It is a sm to

hold a slave under laws like ours; I always felt it was I always —
 —

TJNCIiE TO.u's CABIN. 29

thought SO when I was a girl I thought so — still more after I joined the
church hut 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 !"

" 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 diflPer 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
perhaps can't cure it, evil, —
—
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 sermon
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 sometliing ?

; it was an —
expensive one when it was bought. If I could only, at least, save Eliza's
child, I would sacrifice anything I have."
" I'm sorry, very sorry, Emily," said Mr. Shelby, " I'm 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 power
to ruin us all, and now he is fairly ofi". ^^^you knew the man as I 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 percentage
not wishing the old woman any harm either."
" And wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and Eliza's child ?''
this
" Well, my dear, the fact is, that this goes rather hard with me it's —
a thing I hate to think of: Haley wants to drive matters, and take
possession 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
30 TJJVCLE Tom's cabin.

drive somewhere, and carry Eliza off. Let tke 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 cmel business. go and see poor old Tom, God help him,
I'll

in his distress! They shall see, at any rate, that their mistress can
feel for and with them. As to Eliza, I dare not think about it. The
Lord forgive us MTiat 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 the 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.
Wlien the 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 apart-
ment, on the same floor with her mistress. 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 Chi'istmas 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. But there, on the bed, lay her slumbering
boy, his long cui-ls falling negligently around his unconssious face, his
rosy mouth half open, his little fat hands thrown out over the bed-clothes,
and a smile spread like a sunbeam 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
goicg to try to save my boy you wilt not blame me
!"
— God bless and!

ix'ward 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 remcn:ibrance,
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 gailj- painted
 ;

UNCLE TOM's cabin. 31

parrot to amuse liim when she should be called oti to awaken him. It
was some trouble to arouse the little sleeper but, after some effort, 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 near the bed
with bis little coat and cap.
His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his eyes, that he
at once divined that something unusual was the matter
" Hush, Harry," she said " musn'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's
; —
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 her arms, she whispered to him to bo very still
and, opening a door in her room which led into the outer verandah, she
glided noiselessly out.
It was a spai'khng, 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. tShe 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, fii-st at her and then at the house^
r.nd then, as if reassured by reflection, he patted along after her again.
A few minutes brought them to the window of Uncle 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 him-
;

self 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 BrLmo, too, a pawiii' 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 cnndlc, which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the haggard
face and daik wild eyes of the fugitive.
 :

32 UlTCLE TOM S CABIN.

" Lord you I'm skeered to look at ye, Lizzy Are ye tuck sick
bless ! !

or come over ye ?"

-wliat's
" 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 hands raised, and his eyes
man in a dream. Slowly and gradually, as its meanino-
dilated, like a
came over him, he coUapsed, 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 mas'r should sell him f
!

" He hasn't done anything it isn't for that. — Master don't want to
seU, and missis —
she's always good. I heard her plead and beg for us ;

—
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 him 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 can'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'U get your things together."
Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but quietly around,
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 wall. It's better for me alone
 !

UNCLE TOM 3 CABIN. 33

to go than to break up the place and sell aH. Mas'r an't to blame,
"
Chloe and he'll take care of you and the poor
;

Here he tm-ned to the rough trundle-bed full of little woolly heads,

and broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of the chair, and covered
his face with his large hands. Sobs, heavy, hoarse, and loud, shook the
chair, and great tears fell thi'ough his fingers on the floor —'just such tears,
sir, as you dropped into the coffin where lay youi- fii'st-boi'n sou 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 and jewels, you are but a woman, and, in life's
great straits and mighty griefs, ye feel but one son-ow
" 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 and tell liim 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 Bmno in there," she added. " Shut the door on him, poor
!"
beast He musn't go with me
I

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 away.

CHAPTER VI.

DISCOVERT.

Mr. 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.
D
 :

34 TTNCi-E Tom's cabiiv.

Andy
soon returned, with, eyes very wide in astonishment.
" Lor, missis Lizy'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 it, and she's off!"
" The Lord be thanked !" said Mrs. Shelby. " I trust she is."
"Wife, 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 aU 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 hea-vy cloud settled
down over her once joyous face, she proceeded making out her break-
fast 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 apprize the strange Mas'r of his ill luck.
" He'll be rael mad, I'U 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
closetwhere Missis keeps the great j ags, 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 last, 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
riding-whip and, all whooping off together, they tumbled in a pile of
;

immeasurable giggle, on the withered turf under the verandah, where

they kicked up their heels and shouted to theii- full satisfaction.
" If I had the little devils !" muttered Haley, between his teeth.
'*
But you ha'nt got 'em though !" said Andy, with a triumphant
and making a string of indescribable mouths at the imfortunate
flourish,
when he was fairly beyond hearing.
trader's back,
"I say now, Shelby, this yer's a most extro'rnary business!" said
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 35

Haley, as he abruptly entered tlie 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 stiL
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. Yes, 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," Mr. Shelby, turning sharply round upon him,
said
" what am by that remark ? If any man calls my honour
I to understand
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 feUow, that had made a fair bargain, to be
gulled that way."
" ]VIr. Haley," said Mr. Shelby, " if I did not think you had some
cause for disappointment, I should not have borne from yon 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 eveiy
assistance, in the use of horses, servants, &c., in the recovery of yom*
property. So, in short, Haley," said he, suddenly dropping fi'om the tone
of dignified coolness to his ordinary one of easy frankness, " the best way
for you is to keep good-natm-ed and eat some breakfast, and we will then
see what is to be done."
Mrs. 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 side-board,

she left the room.
" Old lady don't like your humble servant, over and above," said Haley,
with an uneasy effort to be very famUiar.
" I am not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with such freedom,"
said Mr. Shelby, dryly.
" Beg pai-don of course, only a joke, you know," said Haley, forcing
;

a 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 sm'gas of
u 2
36 TJNCT.E TOm'S cabin.

sensation than the report of Tom's fate among his compeers on the piaoe.
It was the topic in every mouth, everywhere ; and nothing was done iv
the house or ia the field, but to discuss its probable results. Elizas
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 tnree
shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place, was revolving
the matter profoundly in all its phases and bearings, with a comprehen-
siveness of vision and a strict look-out to his own personal well-being,
that would have done credit to any white patriot in Washington.
" It's an iU wind dat blows nowhar, —
dat ar a fact," said Sam, senten-
tiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons, and adroitly sub-
stituting a long nail in place of a missing suspender-button, with which
efibrt 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
? round de country—boots ridin'
blacked— in his pocket—
^pass grand as Cuffee—who but he
all Now, ?

why shouldn't Sam — dat's what want to know."

? I
" Halloo, Sam— O Sam Mas'r wants you to cotch Bill and Jerry,"
?

saidAndy, cutting short Sam's solUoquy.

" High what's afoot now, young un ?"
!

" Why, you don't know, I s'pose, that Lizy'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 green, ;

!"
now
" Well, anyhow, mas'r wants Bill and Jerry geared right up and you ;

and I's go with mas'r Haley, to look arter her."

to
" 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'U 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 yer wool."

" High !" said Sam, opening his eyes. " How you know dat ?"
" Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin', when I bring in
mas'r's shaving-water. She sent me to see why Lizy didn't come to dress
her; and when I telled her she was off, she jest ris up, and ses she, The '

Lord be praised ;' and mas'r he seemed real mad, and ses he, ' Wife, you
talk like a fool.' But, Lor she'll bring him to !I knows well enough ;

how that'll be, — it's allers best to stand misses' side the fence, now I tell
yer."
Black Sam, upon tliis, scratched his woolly pate, which, if it did not
contain very profound wisdoKi. still contained a great deal of a particular
 XT .N CLE TOMS CABIN. 37

species much in demand among politicians of all complexions and coun-

tries, 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 organised 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 dififerent sorts of worlds, and therefore had come

to his conclusions advisedly.
" Now, would a scoured the varsal world
sartin I'd a said that missis
after Lizy,"added Sam, thoughtfully.
" So she would," said Andy " but can't ye see through a ladder, ye
;

Mack nigger? Missis don't want dis yer Mas'r Haley to get Lizy's boy;
!"
dat'.s de go
" High !" said Sam, with an inder-cribable intonation, known only to
those who have heard it among the negroes.
" And I'll tell yer more'n all," said Andy; " I specs you'd better be
making tracks for dem bosses, —mighty sudden, too, —for I hearn missis
'quii-in' 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 and
Jerry in a full canter, and adroitly throwing himself off before they had

any idea of stopping, he brpught them up alongside of the horse-post like

a tornado. Haley's horse, which was a skittish young colt, winced, and
bounced, and puUed hard at his halter.
" Ho, ho !" said Sam, " skeery, ar ye ?" and his black visage lighted up
with a curious, mischievous gleam. " I'll fix ye now !" said he.
There was a large beech-tree overshadowing the place, and the small,
sharp, triangular beech-nuts lay scattered thickly on the ground. With
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, without leaving any
perceptible 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 as did
ever suitor after a vacant place at St. James's or "Washington.
" Why have you been loitering so, Sam ? I sent Andy to teU you to
hurry."
*'
Lord bless you, missis!" said Sam, "horses won't be eotched all in
88 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

a mimit : they'd done clared out way down to the south pasture, and
!"
the Lord knows whar
" Sam, I tell you not to say Lord hless you,' and the
how often must ' '

Lord knows,' and such things? It's wicked."

" 0, Lord bless my soul I done forgot. Missis
! I won't say nothing !

of de sort no more."
" Why, Sam, you just have said it again."
" Did I ? O, Lord I mean —
I didn't go fur to say it."
!

" You must be careful, Sam."

" Just let me get my breath, Missis, and I'U 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 ;

little lame last week; donH ride them too fast."

Mrs. Shelby spoke the last words with a low voice, and strong
;)mphasis.
•'
Let dis child alone for dat !" said Sam, rolling up his eyes with a
volume of meaning. " Lord knows High Didn't say dat !" said he,
! !

suddenly catching his breath, with a ludicrous flourish of apprehension,

which made his mistress laugh, spite of herself. " Yes, Missis, I'll look
!"
out for de bosses
"Now, Andy," said Sam, returning to his stand under the beech-
trees, " you see I wouldn't be fall surprised if dat ar gen'lman's crittur
should gib a fling, by and by, when he comes to be a gettin' up. You
know, Andy, critturs 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.
" Yes, you see, Andy, Missis wants to make time, dat ar's clar to —
der most or'nary 'bserver. I jis make a little for her. Now, you see,

get all dese yer bosses loose, caperin' permiscus roimd dis yer lot and
down to de wood dar, and I spec mas'r won't be ofl' 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 our'n to help him, and we'll heljj 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 modified
by certain cups of very good cofi'ee, he came out smiling and talking, in
tolerably restored humour. Sam and Andy, clawing for certain frag-
mentary palm-leaves, which they were in the habit of considering as
ready to " help mas'r."
hats, flew to the horse-posts, to be
Sam's palm-leaf had been ingeniously disentangled from all preten-
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 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 39

sions to braid, as respects its brim ; and the slivers starting apart, and
standing upright, gave a blazing air of freedom and defiance, quit*
it

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 ?"
now; we must lose no time."
" Well, boys," said Haley, "look alive
" Not a bit of 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 ejacula-
tions, made a dive at the reins, but only succeeded in brushing the
blazing palm-leaf afore-named into the horse's eyes, which by no means
tended to allay the confusion of his nerves. So, with great vehemence,
he overtm-ned Sam, and, giving two or three contemptuous snorts,
flom-ished 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 dii-efill ejaculations. And now ensued a miscellaneous scene
of conffision. Sam' and Andy, ran and shouted, — dogs barked here and
there, —and Mike,Mose, Mandy, Fanny, and all the smaller specimens
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 spiiit of the scene with great gusto and ;

having for his com-sing ground a' lawn of nearly half a mile in extent,
gently sloping down on every side into indefinite woodland, he appeared
to ^ake 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 seem to him most befitting, —
and the exertions that he made
were certainly most heroic. Like the sword of Coeur de Lion, which
always blazed in the front and thickest of the battle, Sam's pahn-leaf
was to be seen everywhere where there was the least danger that a
horse could be caught ;
—
there he would bear down full tilt, shoutiiig,
" Now for it cotch him cotch him !" in a way that would set every-
! !

thing to indiscriminate rout in a moment.

Haley up and down, and cursed and swore, and stamped miscel-
i-an

laneously.Mv. Shelby in vain tried to shout directions from the balcony,

and Mrs. Shelby from her chamber vrindow alternately laughed and
 ;

40 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

wondered, —not without some inkling of wliat lay at the bottom of all
this confusion.
At last, about twelve o'clock, Sam appeared triumphant, mounted on
Jerry, with Haley's horse by his side, reeking with sweat, but with
flashing eyes and dilated nostrils, showing that the spirit of freedom had
not yet entirely subsided.
" He's cotched !" he exclaimed triumphantly. " If t hadn't been for
me, they might a bust theirselves, all on 'em but I cotched him !" ;

" You !" growled Haley, in no amiable mood. " it hadn't been for K
you, this never would have happened."
" Lord bless us, mas'r," said Sam, in a tone of the deepest concern,
" and me that has been racin' and chasin' till the swet jest pours off
me !"
" Well, well !" said Haley, " you've lost me near three hom-s, with
your ciu-sed 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 reek of sweat. Why, mas'r won't think
of startrn' on now till arter dinner. Mas'r's boss wants rubben 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. Lizy never was no great of a
walker."
Mrs. Shelby, who, greatly to her amusement, had overheard this
conversation from the verandah, now resolved to do her part. She came
forward, and, courteously expressing her concern for Haley's accident,
pressed him to stay to dinner, saying that the cook should bring it on
the table immediately.
Thus, all things considered, Haley, with rather an equivocal grace,
proceeded to the parlour, while Sam, rolling his eyes after him "vlith
unutterable meaning, proceeded gravely with the horses to the stable-
yard.
" Did yer see him, Andy ? did yer see him ?" said Sam, when he had
got fairly beyond the shelter of the barn, and fastened the horse to a
post. " O, Lor, if it warn't as good as a meetin', now, to see him a
dancin' and kickin' and swarin' at us. Didn't I hear him ? Swar away,
ole fellow (says I to myself) ; will yer have yer boss now, or wait till

you cotch him ? (says I). 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 oughter seen how mad he looked, when I brought the boss up.
Lord, he'd a killed me, if he durs' to ; and there I was a standin as
innercent and as humble."
" Lor, I seed you," said Andy ; " an't you an old boss, Sam ?"
 UNCLE TOM's cabin. 41

" Rather tipecs I am," said Sam :

" did yer see missis up stars at the

-winder ? I seed her laugliin'."

" I'm sure, I "was racin' so, I dinn'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' huhservation, Andy.
It's a very 'portaut habit, Andy and I 'commend
; yer to be cultivatiu'
it, now Hist up that hind foot, Andy. Yer see, Andy, it's
yer young.
bobservationmakes all de difference in niggers. Didn't I see which way
the wind blew dis yer morning' ? Didn't I see what missis wanted,
thouo-h she never let on ? Dat ar's bobservation, Andy. I 'spects it's
what you may call a faculty. Faculties is different in different peoples,

but cultivation of 'em goes a great way."

"I <mess if I hadn't helped your bobservation dis mornin', yer
wouldn't have seen your way so smart," said Andy.
Andy," said Sam, " you's a promisin' child, der an't no manner o'
"

doubt. I thinks lots of yer, Andy and I don't feel no ways ashamed to
;

take idees from you. We oughtenter overlook nobody, Andy, cause the
smartest on us gets tripped up sometimes. And so, Andy, let's go up to
the house now. I'll be boun' Missis 'U give us an uncommon good bite
dis yer time."

CHAPTER VII.

THE mother's struggle.

It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more wholly desolate

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 she
was running, in leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting
loosefrom the protection of a friend whom she 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
fr-om a home like that ?

But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought paroxysm of

into a
frenzy by the near approach of a fearfiil danger. Her boy was old
 :

42 TTNCLE IOM's CABIN.

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 of putting
;

him out of her arms made her him to her bosom

shudder, and she strained
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, in frequent ejaculations, the prayer to a Friend
—
above " Lord help Lord, save me !
!"

were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be

If it
torn from you by a brutal trader, to-morrow morning, if you had seen —
the man, and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you
had only from twelve o'clock till morning to make good your escape, —
how fast could you walk? How many miles could you make in those
—
few brief "iours, with the darling at your bosom, the little sleepy head
—
on your shoulder, the small, soft arms trustingly holding on to your
neck ?
For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kept him
waking but his mother so hm-riedly repressed every breath or sound,
;

and so assured him, that if he were only still she would certainly save
him, that he clung quietly round her 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 .'"
sard 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 breathings 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 mind over the^body, that, for a time, can
the dominion of the
make and nerve impregnable, and string the sinews like steel, so
flesh
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 stiU she went, leaving one familiar object
;
 UNCLE TODl's CABIN. 43

after another, slacking not, pausing not, till reddening daylight found her
many a long mile from all traces of any familiar objects upon the 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 sort of inspiration, shebecame 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 preserva-
tion 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 them over many a half-mile.
After awhile, they came to a thick patch of woodland, through which
murmured a clear brook. As the child complained of hunger and thirst,
she climbed over the fence with him and, sitting down behind a large
;

rock which concealed them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out
of her little package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not
eat and when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to wedge some
;

of his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that the rising in her throat
would choke her.
" No, no, Harry, darling mother can't eat till you are safe
! "We !

—
must go on on— tUl we come to the river!" And she hurried again
into the road, and again constrained herself to walk regularly and com-
posedly forward.
She was many miles past any neighbom-hood where she was personally
known. If she should chance to meet any one who knew her, she reflected
that the well-known kindness of the family would be of itself a blind to
suspicion, as making it an unlikely supposition that she could be a ftigi-
tive. As she was also so white as not to be known as of coloured lineage
without a critical survey, and her child was white also, it was much
easier for her to pass on unsuspected.
On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farm-house, to
rest herself, and buy some dinner for her and self; for, as the danger
child
decreased with the distance, the supernatural tension of the nervous system
lessened, and she found herself both weary and hungry.
The good woman, kindly and gossiping, seemed rather pleased than
 : ;

44 UNCLE TOM S CiBIN.

otherwise with having somehody 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 liberty
on the other side.
It was nowearly spring, and the river was swollen and turbulent
^reat cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the tm-bid
vpaters. 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 narrow 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 preparatory to the evening meal, stopped, with a fork in
fire,

her hand, as Eliza's sweet and plaintive voice arrested her.

« What is it ?" she said.
" Is'nt 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? Ye seem
mighty anxious ?"
" I've got a chUd 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 sym-
pathies were much aroused; "I'm really consarned for ye. Solomon!"
she called, from the window, towards a small back building. man, in A
leather apron and very dirty hands, appeared at the door.
" I say, Sol," said the woman, " is that ar man going to tote them
"
bar'ls over to-night ?

" He said he should try, if 't was any way prudent," said the man.
" There's a man a piece down here, that's going over witli some
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 45

truck this evening if he durs'to ; he'll be in here to supper to-night, so

you'd better setdown and wait. That's a sweet little fellow," added the
woman, offering him a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
" Poor fellow he is n't used to walking, and I've hurried him on so,"
!

said Eliza.
" Well, take him into this room," said the woman, opening into a
small bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laid the weary
boy upon it, and held his hands in hers till he was fast asleep. For hei
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, sm-ging
waters that lay between her and liberty.
Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the
course of her pursuers.

Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried
on table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen before,
that it required more than one to make a bai'gain. So, although the
order was fairly given out in Haley's hearing, and carried to Aunt Chloe
by at dozen juvenile messengers, that dignitary only gave
least half a
certain very gruff snorts, and tosses of her head, and went on with
every operation in an unusually leisurely and circumstantial manner.
For 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 oc-

curred constantly, to retard the com'se of things. One luckless wight

contrived to upset the gravy and then gravy had to be got up de novo,
;

with due care and formality, Aunt Chloe watching and 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 and had to go to the
water,
spring for more and another precipitated the butter ioto 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 could n't sit
in his cheer no ways, but was a walkin' and staEdn' 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. H.u master 'U
be sending for him, and then see how he'U look !"
" He'll go to torment, and no mistake," said Kttle Jake.
"He deserves it!" said Aunt Chloe, grimly; "he's broke a many,
many, many hearts, — I teU ye all!" she said, stopping, with a fOTk up-
 ——

16 TJNCLE TOM'S cabin,

lifted in her hands " it's like what Mas'r George reads in Ravelations,
;

souls a callin, 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 ! now fairly sent in, the whole
and, the dinner being
kitchen was at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to her remarks.
"Sich '11 be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won't ther?" said
Andy.
" 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,
who 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'er sayin'.
Forever is a (Ireful word, chil'en its awful to think on't. You ought-
;

enter wish that ar to any human crittur."

" "We would n't to any body 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 'em?" said Aunt Chloe.
" Don't dey tear der suckin' baby right off his mother's breast, and sell
him, and der little children as is crying and holding on by her clothes,
don't dey pull 'em off and sells 'em ? Don't dey tear wife and husband
apart ? Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, " when its just taliin' the
" said
very —
on 'em ? and all the while does they feel one bit, don't dey
life —
drink and smoke, and take it oncommon easy ? Lor, if the devil don't
get them, 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
for 'em."
"It's natm-, Chloe, and natur's strong," said Tom, "but the Lord's
grace is stronger ; you oughter think what an awful state a poor
besides,
crittur's soul's in that'll do them ar things, —
you oughter thank God that
you an't like him, I'm sure I'd rather be sold, ten thousand
Chloe.
times over, than to have all that ar poor crittur's got to answer for."
" So 'd I a heap," said Jake. " Lor, shouldnH we cotch it Andy ?"
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.
" I'm glad Mas'r did n't go off this morning, as he looked to," said
Tom " that ar hurt me more than sellen' it did. Mebbe it might have
;

been natural for him, but't would have come desp't hard on me, as has
known him from but I've seen mas'r, and I begin to feel sort o'
a baby ;

reconciled to the Lord's will now. Mas'r could n'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 a pryin' round everywhar, as I've done, a
keepen' up all the ends. The boys all means well, but they's powerful
ear'iess. That ar troubles me."
 —

UNCLE tom's cabin. 47

The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlour.
" Tom," said his master, kindly, " 1 v?ant 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' yer 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 put you into my arms, and you wasn't a year
ole missis
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 sxu-e 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 ; U'ves trade *em up
as down, so I does a good business. All I want is a tvin', you know,
ma'am; that's all any on us wants, I s'pose."
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar
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, assented, 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 fii'om dinner, with an abimdance of zealous
and ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was boasting, m
flourishing style, to Aiidy, of the evident and eminent success of the
operation, now that he had " fai-ly come to it."
 48 UNCLE xom's cabin.

" Your master, I 'spose, don't keep no dogs," said Haley,

thoughtfully,
as he prepared to mount.
" Heaps on 'em," said Sam, triumphantly " thar'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 muttersd
" 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 /ar dogs, though,
at most anything, if you'd "get 'em started. Here, Bruno," he called,
whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultu-
ously toward 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 spKt 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 bisness, Andy. Yer mustn't be a makia' game. This yer
aai'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 makes tracks for the underground."
" Sartin," said Sam, " dat's de idee. Mas'r Haley hits de thing right
in the middle. Now, der's two roads to de river de dirt road and der
pike —which mas'r mean to take ?"
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new
geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said, by a vehement

reiteration.
" Cause," said Sam, " I'd rather be 'clined to 'magine that Lizy 'd take
de dirt road, bein' it's the least travelled."
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally
inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view of
the case.
" If yerwarn't both on yer such cussed liars, now!" he said, contem-

he pondered a moment.
platively, as
The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken appeared to
amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so
as apparently to run a great risk of falling off his horse, while Sam's face
was immovably composed into the most doleful gravity.
 ITNCLE TOm's cabin. 49

" Course," said Sam, "mas'r can do as he'd ruther go de straight road ;

if mas'r thinks best —

it's all one to us. Now, when I study 'pon it,
I think de straight road de best deridedly."
" She would natui-ally go a lonesome way," said Haley, thinking
aloud,and not minding Sam's remark.
" Dar an't no sayin'," said Sam " gals is pecular. They never does
;

nothin' ye thinks they will mose gen'Ily 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, Lizy took der dii't road ; so I think we'd better take de
straight one."
This profound generic viev? of the female sex did not seem to dispose
Haley particularly fo the straight road; and he announced decidedly
that he should go the other, and asked Sam when they should come
to it.

" A little piece ahead," said Sam, giving 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 all
fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an't it, Andy ?"
Andy wasn't certain, he'd only "hearn teU" about that road, but
never been over it. In short, he was strictly non-committal.
Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between lies
of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in favour of the dirt
road aforesaid. The mention of the thing he thought he perceived was
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

unwilling to implicate EHza.
When, 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 and after that it
an hour's ride,
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,
and bad for Jerry'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
E
 50 UKCLE TOM S CABIN.

the same time winking most portentously to Andy, whose delight was
now very near the explosive point.
Sam was in wonderful spirits professed to keep a very brisk look-
;

out —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 Lizy' '

—
down in the hollow" always making these exclamations in some rough
or craggy part of the road, where the sudden quickening of speed was a
special inconvenience to all parties concerned, and thus keeping Haley
in a state of constant commotion.
After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party made a pre-
cipitateand tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a large
farming estabhshment. Not a was in sight, all the hands being
soul
employed in the fields ; but, as the barn stood conspicuously and plainly
square across the road, it was evident that their journey in that direction
had reached a decided finale.
"Wan't dat ar what I telled mas'r?" said Sam, with an air of injured
innocence. " How does strange gentleman 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 kuow'd, and yer wouldn't believe me ? I telled
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 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 sleep in the village tavern
that the party came riding into the same place. Eliza 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 ejaciilation, which startled her at once she drew
;

suddenly back the whole train swept by the window, round to the
;

front door.
A thousandlives 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 himself 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 scar'ce seemed to touch the ground, and a moment brought her to
the water's edge. Right 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
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 UNCLF Toil's CABIN. •
51

the raft of ice beyond. It —

was a desperate leap impossible to anything
but madness and despair ;and Haley, Sam, and Andy, instinctively
and lifted up their hands, as she did it.
cried out,
The huge green ft-agment of ice on which she alighted pitched and
creaked as her weight came on it, but she staid 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 h^r 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.
(), Mr. Symmes save ! — —
me do save me do hide me !" said Eliza. —!"
" Why, what's this ?" said the man. " Wliy, if 'tan't Shelby's gal
" My child !
— this boy—he'd sold him ! There is his mas'r," said she,
pointing to the Kentucky shore. " O, Mr. Symmes, you've got a little

boy."
" So I have," said the man, as ho roughly, but kindly, drew her up
the steep bank. " Besides, you're a right brave gal. I like grit wherever
I see it."
When thoy 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
nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do ye to go thar," said
is to tell

he, pointing to a large white house which stood by

itself, off the main

street of the village. " Go thar; they're kind folks. Thar'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 'coiint."
"And, oh, surely, sir, you won't tell anyone!"
" Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for ? 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 Avoman folded her child to her bosom, and wallced fii'mly and
swiftly away. The man stood and looked after her.
" Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neighboiirly
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 striviu' and pantin', and tzying to clar theirselves,
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
E 2
52 usicLE iom's cabin.

instructed in his constitutional relations, and consequently was betrayed

into acting in a sort of Christianized manner, which, if he had been better
situatedand 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 arwas a tolerable 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'll 'ciise 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 curi's, 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 gra^dty. " I bery
much spect missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r Haley won't want us
no longei-. Missis wouldn't hear of our ridin' the critters over Lizy's
bridge to-night ;" and, with a facetious poke into Andy's ribs, he started
off, followed by the latter, at full speed —their shouts of laughter coming
faintly on the wind.

CHAPTER Vm.
ELIZA S ESCAPE.

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 i-ag carpet, where stood
 TTJSrCLE TOM S CABIN. 53

a table with a veiy shining black oil-cloth, sundry lank, high-backed

•wood chaii's, with some plaster images in resplendent colours on the

mantel-shelf, above a very dimly-smoking grate; a long hard-wood settle

extended uneasy length by the chimney, and here Haley sat him down
its

to meditate on the instability of human hopes and happiness in general.

" What did I want with the little cuss now," he 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 im-
precations 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 an't the nearest, now, to what 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 corner 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 buffalo-skin, made with the hair
outward, which gave him a shaggy and fierce appearance, perfectly in
keeping with the whole air of his physiognomy. In the head and face
every organ and lineament expressive of brutal and unhesitating violence
was in a state of the highest possible development. Indeed, could our
readers fancy a bull-dog come into 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 manyrespects an exact contrast to himself. He was short and slender,
litheand cat-Hke in his motions, and had a peering, mousing expression
about his keen black eyes, with which every featui-e 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 in general; his sleek, thin black hair
was stuck eagerly forward, and all his motions and evolutions expressed
a dry, cautious acuteness. The great big man poured out a big txmibler
half fuU of raw spirits, and gulped it down without a word. The little
man stood tip-toe, and putting his head first to one side and then to the
other, and snuffing considerably 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 pour'd out, he took it and looked 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.
" Wal, now, who'd a thought this yer luck 'ad come to me ? Why
Loker, how are ye ?" 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 stox)ped
54 UKCLE TOM S CABIN.

his sipping, and, poking liis head forward, looked shrewdly on our new
acquaintance, as a cat sometimes looks at a moving dry leaf, or some
other possible object of pm-suit.
" 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 yoiCre glad to see 'em ; some-
tluKg to be made off of 'em. What's the blow now ?"
"You've got a friend here?" said Haley, looking doubtfully at Marks,
" partner "
perhaps ?

" Yes, I have. Here Marks! here's that ar fellow that I 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, seein' as we've
met so happily, I think I'll stand up to a small matter of a treat in this here

parlour. now, old coon," said he to the man at the bar, " get us hot
So,
water and sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the real stuff, and we'll have a
blow out."
Eehold, then, the candles lighted, the fii-e stimulated to the bm-nuig
point in the grate, and our three worthies seated romid a table, well
spread with all the accessories to good fellowship enumerated before.
Haley began a pathetic recital of liis peculiar troubles. Loker shut
up his mouth and listened to him with gruff and surly attention.
!Marks, who was anxiously and with much fidgetting 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 conclusion
of it appeared to amuse him extremely, for he shook his shoulders and
sides in silence, and perked up his thin hps with an au- 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-un business makes lots of trouble in the trade," said
Haley dolefully.
we could get a breed of gals that didn't care, now, for their
" If
young uns," said Marks, " tell ye, I think 't Avould be 'bout the greatest
—
mod'rn improvement I knows on" and Marks patronised his joke by a
quiet introductory snigtjlc.
" Jes so," said Haley ; " I never couldn't see into itYoimg uns is
—
heaps of trouble to 'em one would think, now, they'd be glad to get
clar on 'em but they arn't.
; And the more trouble a young un is, and
the more good for nothing, as a geur'l thing, the tighter thay sticks
to 'cm."
 MATERNAL DESrERATION.
" She lips cat, ketches a knife from one of the deck
on a potton-bale, like a
hands, .... and she jest turns round and pitches head first, young nn and
all, into the river—went down plump, and never ris."— Page 55.
 " ;

TTNCLE Ton's CABIN. 55

" 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
—
considerable 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 —
yer oughtcr see how she went on Why, re'Uy, she did seem to mo to
!

valley the child more 'cause 'tivas sickly and 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'Uy was droll to think
ou't. Lord there an't no end to women's notions."
" Wal, jest so with me," said Haley. " Last summer, down on Red
River, 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 thought there
warn't no harm in my jest passing him along, and not sayin' nothin'
and I'd got him nicply swapped off for a keg of whiskey; but come to
get him away from the gal, she was jest like a tiger. So 'twas before we
started, and I hadn't got my gang chained up, so Avhat 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 minit, till she saw 'twau't no
use; and she jest tui-ns 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 3Iy gals don't cut up no such
!

!
shines, I tell ye
" Indeed! how do you help it?" said Marks briskly.
" Help it ? why, 1 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.' I says to 'em, ' This yer
young and not yom-n, and you've no kind o' business with it.
un's mine,
I'm going to sell it, fii'st 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 we may call emjyhasis," said Marks, poking Haley in
the side, and going into another small giggle. " An't Tom peculiar ? 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 meaning, Tom.
if J ou an't the devil, Tom, you's his twin brother, I'll say tl.at far ye."
56 TTNCXE TOM's CABIN.

Tom received tlie compliment witli becoming modesty, and began to

look as afiable as was consistent, as John Bunyan says, " with his doggish
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 reUy 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 I 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 lettle riled now ;" and Tom drank half a
glass of raw brandy.
" I say," said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and gesturing
impressively, " I'll say now, I al'ays meant to drive my trade so as
this,

to make money on't, fust and foremost, as much as any man but, then,
;

trade an't everything, and money an't everything, 'cause we's all got
souls, —
I don't 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 mattjers and so what's the use of doia'
:

—
any more wickedness than's reilly necessary ? it don't seem to me it's 't
aU 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
;

pleasant, now, when a feller's talking for your good ?"

" Stop that ar jaw o' yourn, there," said Tom, gruffly. " I can stand
—
most any talk o' yourn but your pious talk that kUls me right up.
After aU, what's the odds between me and you ? 'Tan't that you care
—
one bit more, or have a bit more feeling' 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 crittur run up a bUl 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 aU 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,
 !;

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 67

quarrelling, you know, won't answer no kind of purpose. Let's go to

ousiness. 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 puttin' 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 gi'n Shelby
!

eight hundred or a thousand, and then made well on her."

" White and handsome —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. An't it beautiful ?"
Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during this commimica-
tion, 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 every-
; — —
thing 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 Ri-Fcr, where I works seven hundred

niggers then, again, I come out a distant relation of Henry Clay, or
;

some old cock in Kentuck. Talents is difierent, you know. Now, Tom's
a roarer when there's any thumping or fighting to be done but at lying ;

—
he an't good, Tom an't ye see it don't come natural to bim but, Lord, ;

if thar's a feUer in the country that can swear to anything and every-

thing, and put ia all the circumstances and flourishes with a longer face,
and carr/t through better'n I can, why, I'd like to see him, that's aU
I b'lieve, my heart, I could get along and snake through, 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 of slow
thoughts and movements, here interrupted Marks by bringing his
heavy fist down on the table, so as to make aU ring again. "Ifll
do .'" he said.
58 UNCLE TOM's cabin.
" bless ye, Tom, ye needn't break all the glasses !" said Marks
Lord
" save your fist for time o' need."
" But, gentlemen, an't I to come in for a share of the profit ?" said
Haley.
" An't it enough we catch the boy for ye ?" said Loker. " What do
ye •want?"
" Wal," said Haley, " if I gives you the job, it's worth something
say ten per cent, on the profits, expenses paid."
" Now," said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and striking the table
with his heavy fiat, " don't I know you, Dan Haley ? Don't you think
to come it over me Suppose Marks and I have taken up the catchin'
!

trade, jest to 'commodate gentlemen like you, and get nothin' for our-
selves ? Not by a long chalk! we'll have the gal out an' out, and you keep
quiet, or, ye see, we'll have both —
what's to 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 partridges was last year if you find them or ;

us you're quite welcome."

" Oh, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that," said Haley, alarmed ; " you
catch the boy for the job you aUers 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 himself. What I ses
I'll do, I will do you know that, Dan Haley."
;

" Jes so, jes so, I said so, Tom," said Haley " and if you'd only ;

promise to have the boy for me in a week, at any point you'll name, that's
all I want."
" But it an't aU 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 doUai's, fiat down, or this child don't start a peg.
I know yer."
when you have a job in hand that may bring a clean profit of
," "XVIiy,
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 — all we
can do ? And suppose and goes to bushwhacking round
we leaves all,

arter yer young un, and finally doesn't catch the gal and gals allgrs is —
—
the devil to catch what's then ? would you pay us a cent would you ? —
I think I see you a doin' 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 our trouble
— that's /«r, an't it, Marks ?"
" Certainly, certainly," said Marks, with a conciliatory tone. " It's
only a retaining fte, you see, he he he —
we lawyers, you know.
! ! ! —
 ""

UNCLE TOM. S CABIN. 59

Wal, we must all keep good natured —keep easy, yer know.
Tom'U have
the boy for yer anywhere ye'U name won't ye, Tom ?" ;

" If I find the young un, I'll bring

him on to Ciucimiati, and leave him
at Granny Belchei^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, thiee hundred dollars for him, dead or alive. —
Edwards Dick and
Lucy —man and wife, six hundred dollars ; wench Polly and two
children —six hundred for her or her head.—I'm jest 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. " Ther's throe on
'em easy cases, 'cause all you've got to do is to shoot 'em, or sweai* they

is shotthey couldn't, of com'se, charge much for that. Them other

;

cases," he said, folding the paper, " -svill bear puttin' ofi" 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 runnin' awfully,
Tom an't 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, " if 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—"
no I an't a grain afraid," said Marks, " only
" Oh, ;
—
Only what ?" said Tom.
"
" Well, 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 vrith him," said Tom.
" I s'pose you've got good dogs," said Haley.
60 TJlirCLE TOM S CA.EIN.

" 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 hed in her hurry she left her honnet, too."
;

" That ar'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 Marks. " Our dogs tore a feller
half to pieces, once, down in Mohile, 'fore we could get 'em off."
" WeU, 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't no go,
neither. Dogs is no 'count in these yer up states where these critters
gets carried of course, ye can't get 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," said Loker, 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 prejudices in time. The catching business, we beg to remind them,
is rising to the dignity of a lawful and patriotic profession. If all the
broad 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.

While 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
face,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 pea's of laughter, that made the old woods ring as they
passed. With all these evolutions, he conxriTed to keep the horses up to
 " ;

UNCLE TOm's cabin. 61

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 ? "V\Tiere are they?"
" Mas'r Haley's a-restin' at the tavern he's ; dreflfvd fatigued, 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, breathless, and
almost faint, as the possible meaning of these words came over her.
" Wal, missis, de Lord he presarves his own. Lizy's done gone over
the river into 'Hio, as 'markably as if de Lord took her over in a charrit
of fire and two bosses."
Sam's vein of piety was always micommouly fervent in his mistress'
presence, and he made great capital of scriptural figures and images.
" Come up here, Sam," said Mr. Shelby, who had f&llowed on to the
verandah, " and tell your mistress what she wants. Come, come, Emily,"
said he, passing his arm round her, " you are cold and all in a shiver
you allow yourself to feel too much."
" Feel too much ! Am
I not a woman a mother ? Are we not —
both responsible to God for this poor girl ? My God, lay not this sin to
!
our charge
" What sin, Emily ? You see yourself that we have only done what
we were obliged to."
" There's
an awful feeling of guilt about it, though," said Mrs. Shelby.
" I can't reason itaway,"
" Here, Andy, you nigger, be alive!" called Sam, under the verandah,
" take these yer bosses to der barn don't ye hear mas'r a callin' ?" and
;

Sam soon appeared, palm-leaf in hand, at the parlour door.

" Now, Sam, teU us distinctly how the matter was," said Mr. Shelby.
" Where 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
floating 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, Ave
comes up to de little tavern by the river, and I rides a little ahead (I's —
so zealous to be a cotchin' Lizy, 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
sings out nuff" to raise the dead. Course Lizy she bars, and she dodges
back, when ISIas'r Haley he goes past the door and then, I tell ye, she ;
 62 UNCLE TOM S C.VEIN.

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 An iy, 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 sawin' and a jiggling up and
down, kinder as 'twere a great island. We come right behind her, and I
—
thought my soul he 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 sayiu', dis yer's a providence and no mistake, as missis has
allers been a instruetin' on us. Thar's allers instruments ris up to do
de Lord's will. Now, if 't hadn't been for me to-day, she'd a been took a
dozen times. Warn't it I started off de bosses, dis yer mornin', and kept
'em chasin' till nigh dinner time ? And didn't I car Mas'r Haley nigh
five miles out of de road, dis evening? or else he'd a come up with Lizy
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 no more use in making believe to be angry with a negro
is

than with a child both instinctively see the true state of the case, thi'ough
;

all attempts to affect the contrary and Sam was in no wise disheartened
;

by this rebuke, though he assumed an air of doleful gravity, and stood

with the corners of his mouth lowered in most penitential style.
— —
" Mas'r's quite right quite; it was ugly on me there's no disputin'
that ar; and of course mas'r tind missis wouldn't encourage no such
wurks. I'm sensible of dat ar; but a poor nigger like me's 'mazin'
tempted to act ugly sometimes, when fellers will cut up such shines as
dat ar Mas'r Haley he an't no gen'l'man no way anybody's been raised
; ;

as I've been can't help a seein' dat ar."

" Well, Sam," said Mrs. Shelby, " as you appear to have a proper
srnse of your errors, you may go now, and tell Aunt Chloe she may get
you some of that cold ham that was left of dinner to-day. You and Andy
must be hungry."
" Missis is a heap too good for us," said Sam, making his bow with
alacrity, and departing.
It will be perceived, as has been before intimated, that Master Sam
 "

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 63

had a native talent that might, undoubtedly, have raised him to eminence
in political life— a talent of making capital out of everything that turned
up, to be invested for his own especial praise and glory ; and having done
up his piety and humility, as he trusted, to the satisfaction of the parlour,
he clapped his palm-leaf on his head, "^vith a sort of rakish, free-and-easy
air,and proceeded to the dominions of Aunt Chloe, A\-ith the 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'sespecial delights had been to

ride in attendance on his master to all lands of political gatherings,
where, roosted on some rail fence, or perched aloft in some tree, he would
sit 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 and 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 his operations, he determined, on the present
occasion, to be eminently conciliatory; for he well knew that although
" missis' orders" would undoubtedly be followed to the letter, yet he
should gain a considerable deal by enlisting the spirit also. He therefore
appeared before Aunt Chloe with a touchingly subdued, resigned expres-
sion, like one who immeasurable hardships in behalf of a
has sufl;ered
persecuted fellow-creature — enlai'ged
upon the fact that missis had
directed him to come to Aunt Chloe for whatever might be wanting to
make up the balance in his solids and fluids and thus unequivocally —
acknowledged her right and supiemacy in the cooking department, and
all thereto pertaining.
The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple, virtuous body was
ever cajoled by tlie attentions of an electioneering politician with more
case than Aunt Chloe was won over by Master Sam's suavities and if ;

he had been the prodigal son liiraself, he could not have been overwhelmed
vsdth more maternal bountifulness and he soon found himself seated,
;

happy and glorious, over a large tin pan, containing a sort of olla podrida
of aU that had appeared on the table for two or three days past. Savoury
64 tTNCLE TOM's CABIIf.

morsels of ham, golden blocks of corn-cake, fragments of pie of every

conceivable mathematical figure, chicken wings, gizzards, and drnmsticks,
all appeared in picturesque confusion and Sam, as monarch of all he
;

sm-veyed, sat with his palm-leaf cocked rejoicingly to one side, and
patronising Andy at his right hand.
The kitchen wasfull of all his compeers, who had hurried and
crowded from the various cabins, to hear the termination of the day's
in,
exploits. Now was Sam's hour of glory. The story of the day was
rehearsed, with all kinds of ornament and varnishing which might be
necessary to heighten its effect for Sam, like some of our fashionable
;

never allowed a story to lose any of its gilding by passing-

dilettanti,
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, all 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 telled me, only this mornin', that you'd held this yer
mas'r to cotch Lizy seems to me 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 Lizy, I
rally spected mas'r was sot dat wa»y. When I found missis was sot the
contrar, dat ar —
was conscience inore 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 is'nt persistent, I wanter know ? Thar, Andy, you may have
dat ar bone, 'tan't picked quite clean."
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 65

Sam's audience nanging on his words with open mouth, he could not
but proceed.
" Dis yer matter 'bout persistence, feller niggers," said Sam, with the
air of one entei-ing into an abstruse subject, " dis yer 'sistency's a thing
what an't seed into very clar, by most anybody. Now, yer see, wuen a
feller stands up for a thing one day and night, de contrar de next, folks
sis (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 o' 'parison. Here !

I'm tryin' to get top o'der hay. Wal, I puts up my larder 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 ?"
" It's the only thing ye ever was persistent in. Lord knows!" muttered
Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather restive the merriment of the evening
;

being to her somewhat after the Scripture comparison like " vinegar —
upon nitre."
" Yes, indeed !" said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory, for a
closing effort. " Yes, my feller-citi^eus and ladies of de other sex in
general, I has principles —I'm proud to 'oon'em —they's perquisite to dese
yer times, and ter all times. I has principles, and I sticks to 'em like
fort} —jest anything that I thinks is principle, I goes in t'ot; I wouldn't
mind if dey burn me 'Hve, I'd walk right up to de stake, I would, and say,
here I comes to shed my last blood fur my principles, fm* my country, fur
gen'l interests of s'ciety."
Aunt Chloe, " one o' yer principles will have to be to get
" Well," said
to bed some time to-night, and not to be a keepin' everybody up till
mornin' now, every one of you young uns that don't want to be cracked,
;

had better be scase, mighty sudden."

" Niggers all on yer," said Sam, waving his pahn-leaf with benignity,
!

" I give yer 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 SENATOR IS BUT A MAN.

The light of the cheerful fire shone
on the rug and carpet of a cosy
parlour, and glittered on the sides of the tea-cups and well brightened
tea-pot, as Senator BLd was drawing oflF his boots, prepai-atory to insert-

F
66 UNCiE tom's cabin.

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. Bii'd, looking
the very picture of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the
and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number of frolic-
table, ever
some juveniles, who were eifervescing in all those modes of untold
gambol and mischief that have astonished mothers ever since the
Flood.
"Tom, let the door-knob alone —there's a man! Mary! Mary; 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 some-
thing to her husband.
" Yes, yes, I thought I'd justmake a run down, spend the night, and
have a little comfort at home. I'm tired to death, and my head aches !"
Mrs. 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 husband
interposed.
" No, no, Mary, no doctoring I 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 of considering
himself a sacrifice to his country.
" Well," said his wife, after the business of the tea-table was getting
rather slack, " and what have they been doing in the Senate ?"
Now, was a very unusual thing for gentle little Mrs. Bird ever to
it

trouble her head mth what was going on in the house of the State, very
vpisely considering that she had enough to do to mind her own. Mr. Bird,
therefore, opened his eyes in surprise, and said —
" Not very much of importance."
" WeU but is it true that they have been passing a law forbidding
;

people to give meat and drink to those poor coloured folks that come
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, aU 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 hope,

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 thing has 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 excite-
ment."
 — !

tTNCLE TOM S CABIN. 67

" And what is the law ? It don'i forbid us to shelter these poor creatures
a night, does it ? and to give '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 gobble,
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 more by intreaty 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 inexpHcable
in proportion to the general softness of her nature. Generally the most
indulgent and easy to be intreated of all mothers, still her boys had a
very reverent 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 defenceless 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 over
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'sa 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
; !

get to a pretty pass, if a woman can't give a warm

supper and a bed to
poor, starving creatures, just because they are slaves, and have been
abused and oppressed all their lives, poor things !"
" But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are aU quite right, dear,
and interesting, and I love you for them but, then, dear, we musn't suffer
;

our feelings to run away with our judgment. You must consider it's not
a matter of private feeling there are great pubhc interests involved, there
;
68 tTNCLE tom's cabin.

is such a state ot public agitation rising, that we must put aside our
private feelings."
" Now, John, I don't know anything about politics, but I can read my
Bible ; and there I see that I must feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and
comfort the desolate and that Bible I mean to follow."
;

" But in cases where your doing so would involve a great public evil —
" Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it can't. It's

always safest all round, to do as He bids us."

" Now listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a very clear argu-
ment to show —
" Oh, 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, shivering, hungry
creature from your door, because he was a runaway ? Would 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 turning
away any body that was in trouble never had been bis 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 inde-
fensible point. So he had recoiu'se to the usual means of gaining time
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 territory, had
no more conscience than to push her advantage.
" I should like to see you doing that, John I really should Tm-n- — !

ing a woman out of doors in a snow-storm, for instance, or, may be you'd
take her up and put her in jail, wouldn't you ? You would make a great
hand at that !

" Of course, it 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 tell you folks don't run away when they are happy; and
when they do run poor creatures! they sufler enough with cold 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, —especially
on such subjects.
John reasoning
There's a way you have of coming round and round a
political folks
plain right thing and you don't believe in it yourselves, when it comes
;

to practice. I know you well enough, John. You don't believe it's right
any more than I do and you wouldn't do it any sooner than I."
;

At this critical juncture, old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-work, put

 I

P
I—
w
o
w
W
o

Pi

w .2 =«

2 sJ

l-H ^r^
f-l O o
 "

TJNCLE XOM 3 CABIN'. 69

his head in at the door, and -vrished " IMissis would come into the kitchen,"
and our senator, tolerably relieved, looked after his little wife
with a
whimsical mixtui-e of amusement and vexation, and seatino- himself in
the arm-chair, bf gan to read the papers.
After a moment was heard at the door, in a quick,
his wife's voice
earnest tone — " Jolin
John I do wish you'd come here a moment."
! !

He laid down his paper and went into the kitchen, and star tea, 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 despised 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. He 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 ;
'*
made Her faint. She was
'pears like 'twas the heat that
tol'able peart when she cum
and asked if she could'nt warm herself
in,

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
slowly 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 rumiing to her 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 !

" Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman," said Mrs. Bird, encourag-
ingly. " You are safe ; don't be afraid."
" God bless you!" said the woman, covering her face and sobbing,
while the httle boy, seeing her crying, tried to get into her lap.
With many gentle and womanly offices, wliich none knew better how
to render than Mrs. Bii'd, 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, shefell 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 liim from her;
and even in sleep her arm encircled him with an unrelaxing clasp, as if
she could not even then be bcguiltd of her vi^-ilant hold.
 70 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

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. Bird busied herself with her knitting-work, and
Mr. Bird pretended to be reading the paper.
" I wonder who and what she is !" said Mr. Bird at last, as he laid it
down.
" When she wakes up and feels a litte rested, we'll see," said Mrs.
Bu-d.
" I say, wife!" said Mr, Bird, after musing in sUence over his news-
paper.
"Well, dear!"
" She couldn't wear one cf your gowns, could she, by any letting
down, or such matter ? She seems to be rather larger than you are."
A quiet perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird's face as she
answered, " We'll see."
Another pause, and IVIr. Bird again broke out
"I say, wife!"
WeU! What now?"
" Why, there's that old bombazin cloak that you keep on purpose to
put ovei me when I take my afternoon's nap you might as well give
;

her that —she needs clothes."

At this instant Dinah looked in to say that the woman was awake,
and wanted to see missis.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the two
eldest boys, the smaller fry having by this time been safely disposed
of in bed.
The woman was now sitting up on the settle by the fire. She was
looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm, heart-broken expression,
very diSerent from her former agitated wildness.
" Did you want me ?" said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. " I hope you
feel better now, poor woman !"
A shivering sigh was the only answer; but she
long-drawn,
her dark eyes, and fixed them on her with such a forlorn
lifted
and imploring expression that the tears came into the little woman's
eyes.
" You needn't be afraid of anything we are friends here, poor woman
;

Tell 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

•3
 — a
!

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 71

on the ice; for they were behind me —right behind —and there was no
other w ay
" 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 — I know" but I did it
it !" said she wildly ;

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 ;

knows how much the Lord can help 'em, till they try," said the woman,
with a flashing eye.
" Were you a slave ?" 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 siich dangers ?"
The woman looked up at INIrs. Bird with a keen, scrutinising glance,
and it did not escape her that she was dressed in deep mourning.
" Ma'am," she said, suddenly, " haveyou ever lost a child ?"
The question was unexpected, and it was a thrust on anew wound;
for it was only a month since a darling child of the family had been laid
in the grave.
Mr. Bird turned round and walked to the window, and Mrs. Bird
burst into tears but recovering her voice, she said
;

" ^Tiy do you ask that ? I have lost a little one."

" Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after another — left
'em buried there when I came away and I had only this one left. I never
;

slept a night without him he was all I had. He was my comfort and
;

pride, day and night and, ma'am, they were going to take him away
;

— —
from me to sell him sell him down south, ma'am, to go all alone —
baby that had never been away from his mother in his life I couldn't !

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 off 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
72 UlfCJ.E TOM S CABIN.

be found there, had thrown themselves disconsolately into the skirts of

their mother's gown, where they were sobbing, and wiping their eyes
and noses, to their hearts' content Mrs. Bu-d had her face fairly hidden
;

in her pocket-handkerchief ; and old Dinah, with teai-s 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 caffs, and making a most uncommon variety of wry
faces, occasionally responded in the same key, with great fervom'. Our
senator was a statesman, and of coui-se 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
exclaimed, gulpingdown 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 was kind but tiiey couldn't help themselves. They were

mistress ;

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 tellmg mistress that, and she begging and
pleading for me, and he told her he couldn't help himself, and that the
papers were all di'awn and then it was I took him and left my home,
;

and came away. I knew 't was 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, 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 hi7n again !"

The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these words might
have led a was entirely apathetic
superficial observer to tliink that she
but there was a calm, settled depth of anguish in her large, dark eye,
that spoke of something far otherwise.
" Atid where do you mean to go, my poor woman ?" said Mrs. Bird.
" To Canada, if 1 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 way off, think ?" said the woman, earnestly.
a very great
" Much than yoa think, poor child !" said Mrs. Bird " but
fiu'ther ;

we will try to think what can be done for you. Here, Dinah, make her
up a bed m your own rooin, close by the kitchen, and I'll think what to
 — ,

UNCLE tom's cabin. 73

do for her in the morning. Meanwhile, never fear, poor woman. Put
your trust in God he will protect you."
;

Mrs. Bird and her husband re-entered the parlour. She sat down in
her little rocking-chair before the iire, swaying thoughtfully to and fro.
Mr. Bird strode up and down the room, grumbhng to himself. " Pish!
pshaw confounded awkward business !" At length, striding up to his
!

wife, he 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't was only the woman, she could he 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 doo^
;

A pretty kettle of fish it would be for me, too, to be caught with them
both here, just now No they'll have to be got off 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, at last, beginning
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 ready to hear her liege lord's intentions, when
he should think proper to utter them.
" You see," he said, " there's my old client, Van Trompe, has come
over fi-om Kentucky, and set all his slaves free and he has bought a
;

place seven miles up the creek, here, 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,
nobudy could di'ive a carriage there to-night but me"
" Why not ? Cudjoe 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 tee, 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 cany me on to the next
 — !;

74 TTNCLE TOM S CABIN.

tavern, to take the stage for Columbus, that comes by about three or four
and had had the carriage only for that. I shall get
so it will look as if I
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 can't help it!"

" Your heart is better than your head, in this case, John," said the
wife, laying her little white hand on his. " Could I ever have loved you,
had I not known you better than you know yourself?" And the Uttle
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, what;

could he do but walk off soberly, to see about the carriage ? At the
door, however, he stopped a moment, and then coming back, he said,
with some hesitation
" Mary, I don't know how you'd feel about it, but there's the drawer
full 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 bed-room door adjoiaing 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.

Mrs, 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 horse 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 tiU the tears fell through her fingers into the drawer; then
suddenly raising her head, she began, with nervous haste, selecting 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 jfrom 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
person — to anybody that was happy ; but I give them to a mother more
heart-broken and sorrowful than I am and : I hope God will send his
blessings with them J"
 !

UNCLf; TOM S CA21N. 75

There are in world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring up into
this
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 memorials 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
heard the low rattling of wheels at the door.
" Mary," said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in his hand,
" you must wake her up now we must be off." ;

Mrs. Bird hastUy deposited the various articles she had collected in a
small plain trunk, and locldng it, desired her husband to see it in the
carriage, and then proceeded to call the woman. Soon, an-ayed 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 carriage, and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage-
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
eyes, full of earnest meaning, on Mrs. Bird's face, and seemed going to
speak. Her lips moved, she tried once or twice, but there was no sound,
and pointing upward with a look never to be forgotten, she fell back in
the seat, and covered her face. The door was shut, and the carriage
drove on.
What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, who 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 had not been exceeded by any
senator in his native State
of his brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquence which has
won for them immortal renown How subUmely he had sat with his
!

hand 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
image of a little newspaper picture of a man with a stick and bimdle
with " 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
 !

UNCLE TOM. S CABIN.

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 every body 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 sei-vices 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
everyone 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
traveller, who has been accustomed to connect no ideas with a railroad
bnt 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 depths, roads are
made of round rough logs, arranged transversely side by side, and coated
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, down, and crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts
of black mud intervening.
Ov6r 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
adjustment, against the windows of the down-hill side. Carriage sticks
fast, while Cudjoe on the outside heard making a great muster among
is

the horses. After various ineffectual puUings 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; senator'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
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. i I

—
springs up with another bounce down go tbe hind wheels senator, —
woman, and child fly over on to the back seat, his elbows encountering
her bonnet, and both his feet being jammed into his hat, which flies off
in the concussion. After a few moments the " slough" is passed, and
tlie horses stop, panting ; the senator finds his hat, the woman straightens
htr 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 off, after aJl.

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,
aftir much outside commotion, Oudjoe appears at the door.
" Please, sir, it's a powerful bad spot this yer. I don't know how we's
I'm a thinkin' we'll have to be a gittin' rails."
to get clar out.
The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm
foot-hold. Down goes one foot an immeasurable depth; he tries to pull
it and tumbles over into the mud, and is fished out,
up, loses his balance,
in a very despaii'ing condition, by Cudjoe.
But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones. Western
travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in the interesting process
of pulhng down raU 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 beeird 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 whUe he is doing his best at that, we
;

shall give him a httle 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 and being gifted by nature with a great,
skin,"
honest, just heart, quite equal to his gigantic frame, he had been for
some years witnessing with repressed uneasiness the workings of a system
equally bad tor oppressor and oppressed. At last, one day John's great
heart had swelled altogether too big to wear his bonds any longer so he ;
78 UNCLE tom's cabin.

just took his pocket-book 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 people, men, women, and children, packed them up in waggons,
and sent them off to settle down and then honest John turned his face
;

up the creek, and sat quietly down on a snug, retired fann, to enjoy his
conscience and his reflections.
" Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and child from
slave-catchers ?" said the senator explicitly.
" I rather think I am," said honest John, with some considerable
emphasis.
" 1 thought so," said the senator.
" If there's anybody comes," said the good man, stretching his tall,

muscular form upward, " why here

I'm ready for 'em ; and I've got seven
sons, each six foot high, and they'll be ready for 'em. Give our respects
to 'em," said John ;no matter how soon they call, make no
" tell 'em it's

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 where
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 that know me know that
"
'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 no w, 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 few words, briefly explained Eliza's history.
senator, in a
" O ! oa! aw! now, I want to know!" said the good man, pitifully;
" sho now, sho That's natur, now, poor crittur hunted down, now,
! ! !

like a deer —
hunted down jest for havin' natural feelin's, and doia' what
no kiud o' mother coiild help a doin' I tell ye what, these 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,
yellow hand. " 1 tell yer what, stranger, it was years and years before
I'd jine the church, 'cause the ministers round in our parts used to preach
that the Bible went in for these ere cuttings up and I couldn't be up to ;
 UNCLE lOil's CABIN. 79

'em with their Greek and Hebrew, and so I took up agin 'em, Bible and
all. I never jined the church till I found a minister that was up to 'em
all in Greek and all that, and he said right the contrary and then 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
junctm-e he presented.
" Ye'd better jest put up here, now, till daylight," said he heartily,
" and I'll caU up the old woman, and have a bed got ready for you in no
time."
" Thank you, my good friend," said the senator, " I must be along, to
take the night stage for Columbus."
" Ah, well, then, if you must, I'll go a piece with you, and show you a
cross road that 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
guiding the senator's carriage towards a road that ran down in a hollow,
at the back of his dwelling. When they parted, the senator put into his
hand a ten-dollar biU.
" her," he said briefly.
It's for
" Ay, ay," said John with equal conciseness.
They shook hands, and parted.

CHAPTER X.

THE PKOPERTY IS CAKRIED OFF.

The February morning looked gray and drizzling through the window
of Uncle Tom's cabin. It looked on downcast faces, the images of
mournful hearts. The little table stood out before the lire, covered with
an ironing-cloth a coarse 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 the table. Cai'efully she rubbed and ironed
eveiy fold and every hem, with the most scrupulous exactness, every now
and then raising her hand to her face to wipe oflf the tears that were
com'sing down her cheeks.
Tom sat by,with his Testament open on his knee, and his head leaning
upon his hand but neither spoke. It was yet early, and the children
;

lay all asleep together in their little rude trundle-bed.

Tom, who had to the full the gentle, domestic heart, which, woe for
80 UNCLE TOM's CaBIN.

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.
Aunt Chloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and over on the
coarse shirt, already as smooth as hands could make it ; and finally
setting 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 heard '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 dreflfiil
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 farder than
he let's it and thar's one thing I can thank him for. It's me that's
;

sold and going down, and not you nur the chil'en. Here you're safe
what conies will come only on me; and the Lord, he'll help me —
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 marcies !" he added tremulously, as if he was
quite sure he needed to think on them very hard indeed.
" Marcies !" 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 ye
could be took for his debts. Ye've arn't him all he gets for ye, twice
over. He owed ye yer freedom, and ought ter gin't to yer years ago.
Mebbe he can't help himself now, but I feel it's wrong. Nothing can't
beat that ar out o' me. Sich a faithful crittur as ye've been, and allers
sot his business 'fore yer own every way, and reckoned on him more than
yer own wife and chil'en Them as sells heart's love and heart's blood,
!

!"
to get out thar scrapes, de Lord'H. be up to 'em
" Chloe now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when perhaps jest the
!

last time we'll ever have together And I'U tell ye, Chloe, it goes agin
!

me to hear one word agin mas'r. Wan't he put in my arms a baby ?

it's nature I should think a heap of him. And he couldn't be spected to
think so much of poor Tom. Mas'rs is used to havin' all these yer
tilings done for 'em, and nat'Uy they don't think so much on't. They
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 w ould have
let this yer come on me if he could have seed it aforehand. I know he
wouldn't."
 UNCLE XOil S CABIxV. 81

" Wal, any "way, thar's wrong about it somewhar," said Aunt Cliloe,
in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant trait; "I
can't jest make out whar't is, but thar's wi-ong somewhar, I'm clar
o' that."
" Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above ; he's above all — thar don't
a sparrow without him."
fall
'*
It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter," said Aunt
Chios. " But dar's no use talkin' ; I'll jes wet up de corn-cake,
and get ye one good breafast, 'cause nobody knows when you'll get
another."
In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold south, it must
be remembered that all the instinctive affections of that race are
peculiarly 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 negro
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 feehng 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, tbeir wives or children. This nerves the African,
naturally patitnt, 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 re-capture.
The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs. Shelby
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 killed and dressed her choicest chicken, and prepared her corn-
cake wath scrupilous exactness, just to her husband's taste, and brought
out certain mysterious jars on the mantel-piece, some preserves that
were never produced except on extreme occasions.
" Lor, Pete," said Mose, triumphantly, " han't we got a butter of a
breakfast !" at the same time catching at a fragment of the chicken.
a
 " ;!

g2 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on the ear. " Thar now crowing !

over the last breakfast yer poor daddy's gwine to have to home!"
" O Chloe !" said Tom, gently.
" Wal^ I can't help it," said Aunt Chloe, hidiug her face in her apron j

" I's so tossed about, it makes me act ugly."

The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father and then at
their mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes,began an
imperious, commanding cry.
" Thar !" said Aunt Chloe, mpuig 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 very 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 l:>e carefal, '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 ?" and Aunt Chloe, again overcome, 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 internal reflections.
" Ay, crow away, poor crittm* !" Aunt Chloe " ye'U have
said ; to come
to it, too ! ye'll live to see yer husband sold, or mebbe be sold yerself
and these yer boys, 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 i*" said Aunt Chloe.
;

Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe eet 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 regarding
the silent group, she sat down in the chair, and, covering her face with her
handkerchief, began to sob.
" Lor, now, missis, don't— don't !" said Aung Chloe, biu-sting out m
 — ;

UNCLE TOM S CABtN. 63

her turn; and for a few moments tliey all wept in company. And in
those tcai's 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, avai'ted face, is not worth one honest tear shed in real sympathy ?
" My good fellow," said Mrs. Shelby, " you anything to
I can't give
do you any good. If I give you money it wiU only be taken from you.
But I tell you solemnly, and before God, that I will keep trace of j'ou
and bring you back as soon as I can command the money and, till then, ;

!"
trust in God
Here the boys called out that Mas'r Haley was coming, and then an
imceremonious kick pushed open the door. Haley stood there in very
ill-humour, having ridden hard the night before, and being not at all
pacified by his ill success in re-capturing his prey.
" Come," said he, " ye nigger, ye'r ready ? Servant, ma'am !" said he,
taking he saw Mrs. Shelby.
off his hat, as
Aunt Chloe shut and corded the box, and, getting up, looked gruffly on
the trader, her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks of fire.
Tom rose up meekly, to follow his new master, and raised up his
heavy box on his shoulder. His wife took the baby in her arms to go
with him to the waggon, and the children, still ciying, trailed on behind.
Mrs. Shelby, walking up to the trader, detained him for a few moments,
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 head servant and a Christian teacher, by all the
place, and there was much honest sympathy and grief about him, par-
ticularly 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."
" Do'nt know, ma'am I've lost one five hundi'ed dollars from this yer
;

place, and I can't afibrd to run no more risks."

" What else could she spect on him ?" said Aunt Chloe, indignantly
g2
 " !

84 TTNCLE XOM S CABIN.

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 neighbom-ing estate, and havuig departed early in the morning, before
Tom's misfortune had been made public, had left without hearing
of it.

" Give my love to Mas'r George," he said earnestly.

Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful look, fixed
to the laston the old place, Tom was whirled away.
Mr. Shelby at this time was 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 But his wife's expostulations awoke his half-slumbering
relief.

regrets and Tom's disinterestedness increased the unpleasantness 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 without even the excuse
of necessity he could not satisfy his own feelings and that he might not
; ;

witness the unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a

short business tour up the country, hoping that all would be over before
he returned.
Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling past every
old familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate 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 handcuflPs, he stepped into the shop,
to have a little alteration in them.
" These yer's a little too small for his build," said Haley, showing the
fetters, and pointing out to Tom.
" Lor! now, if that ar an't Shelby's Tom. He an't sold him, now ?''

said the smith.

" Yes, he has," said Haley.
" Now, ye don't 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 crittur
—
'•
Yes, yes," said Haley ;
" but your good fellows are just the critturs to
want ter run off. Them whar they go, and
stupid ones, as doesn't care
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. No 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 Kentuck nigger wants to go to;
'}"
they dies thar tol'able fast don't they

I
 UNCLE TOM's cabin. 85

" 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
fairly ground is, go down to be
up on one of them ar sugar plantations."
" Wal, he's got a fa'r chance. I 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."
'
Heleaves his wife and chil'en up here, 'spose ?"
" Yes but he '11 get another thar. Lor, thar's woinen 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 beliind him and before he could fau-ly awake from his
;

surprise, young Master George sprang into the waggon, threw his arms
tumultuously round his neck, and was sobbing and scolding with energy.
" I declare, it's real mean! I don't care what they say, any of 'em!
It's a nasty mean shame If I was a man, they shouldn't do it
! they —
should not so .'" 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 seein'ye! It does me real good, ye can't tell!"
Here Tom made some movement of his feet, and George's eyes fell on the
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."
" Well, I won't, then, for your sake but only to think of it—isn't it
;

a shame ? They never sent for me, nor sent me any word, and, if it
hadn't been for Tom Lin con, I shouldn't have heard it. I tell you, I blew
'em up well, all of 'em at home
!

" That ar wasn't right, I'm feared, Mas'r George."

" Can't help it I say it's a shame
! Look here. Uncle Tom," said !

he, turning his back to the shop, and speaking in a mysterious tone, " Fve
brought you my dollar J"
" Oh ! taken
I couldn't think o' on't, Mas'r George, no ways in the
world!" said Tom, quite moved.
"But you shall take it!" said George. "Look here; I told Auni
Chloe I'd do and she advised me just to make a hole in it, and put a
it,

string through, so you could hang it round your neck, and keep it out of
sight else this mean scamp would take it away.
; I tell ye, Tom, I want
to blow him up it would do me good I"
!
 " "

8G tTNCXE TOM S CABIN.

" No, don't, Mas'r George, for it -won't do me any good."

" Well, I won't, for your sake," said George, busily tying his dollar
round Tom's neck " but there, now, button your coat tight over it, and
;

keep it,and remember, every time you see it, that I'll come down after
you, and bring you badk. 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 musn'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 gittin' into any of them foolish ways boys has of gettin' 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'll
;

never see sich another woman, Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hundred

years old. now, you hold on to her, and grow up, and be a comfort
So,
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 their parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George ?"
" No, indeed, Uncle Tom you always did give me good advice."
;

" I's older, ye know," said Tom, stroking the boy's fine, curley 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'll be so proud on ye Be a good Mas'r like yer
!

father and be a Christian like yer mother. 'Member yer Creator in the
:

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,Jirst 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 supe-
riority, as he got o\d, " I shall let father and mother know how you treat
Uncle Tom!"
" You're welcome," said the trader.
" I should think you'd be ashamed to spend all your life buying men
and women, and chaining them, like cattle I should think you'd feel
!

mean !
" said George.
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 87

" So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women, I 'm as
good as they is," said Haley " tan't any meaner sellin' on 'em, than't is
;

!"
buyin'
" never do either, when I'm a man," said George.
I'll
" I'm ashamed
;"
this day, that I'm a Kentuckian. I always was proud of it before
and 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-by, Uncle Tom keep a stiff upper lip," said George.
;

" Good-by, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly and admiringly

at him. " God Almighty 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 Away he went, and Tom looked, till the clatter of
view.
liis away, the last sound or sight of his home. But
horse's heels died
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 111 tell ye now, to begin with, you treat me
;

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 it's no use. If niggers is quiet, and don't try to get
off, they has good times with me and if they don't, why, it's thar fault,
;

and not mine."

Tom assm-ed Haley that he had no present intentions of running off.
In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a superfluous one to a man Avith
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
confidence, and prevent the necessity of any unpleasant scenes.
And here, for the present, we take our leave of Tom, to pur3ue the
fortunes of other characters in our story.

CHAPTER XL
IN WHICH PROPERTY GETS INTO AN IMPROPER STATE OF MIND.
It was late in a drizzily afternoon that a traveller alighted at the door
of a small country hotel, in the villiage of N in Kentucky. In the
,

bar-room he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company, whom

88 UNCLE TOM S CABIX.

stress of weather had di'iven 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-pouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs, and
little negroes, all rolled together in the corners —were the characteristic
features in the picture. At one end of the fire-place sat a long-legged
gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his bat on his head, and the heels
of hismuddy boots reposing sublimely on the mantel-piece a position, —
we will inform our readers, decidedly favourable to the turn of reflection
incident to western taverns, where travellers exhibit a decided preference
for this particular mode of elevating their understandings.
Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his countrymen,
was great of stature, good-natured, and loose-jointed, with an enormous
shock of hair on his head, and a great tall hat on the top of that.

In everybody in the room bore on his head this characteristic

fact,

emblem of man's sovereignty whether it were felt hat, palm- leaf, greasy
;

beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it reposed with true republican

independence. In truth, it appeared to be the characteristic mark of
every individual. Some wore them tipped rakishly on one side these —
were your men of humour, jolly, free-and-easy dogs some had them ;

—
jammed independently down over their noses these were your hard
characters, thorough men, who, when they wore their hats, wanted to
wear them, and to wear them just as they had a mind to there were ;

—
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 with no redun-
dancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither and thither, without
bringing to pass any very particular results, except expressing a generic
willingness to tui-n over everything in creation generally for the benefit
of mas'r and his guests. Add to this picture a jolly, c:cackhng, rollicking
fire, going rejoicingly up a great wide chimney —
the outer door and
every window being set wide open, and the calico window-curtain
flopping and snapping in a good stifi' 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
doctrine of transmitted instincts and peculiarities. His fathers were
—
mighty hunters men who lived in the woods, 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 were his camp —

wears his hat at
all 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
 TJNCIiE TOM S CABIN. 89

his —
upon trees and logs keeps all the windows and doors open, winter
and summer, that he may get air enough for his great lungs calls —
everybody " stranger," with nonchalant bonhommie, and is altogether
the frankest, easiest, most jovial creature Uving.
Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller entered. He
was a short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with a round, good-natured
countenance, and something rather fussy and particular in his appear-
ance. He was very careful of his valise and umbrella, bringing them in
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 from right to left, with a courage and
energy rather alarming to gentlemen of weak nerves and particular
habits.
" I say, stranger, how are ye ? " said the aforesaid gentleman, fii'ing

an honorary salute of tobacco-juice in the direction of the new arrival.

" Well, I reckon," was the reply of the other, as he dodged with some
alarm tlie threatening honour.
" Any news?" said the respondent, taking out a strip of tobacco and
a large huii ting-knife from his pocket.
" Not that I know of," said the man.
" Chaw ?" said the fii-st speaker, handing the old gentleman a bit of
his tobacco,with a decidedly brotherly air.
" No thank ye it 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 round a large handbill.
" Nigger advertised!" said one of the company, briefly.
]\Ir. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman's name, rose up, and after

carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella, proceeded dehberately to

take out his spectacles and fix them on his nose and, this operation ;

being performed, read as fellows :

" Ran away from my mulatto boy, George. Said

the subscriber,
George six very light mulatto, brown curly hair is very
feet in height, a ;

intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write will probably try to;
90 UKCLJa I'OM S CABIN.

pass for white man is deeply scarred on Ms back and shoulders has
; ;

been branded on his right hand "with the letter H.

" 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-irons, as
before related, now took down his cumbrous length, and rearing aloft his
tall form, walked up to the advertisement, and very deliberately spat 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 here,''
said the long man, coolly resuming his old employment of cutting
tobacco. " Any man that owns a boy like that, and 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
;

know."
" 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, —
rmi — '

now ! dig ! when ye want to

put ! jest 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 teU ye, stranger, there a'nt a fellow in
;

our parts gets more out of his niggers than I do. ^^Iiy, 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 they
should. Treat 'em like dogs, and you '11 have dogs' works and dogs'
actions. Treat 'em like pien, and you '11 have men's works." And the
honest drover, in his waiinth, endorsed this moral sentiment by firing a
perfect yew dejoie at the fireplace.
" I think you're altogether right, friend," said Mr. Wilson " and 3

this boy described here is a fine fellow —

no mistake about that. He
worked for me some half-dozen years in my bagging factory, and he was
my best hand, sir. He is an ingenious fellow, too he invented a machine
:

for the cleaning of hemp —

a really valuable affair it's gone into use in
;

several factories. His master holds the patent of it."

" I '11 warrant ye," said the drover, " holds it and makes money out of
it, and then turns round and brands the boy in his right hand. If I
liad a fair chance, I'd maik him, I reckon, so that he'd carry it one
while."
 TJNCLE TOM S CABIN. 91

" These yer knowin' boysis allers aggravatin' and sarcy," said a

from the other side of the room " that 's why
coarse -looking fellow, ;

they gets cut up and marked so. If they behaved themselves, they
wouldn't,"
" That is to say, the Lord made 'em men, and it's a hard squeeze
getting 'em down into beasts," said the drover dryly.
" Bright niggers isn't no kind of 'vantage to their masters," continued
the other, well entrenched in a coarse, unconscious obtuseness, from the
contempt of his opponent. " What 's the use o' talents and them things,
if you can't ge l 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 entii'ely," said the di'over.

Here the conversation was intermpted by the approach of a small
buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appearance, and a well-
one-horse
dressed, gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with a colom-ed servant driving.
The whole party examined the new comer with the interest with
which a set of loafers on a rainy day usually examine every new comer.
He was very tall, with a dark Spanish complexion, fine expressive black
eyes, and close-curling His well-formed
hair, also of a glossy blackness.
aquiline nose, straight thin lips,and the admii-able 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 up leisurely to the bar,
and gave in his name as Henry Butler, Oaklands, Shelby County.
Tiirning, 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
Kke this, up at Beman's, didn't we ?"
" Yes, mas'r," said Jim, "only I an't sure about the hand."
" Well, I djdn'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 get mas'r
room ready, while he seated himself easily on a chair in the middle
of the room, and entered into conversation with the man who sat
next to him.
llie manufactui'er, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance of the
stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and uneasy cuiiosity.
92 UNCXE TOM S CABIN.

He seemed to himself to have met and been acquainted with him some-
where, bathe 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 w^alked 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, said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking in a dream.
sir,"

Just then a negro boy entered, and announced tbat mas'r's room
was ready.
" Jim, see to the trunks," said the gentleman negligently then
addressing 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
arrangements.
When all was done, and the servants departed, the young man
deliberately 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
smile. " A little walnut bark has made my yellow skin a genteel brown,
and I've dyed my hair black ; so you see I don't answer to the adver-
tisement at all."
" O George, but this is a dangerous game you are playing. I could

not 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
 — —

UNCLE tom's cabin. 93

and the colour of had metamorphosed him into the Spanish-

his hair
looking fellow he then appeared and as gracefulness of movement and
:

gentlemanly manners had always been perfectly natural to him, he

found no difficulty in playing the hold part he had adopted that of a —
gentleman travelling with his domestic.
]\Ir. Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgctty and cautious old

gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing, as John Bunyan

hath it, " much tumbled up and down in his mind," and divided between
his wish to help George, and a certain confused notion of maintaining
law and order so, as he shambled about, he delivered himself as
;

follows :

" Well, George, I s'pose you're running —leaving your lawful

away
master, George — (I don't wonder at it) —at am sorry
the same time I
George- — yes, decidedly —I think I must say that, George — my duty
it's

to tell you so."

" Why are you sorry, sir ?" said George, calmly.
" Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposition to the
laws of your countiy."
" My
country !" said George, with a strong and bitter emphasis ;
" what country have I but the grave ? and I wish to God that I was —
laid there I"

" 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 he
—
conducts himself reprehensively I can't pretend to defend him. But
you know how the angel commanded Hagar to return to her mistress,
and submit herself under her hand; and the apostle sent back Onesimus
to his master."
" 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'm willing to go with the case
; to Him, 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 con-
;
'

dition 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 lips.
" I wonder, Mr. WUson, 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
 ——;
!

94 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

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
;

some 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 gei^eral way.
" You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood your friend

and whatever I've said, I've said for your 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, but"
he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pistols and a bowie-knife.
" There !" he said, " I'm ready for'm 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, yo^l have a country; but what
country have I, or any one like me, born of slave mothers ? What laws
are 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, wace a year, that governments derive their just power from the
consent oi 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. WUson's mind was one of those that may not unaptly be repre-
—
sented by a bale of cotton downy, soft, benevolently fuzzy and confused.
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 pertinacity.

" 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 very ;" and 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 determinately 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 ?
 PERSECUTED VIRTUE.
" She was whipped, sir, for wanting to live a decent Christian life, such as your laws
give no slave girl a right to live."—Page 95.
 — ;

UNCLE Tom's cabin. 95

4 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 sheriff's sale, with her seven children. 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 heai-t, 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 and 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 vras a little fellow,
;

^nd laid awake whole nights and cried, it wasn't the hunger, it wasn't
the whipping, I cried for. No, sir ;it was for my mother and my sisters

—
it was because I hadn't a fi-iend to love me on earth. I never knew
what peace or comfort was. I never had a kind word spoken to me till
I came to work in. youi* 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, su', I found my wife you've seen her you know how beautiful
;

she is. M'hen I found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely
could believe I was alive, I was so happy and, sir, she is as good as she
is beautiful. But now what ? Why, now comes my master, takes me right
away from my work, and my friends, and all I like, and grinds me down
into the very dirt And why ? Because, he says, I forgot who I was he
! ;

says, to teach me that I am only a nigger After all, and last of all, he
!

comes between me and my wife, and says I shall give her up, and live
with another woman. And all this your law give him power 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,
96 UNCLE TOM S CABIX.

and my wife and myself, but joxiv laws allow, and give every man power ^
to do, in Kentucky, and none can say to him nay Do you call these the !

laws of m^ country ? Sir, 1 haven't any country, any more than

I have

any father. But I'm going

have one. I don't want anything of i/our
to
country, except to let me alone to go peaceably out of it —
and when ;

I get to Canada, where the laws will own me and protect me, that shall
be my country, and its laws I will obey. But if any man tries to stop
me, let him take care, for I am desperate. I'll fight for my liberty to
the last breath I breathe. You say your fathers did it ; if it was right .

for them, 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-natured
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 allhe suddenly broke out. " Haven't I always said so
!"

the infernal old cusses ? 1 hope I an't swearing now. Well go a-head, !

George, go a-head 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

nei-vously rose from his chair, 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 it's 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 won't fol-

low my judgment!" he added suddenly; " so here, George," and taking

out a roll of bills from his pocket-book, he offered them to George.
"No, my kind, good sir!" said George, "you've done a gi'eat 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 way ?

not long or far, I hope. It's well carried on, but too bold. And this
black fellow, who is he ?"
 "

UNCLE TOM's CApiX. 97

" A
true fellow, "wlio went to Canada more than a year ago. He heard
afterhe got there, that his master was so angry at him for going off that
he whipped 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. Meanwhile, he is going 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 innocent
wonder.
" George, something has brought you out Vt'ouderfuUy. You hold up
your head, and speak and move like another man," said Mr. Wilson.
"Because 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 .'
'

i
" Take care Y''ou are not sure
! you may be taken." —
" All men are free and equal, in the grave, if it comes to that, Mr.
i

Wilson," said George.

" I'm perfectly dumb-foimdered with your boldness;" said Mr. Wil
I

son, " to
!

I
come right here to the nearest tavern
I " Mr. Yv'^ilson, it is so bold, and this tavern
is so near, that they will

, never think of it; they will look for me

on a-head, and you yourself
i
wouldn't know me. Jim's master don't live in this county Jie isn't ;

i
known in these parts. Besides, he is given up ; nobody is looking after
him, and nobody will take me up from the advertisement^ [ think."
" "
i
But the mark in your hand ?
I
George drew off his glove, and showed a newly healed scar in his hand.
I
" That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris' regard," he said scornfiilly.
" 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
interesting, doesn't it ? "
he said, drawing his glove on again.
;
" I declare my very blood runs cold when I think of it your condi-
!
—
tion and your risks " said Mr. Wilson.
" Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson at present it's ;

about up to the boiHng-point," said George.

" Well, my good sir," continued George, after a few moments' silence,
" I saw you knew me I thoug.ht 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 dayhght, stop at the best hotels, go to the dinner-
tables with the lords of the land. So, good bye, sir if you hear that ;

I'm taken, you may know that I'm dead."

George stood up Uke a rock, and put out his hand with the air of a
]
u
 — — .

98 UNCLE tom's cabin.

prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily, and after a little
shower of caution, he took his lunbrella, 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 efibrt
" Mr. Wilson, you have shown youi'self a Christian in your treatment
—
of me I want to ask one last deed of Christian kindness of you."
" Well, George."
" Well, sir, what you said was true. I am running a dreadful risk.
There isn't on earth a living soul to care if I die," he added, drawing
his breath hard, and speaking with a great efibrt. " I shall be kicked
out and buried like a dog, and nobody '11 think of it a day after owZy mi/ —
ijoor wife ! Poor soul she'll mourn and grieve and if you'd only con-
! ;

trive, Mr. Wilson, to send this little pin to her. She gave it to me for
a Christmas present, poor child Give it to her, and tell her I loved her
!

to the last. Will you ? Will you ? " he added, earnestly.

" Yes, certainly; poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, taking the pin,
with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in his voice.
" TeJJ her one thing," said George, " it's my last wish, if she can get
to Canada, to go there. No matter how kind her mistress is 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 he 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 feUow. 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 bitter
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 God. Yet
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 There's a God, George — believe
throne.' trust in Him, and I'm
it ;

sure He'll help you. Everything be right — not in

will set in if this life,
another."
The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man invested him with
 ! — ! ;

UNCLE TOiil's CA.BIN. 99

a temporary dignity and 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 fi-iend ; I'll think of that."

CHAPTER XII.

SELECT INCIDENT IN LAWFUL TRADE.

" In Kamab was —

there a voice heard, weeping, and lamentation, and great mourning,
Kachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted."

INIr. Haley and Tom jogged onward in their waggon, each, for a time,
absorbed in his own reflections. Now, the reflections of two men sitting
side by side are a cui'ious thing —seated on the same
seat, having the same
eyes, ears, hands, and organs of all and having pass before their eyes
sorts,
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 on the feet, and left Tom. the use of his
fetters
hands, as long as he behaved well and he sighed to think how 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 book, 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 prin-

cipally 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.
h2
 —

100 TJNCLE XOm's cabin.

Ml". Haley pulled out of Ms 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
deductions of his eyes. In this tone he slowly recited the following
paragraph :

" Executors' Sai,e.—^Negroes — Agreeably <o 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; Ben, aged 21;
Saul, aged 25 Albert, aged
; 14. Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the
estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq.
" Samuel Morris i
,. T, ] Executors."
" Thomas Flint,
T-.
J

" 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 '11 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 sirictly 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
on, and the evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated in
—
Washington 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 in 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 figure. She might have been sixty, but was older than that by hard
work and disease, was partially blind, and somewhat crippled with
rheumatism. By her side stood her only remaining son, Albert, a bright-
looking little The boy was the only survivor of
fellow of fourteen years.
a large family, who had been sold away from her to a
successively
southern market. The mother held on to him with both her shaking
hands, and eyed with intense trepidation every one who walked up to
examine him.
 U.N CLE TOMS CABIN. 101

" Don't be feard, Aunt Hagar," said the oldest of the men, " 1 spoke to
Mas'r Thomas 'bout it, and he thought he might manage to sell you in a
lot both together." *

" Dey needn't call me worn out yet," said she, lifting her shaking
hands. " I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour— I'm wuth buying, if
I —
do come cheap! tell 'em dat ar you tdl '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 of 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 him
;

through 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 gvdne 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 pocket, 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 from 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 'twould. She's half blind, crooked with
rheumatis, 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 sh-iU 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't," 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, busthng, important fellow, elbowed his
102 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

way into the crowd. The old woman drew in her breath, and caught
instinctively at her son.
" Keep close to yer mammy, Albert — close —dey'U put us up
togedder," she said.
" O 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 commence. A place was
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;
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, togedder 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
towards 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.

His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face, raised an instant com-
petition, and half-a-dozen bids simultaneously met the ear of the
auctioneer. 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
toward his new master, but stopped one moment, and looked back, when
his poor old mother, trembling in every limb, held out her shaking hands
towards him.
" Buy 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 place
together for years, gathered round the despairing old mother, whose
agony was pitiful to see.
" Couldn't dey leave me one ? Mas'r aders said 1 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,
sorrowfully.
" What good will it do ?" said she, sobbing passionately.
Q
^^

K
o
O
<

M
H
O

M
H
O
;?;
o

CO

W
H

© s

s s
^ o

a; o
^ u
 "

UNCLE TOU S CABIN. 103

" 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 ,t 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 jail.
A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely deposited on one
of the Ohio boats. It was the the commencement of his gang, to be
augmented, as the boat moved on, by various other merchandise of the
same kind, which he, or his agent, had stored for him in various points
along shore.
The La Belle Riviere, 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
fluttering overhead ; the guards crowded with well-dressed ladies and
gentlemen walking and enjoying the delightfal day. All was full of life,
buoyant and rejoicing; all but Haley's gang, who were stored with other
freight, on the lower deck, and who, somehow, did not seem to appreciate
their various privileges, as they sat in a knot, talking to each other 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 stiff 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 for poor Africa ; but it is to be owned they did not look
particularly cheerful. They had their various little prejudices in 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.
" Iv'e 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
more in this world," he added.
see her once
Poor John It was rather natural and the
! ; tears that fell, as he spoke.
104 UJSCLE TOM S CABIN.

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 meriy, dancing chUdi-en 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.
" A\Tiat'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 I think the negroes are better off than they would be to
be free."
" Insome respects some of them are well off, I grant," said the lady
to whose remaik she had answered. " The most dreadful part of slavery,
to my mind, is its outrages on the feelings and affections the seperating —
of families, for example."
" That is 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; " Iv'e 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,"
said the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her lap.
" Indeed, ma'm, 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 remai-k with which she
—
had begiin " 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
 UNCLE TOM S CABIX. 105

gentleman in black, a clergyman, seated by tbe cabin-door. " Cursed '

be Canaan ; a servant of servants shall he be,' the Scriptme says."

" I say, stranger, is that at -what the 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 a-hcad 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 tliey's made 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 hadn't no laming. I took up the trade just to make a Kving;
if 't an't right, I calculate to 'pent on't in time, ye know."
" And now won't yer ?" said the tall
you'll save yourself the trouble,
man. " See what 'tis now to know
If ye'd only studied yer
Scripture.
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, Cursed 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, do 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 Ji-over,
" to poor fellows like us, now ;" and John 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, as they

were going out.

The man nodded.
As the boat stopped, a biack woman came running wildly up the
plank, darted into the crowd, flew up to where the slpve gang sat, and
threw her arms round that unfortunate piece of merchandise before
enumerated, " John, aged thirty," and with sobs and tears bemoaned him
as her husband.
106 DNCLE TOM's cabin.

—
But what needs tell the story, told too oft every day told of heart- —
strings rent —
and broken the weak broken and torn for the profit and
convenience of the strong It needs not to be told every day is telling
! ;

it —
telling it, too, in the ear of One who is not deaf, though he be long
sUent.
The young man who had spoken for the cause of humanity and God
before stood with folded arms, looking on this scene. He turned, and
Haley was standing at his side. " My
friend," he said, speaking with
thick utterance, " how can you, how dare you, carry on a trade like this ?

Look at those poor creatures ! Here* I am, rejoicing in my heart that

I am going home to my wife and child ; and the same bell which is a
signal to carry me onward towards them will part this poor man and
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 ? '
Cussed 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 beside Mr. Haley have found a specific for an
\measy 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.
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 107

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 indififerent
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
;

jista fooUn' with me."

" If you won't believe it, look here !" said the man, drawing out
a paper " this yer's the bill of sale, and there's your master's name
;

to it and I paid down good solid cash for it, too, I can tell you
; so —
now !"
" I don't believe mas'r would cheat me so ; it can't be true !" said the
woman, with increasing agitation.
" You can ask any of these men here that can read writing. Here !"
he said, to a man that was passing by, " jist read this yer, won't you !

This yer gal won't believe me, when I tell her what 'tis."
•( " Why, it's a bUl 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 them the cause of the agitation.
briefly explained to
" He told me
was going down to Louisville, to hire out as cook
that I
to the same ta%'ern where my husband works that's what mas'r told me, ;

his own self, and I can't beUeve 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 and no mistake."

it,

" 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,

summer 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
saw simshine sparkling on the water, in golden ripples,
she
and heard gay voices, full of ease and pleasure, talking around her
everywhere 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, uncon-
scious face and gradually she seemed, and little by little, to gi-ow
;

calmer, and busied herself with tending and nursing him.

 ——

108 UNCJLE TOM 8 CABIN.

The hoy of ten months, was uncommonly large and strong of

child, a
his age,and very vigorous in his limhs. Never for a moment still, he
kept his 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 feUow !" 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 the top of a pile of boxes.
The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying, as he
did so
" Decentish 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.
Haley nodded, and smoked on.
" Plantation hand?'' oaid the man.
" Wal," said Haley, " I'm filling out an order for a plantation, and I
think I shall put her in. They tell me she was a good cook ; and they
can use her for that, or set her at the cotton-pickiug. She's got the
right fingers for that; I looked at 'em. Sell well either way;" and
Haley resumed his cigar.
" They won't want the young 'un on a plantation," said the man.
" I shall sell him, first chance I find," said Haley, lighting another
cigar.
" S'pose you'd be selling him tol'able cheap," said the stranger,
mounting the pile of boxes, and sitting down comfortably.
" Don'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 kind of

crittur there is going ; they an't a bit more trouble than pups. This yer
chap will be running all round in a month.
" I've got a good place for raisin', and I thought of takin' in 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 and I ;

reckon it would be well enough to set her to raisin' this yer."

Haley and the stranger smoked a while in silence, neither seemed
willing to broach the test question of the interview. At last the man
resumed :
 —

xjxcLE tom;'s cabtv. 109

" You woudn't think of wan tin' more than ten dollars for that a: chap,
seeing you must get him off yer hand, any how?"
Haley shook his head, and spat impressively.
" That won't do noways," he said, and began his smoldng again.
" "Well, stranger, what will you take ?"
" Well, now," said Haley, " I coidd raise that ar chap myself, or get
him raised ; he's oncommon likely and healty, and he'd fetch a hundred
dollars six months hence ; and, in a year or two, he'd bring two hundred,
had him
if I in the right spot ; so I shan't take a cent less nor fifty for

him now."
" O strangpr that's ridiculous altogether," said the man.
!

" 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
renewed 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," said Haley. " "V^ery 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 evrything 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 LouisviUe. The woman had been sitting with her baby in her arms,
now wrapped in a heavy sleep. "V\Tien she heard the name of the place
called out, she hastily laid the child down in a little cradle formed by the
hollow among the boxes, first carefully spreading under it her cloak and ;

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 husband. In
this hope she pressed forward to the front rails, and stretching far over
them, strained her eyes intently on the moving heads on the shore, and
the crowd pressed in between her and the child.
* Now's yom- time," said Haley, taking the sleeping child up, and
handing him to the stranger. " Don't wake him up, and set him to
crying, now; it would make 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.
WTien the boat, creeking, and groaning, and puffing, had loosed froiv
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.
 " ;

no UNCIE lOM S CABIN.

" I-ucy," said the trader, " your cMd'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'll 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 lately, in which he had completely overcome every humane
weakness and prejudice. His heart was exactly where your^, sir, and
mine could be brought with proper efibrt 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 efibrts 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 suffocating breathings, as neces-
sary incidents of the trade, and merely calulated whether she was going
to scream, and get up a commotion on the boat for, like other supporters
;

of our peculiar institutions, he decidedly disliked agitation.

But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed too straight
and direct tha-ough the heart for cry or tear.
Dizzily she sat down. Her slack hands fell lifeless by her side. Hei
eyes looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. AU the noise and
hum of the boat, the groaning of the machinery, mingled di-eamily 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. Y'^ou 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," ne persisted.•'
I mean to do well by
ye, and get ye a nice place down river and you'll soon get another
—
husband such a likely gal as you — ;

" Oh, mas'r, if you only won't talk to me now," said the woman, in
a voice of such quick and living anguish that the trader felt that there
was something at present in the case beyond his style of operation.
He got up, and the woman 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.
 —

THE POOR BLEEDING HEART.

" At midnight T«m waked with a sudden start. Something black passed
quickly by him and he heard a splash in the water."
to the side of the boat,
Page 111.
 — ;

UNCLE TOM's CABI?f. Ill

" Takes it hard, rather," he soliloquised, " but quiet, tho' let her ;

!"
sweat a while she'll come right, by and by
;

Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to last, and had a
perfect understanding of its results. To him, it looked like something
unutterably horrible and cruel, because, poor, ignorant black soul he !

had not learned to generalise, and to take enlarged views. If he had

only been instructed by certain ministers of Christianity, he might have
thought better of it, and seen in it an every-day incident of a lawful
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 from
any other relationsin social and domestic life." But Tom, as we see, being
a poor, ignorant fellow, whose reading had been confined entirely to the
New Testament, could not comfort and solace himself with views like
these. His very soul bled within him what seemed to him the wrongs
for
of the poor suffering thing that lay like a crushed weed on the boxes
the feeling, living, bleeding, yet immortal thiiig, which American state
law coolly classes with the bundles, and bales, and boxes, among which
she is lying.
Tom di-ew near, and tried to say something but she only groaned. !

Honestly, and with tears running down his own 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, and glorious, shining down
with her innumerable and solemn angel eyes, twinkling, beautiful, but
silent. There was no speech nor language, no pitying voice or helping
hand, from that distant sky. One after another, the voices of business
or pleasure died away ; all on the boat
Vt ere sleeping, and the ripples at

the prow were plainly heard. Tom

stretched 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 !" 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 j ust 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
forgotten 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,

• Dr. Joel Parker, of Philadelphia.

 112 "UNCLE TOJl's CABIN,

in patience, and labour in love ; for, sure as he is God, " the year of his
redeemed shall come."
The waked up bright and early, and came out to see to his
trader iivo
stock. was now his turn to look about in perplexity.
It
" 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 obsei'vation 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 around the machinery, by the chimneys, in vain.
barrels,
" Now, Tom, be fair about this yer," he said, when, after a
I say,
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 gal
sti-etched 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 " towards morning something brushed by
Tom,
me, and I kinder half woke and then I hearn a great splash, and then
;

I clare 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 embai--
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. In
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 acount-book, and put down the missing body and soul under the

head of losses !
" He's a shocking creatm-e, isn't he
!"
— this trader? so unfeeling! It's

•ireadful, really
" Oh, but nobody thinks anything of these traders They are univer-
!

sally despised — never received into any decent society."

 UNCLE TOM's CABIX. 113

But who, sir, makes the trader ? Who is most to blame ? The
enlightened, cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the system of
Avhich 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 does not know how our great men are outdoing themselves in
declaiming against the foreiff7i slave-trade ? There are a perfect host of
Clarksons and Wilberforccs 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! But trading them from Ken-
tucky — that's quite another thing

CHAPTER Xm.
THE QUAKER SETTLEMENT.
A QUIET scene now rises before us, A large, roomy, neatly-painted
kitchen, its yellow floor glossyand 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
leather cushions — a real, comfortable, persuasive old chair, and worth, in
the way homely enjoyment, a dozen of your plush or broche-
of honest,
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
114 UNCLE iom's cabin.

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 hea^y
sorrow; and when, anon, her large dark eye was raised so follow the
gambols of her little Harry, who was sporting like some tropical butterfly,
hither, and thither over the floor, she showed a depth of firmness and
steady resoh e 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 some 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 ? If any want to
get up an inspiration under this head, we refer them to our good friend
Eachel 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 in early life, or from some asthmatic afiection, or perhaps
from nervous derangement but as she gently swung backward and for-
;

ward, the chair kept up a kind of subdued " creechy crawchy," that would
have been intolerable in any other chair. But old Simeon Halliday
often declared it was as good as any music to him, and the children all
avowed that they wouldn't miss of hearing mother's chair for anything
in the world. For why? for twenty years or more, nothing but loving
words, and gentle moralities, and motherly loving kindness, had come
—
from that chair head-aches and heart-aches innumerable had been cured
—
there difiiculties 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 she
was quietly looking over her peaches.
" Yes, ma'am," said Eliza, firmly. " I must go onward. I dare not
stop."
" And what'U thee do, when thee gets there ? Thee must think about
that, my daughter."
" My daughter," came naturally from the Rachel Halliday for
lips of ;

hers was just the face and form that made " mother" seem the most
natural word in the world.
 UNCLE lOil's CABIX. 115

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, \vith 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 joyfally 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
stroking and patting of the small fat hands, which were busily applied
to arranging it. Certain stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had
escaped here and there, and had to be coaxed and cajoled into ttieir 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, chirrruping 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."
" I 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 off
with him to the bam, to show him to the children."
At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-
looking girl,with large brown eyes, like her mother's, came in with
the baby.
" Ah ha !
!" said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white, fat
fellow in her arms ;
" how good he looks, and how he does grow !"

" To be sure he does," said little bustling Ruth, as she took the child,
i2
 116 UNCLE TOm's cabin.

and began taking off a little blue silk bood, and various layers and
wrappers of outer garments and having given a tvpiteh 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. Babv seemed quite used
to this mode of proceeding, for he put his thumb in his moutli (as if it
were quite a thing of course), and seemed soon absorbed in his own
reflections, while the mother seated herself, and taking out a long stock-
ing of mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit with briskness.
" Mary, thee'd better flll 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 Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand,
in a stew-pan over the fire.

Rachel now down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying on an

took
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 Rachel, as she went on with her
biscuits.
" Oh, she's better," saidRuth " I was in this morning made the
; ;

bed, tidiedup 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 Rachel.
" Ah ! that is well," said Ruth. " I've heard," she added, " that
Hannah Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last night —I must go
there to-morow."
" John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay all day,"
suggested Rachel.
"Thank thee, Rachel 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.
" How is thee, Ruth ?" 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," said Ruth cheerily.
!

" Any news, father ?" said Rachel, 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 Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing at Eliza.
 UNCLE xom's cabin. 117

" Did thee say thy name was Harris ?" said Simeon to Eliza, as he
re-entered.
R ichel g-lanccd 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 Rachel
out.
" What does thee want, father?" said Rachel, rubbing her floury
hands, as she went into the porch.
" This child's husband is in the settlement, and will be here to-night,"
said Simeon.
" Now, thee doesn't say that, father ?" said Rachel, all her face radiant
with joy.
" It's really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the waggon, to
the other stand, and there he found an old woman and two men, and one
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 ?"
" 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 Eliza's
husband is in the last company, and will be here to-night."
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 cuiis 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 m nute. Why, now, suppose 'twas my
John, how should I feel ? Do teli her right ofl"."
" 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 open-
ing the door of a small bedroom, said, gently, " Come in here witJi
me, 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.
118 TTNCLE TOM S CABIN.

—
" Never thee fear it's good news, Eliza go in, go in !" And she gently
;

pushed her to the door, which closed after her; and then, turning rotmd,
she caught little Harry in her arms, and hegan kissing him.
" Thee'U see thy father, little one. Does thee know it ? Thy father is
coming," she said, over and over again, as the hoy looked wonderingly at
her.
Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. Eachel
Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, " The Lord hath had mercy
on thee, daughter thy hushand hath escaped from the house of hondage."
;

The blood flushed to Eliza's cheek 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 mean-
ing to her; her head was 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 Uttle Huth rubbing her hands with camphor. She
opened her eyes in a state of dreamy, delicious langour, such as one has
who has long been bearing a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and would
rest. The tension of the nerves, which had never ceased a moment since
the first hour of her flight, had given way, and a strange feeling of 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 fingers. She
saw the ample, motherly form of Rachel, as she ever and anon came to
the bedside, and smoothed and arranged something about the bed-clothes,
and gave a tuck here and there, by way of expressing her good will and ;

was conscious of a kind of sunshine beaming down upon her from h^r
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 httle 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 horn- when she had taken her child and fled
through the frosty starlight.
—
She dreamed of a beautiful countrv a land, it seemed to her, of
 —

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 119

rest — green and beautifully glittering water:

shores, pleasant islands,
and which kind voices told her was a home, she saw
there, in a house
her boy playing, a free and happy child. She heard her husband'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 burn-
; ;

ing dimly on the stand, and her husband was sobbing by her pillow.

The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. " Mother"
was up betimes, and surrounded by busy girlsand boys, whom we had
scarce time to introduce to our readers yesterday, and who all moved
obediently to Rachel's gentle " Thee had better," or more gentle " Hadn't
thee better ?" in the work of getting breakfast for a breakfast in the ;

luxurious valleys of Indiana is a thing complicated and multiform, and,

like picking up the rose-leaves and trimming the bushes in Paradise,
asking 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, and Mary ground
Rachel moved gently and
coflfee,

quietly about, making up chicken, and diffusing a sort

biscuits, cutting
of sunny radiance over the whole proceeding generally. If there was
any danger of friction or collision from the ill-regarded zeal of so many
young operators, her gentle " Come come !" or " I wouldn't, now," was
!

quite sufficient to allay 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
engaged in
in his shii't-sleeves before a little looking-glass in the corner,
the anti-patriarchal Everything went on so
operation of shaving.
socially, so quietly, so harmoniously, in the great kitchen it seemed so —
pleasant to every one to do just what they were doing, there was such 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 di-eam.
At last they were all seated at breakfast, whUe Mary stood at the
stove, baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained the true exact golden-
brown tint of perfection, were transferred quite handily to the table.
 —

120 TKCLE TOM S CABIN.

Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the head of her
table. There was so much motherliness and fuU-heartedness even in the
way she passed a plate of cake 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 behef in God, and trust in his providence,
;

began to encircle his heart, as, with a golden cloud of protection and
confidence, dark, misanthropic, pining, atheistic doubts, and fierce despair,
melted away before the 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 should 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
shame to make such laws ?"
" Thee mustn't speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon," said his 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 must
;

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 lor the
slave, if the Lord brought him to my door in afiliction."
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 yon 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 our
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'clock, Phineas Fletcher will carry thee onward
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 121

to the next stand —

thee and the rest of thy company. The pursuers arc-
hard after thee we must not delay."
;

" If that is the ease, why wait till evening?" said George.
" Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settlement is a
Friend, and all are watching. Moreover, it is safer to tiavel by night."

CHAPTER XIV.

EVANGELINE.
" A young star ! which shone
O'er life — too sweet an image for such glass 1

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded ;

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."

The Mississippi How, as by 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 enter-
prise 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 pom-ed along its wave by a race more vehement and
energetic than any the whole 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 unliuown, unseen, and silent, but who will yet " come
!
out of his place to save all the poOi- of the earth
The slanting light of the setting sun quivers 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, she
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 eotton-bales, at last we may find him.
 ;;

122 UITCLE TOM's CA-BIX.

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 naiTowly 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 honoiir, being peimitted to come and go freely where he pleased
on the boat.
Ever 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 Kentucky 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.
For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the river is higher
than 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 the distant slaves at their toU ; 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 back-
ward 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 multiflora 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 heard again the
creaking and groaning of the machinery, all telling him too plainly
that all that phase 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 fall on the pages of his Bible, as he
lays it on the cotton-bale, and, with patient finger, threading his slow way
 —

UNCLE TOM S Ci-BIN. 123

from word to word, traces out its promises ? Having learned late in life,
Tom was but a slow reader, and passed on labox'iously 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 uot 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 true 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

fiom 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 his master's children, in
particular by young Master George and as they read, he would designate,
;

by bold strong marks and dashes, with pen and ink, the passages which
more particularly gratified his ear or affected his heart. His Bible was
thus marked through, from one end to the (Jther, with a variety of styles
and designations; so he could in a moment seize upon his favourite
passages, without the labour of spelhng out what lay between them;
and while it lay there before him, eveiy 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.
Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman of foi-tune
and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the name of St. Clare.
He had with him a daughter between five and six years of age, together
with a lady who seemed to claim relaticnsHp to both, and to have the
little one especially under her charge.

—
Tom had often caught ghmpses of this little girl for she was one 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
 ;:

124 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

allegorical being. Her face was remarkable less for its perfect beauty
of feature than for a singular and dreamy earnestness of expression,
which 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, the deep spiritual gravity of her violet blue eyes,
—
shaded by heavy fringes of golden brown all marked her out from
other children, andmade 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 rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an undu-
lating 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 eir 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 nor 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 fuimace, and
fearfully and pityingly at him, as if she thought him in some dreadful
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 child-like, watched the little creature with
daily increasing interest.To him she seemed something almost divine
and whenever her golden head and deep blue eyes peered out upon him
from behind some dusky cotton bale, or looked down upon him over
some ridge of packages, he half believed that he saw one of the angels
New Testament.
stepped out of his
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
 ITNCLB TOm's cabin. 125

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 he
resolved to play his part right skilfully. He could cut cunning little baskets
out of cherry-stones, could make grotesque faces on hickory-nuts, or odd-
jumping figures out of elder-pith, and he was a very Pan in the manufac-
ture of whistles of all sizes and sorts. His pockets were full of miscella-
neous articles of attraction, which he had hoarded in days of old for
his master's children, and which he now produced, with commendable
prudence and economy, one by one, as overtures for acquaintance and
friendship.
The one was shy, for all her busy interest in everything going
little

on, and was not easy to tame her. For awhile she would perch like
it

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 bashfulness, 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 caU me Eva. Now, what's your name ?"

" My name's Tom ; the L'ttle chU'en used to call me Uncle Tom, way
back thar in Kentuck."
" 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."
" Mypapa can buy you," said Eva quickly " and if he buys you, ;

you will have good times. '

I 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 offer his services in wooding, and soon was busy among
the hands.
Eva and her by the railings to see the
father were standing together
boat start fi-om the landing-place, the wheel had made two or three revo-
lutions 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
126 CIS CLE TOM S CABIN.

•water. Her father, scarce knowing what he did, was plunging in after
her, but was held back by some 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. He
saw her water and sink, and was after her in a moment. A
strike the
broad-chested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for him to keep afloat
in the water till, in a moment or two, the child rose to the surface, and
he caught her in his arms, and, swimming with her to the boat-side,
handed her up, all 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 and her father bore her, dripping and sense-
less, 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 a dis-
turbance, 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 thi'ough the boatin the cabin, one and another were gathering
;

and arranging them preparatory to going ashore.

their things together
The steward and chambermaid and all, were busily engaged in cleaning,
fuibishing, 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. was quite evident, at a glance, that the gentleman was
It
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 the large, clear blue eyes, though in form and colour
exactly similar, there 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 sarcastic
:

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.
 UNCLE TOM SAVING EVA FROM A WATERY GRAVE.
" He saw her sink, and was after her in a moment. . . He caught her
• in
his arms, and swinuning with her to the boat side, handed her up, all di-ipping, to
—
the grasp of himdreds of hands." Page 126. .
i
 UNCLE TOm's CABIN". 127

" All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black morocco, com-
plete!" he said, 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, rally."
"Poor fellow;" said the young man, fijxing his keen, mocking blue
eye on him but I suppose you would let me have him for that, out of a
;

particular regard for me ?"

" Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, and nat'Uy
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 obUge a young lady that's particular sot on him
" 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-
siderable, 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 he
has uncommon, why, of course, it makes him come higher. "Why, that
ar fellow managed his master's whole farm. He has a stronary 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 always running off, stealing
horses, and raising the devil generally. I think you'U have to take off a
couple of hundred for his smartness."
" Wal, there might be something in tliat ar, if it warnt for his
character but I can 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 might use him for a family chaplain, possibly," added the
young man, drily. " That's quite an idea. Religion is a remarkably
scarce article at our house."
" You're joking, now."
" How do you know I am ? Didn't you just warrant him for a
preacher Has he been examined by any synod or councU ? Come,
?

hand over your papers."

If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humoured twinkle in
the lajge blue eyes, that all this banter was sure, in the long-run, to turn
 —;

128 tJNCLE TOM S CABIlSr.

out a cash, concern, hr might have been somewhat out of patience as it ;

was, he laid down a greasy pocket-book on the cotton-bales, 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 hhn. no matter what you pay," whispered Eva
! it's

softly, 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
expression 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'll cheat him next. I don't know, either about
religion'sbeing up in the market, just now. I have not looked in the
papers lately, to see how it sells. How many hundi-ed 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 jour singin, roarin
; ;

pious ; them ar
no account, in black or white ^but these rayly is
an't —
and I've seen it in niggers as often as any, your rail softly, quiet, stiddy,
honest pious that the hull world could'nt tempt 'em to do nothing that
they thinks is wrong and ye see in this letter what Tom's old master
;

says about him."

" Now," said the young man, stooping gravely over his book of bills,
"if you can assure me
that I really can buy this kind of pious, and that
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, rally, I can't do that," said the trader. " I'm a thinkin that
every man'U have to hang on his hook, in them ar quarters."
" Rather 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 he handed the roll to
the trader.
 UJiCLE tom's cabin. 129

" All right," said Haley, Lis face beaming with delight ; and puUing
out an old inMiorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale, which, in a
few moments, he handed to the young man.
" I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried," said the latter,
how much I might bring. Say so much for
as he ran over the paper, "
the shape of my head,
much for a high forehead, so much for arms,
so

and hands, and legs, and then so much for education, learning, talent,
honesty, religion Bless me there would be smaU charge on that last,
! !

I'm 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-hutnouredly, " Lookup, Tom, and see
how you like your new master."
Tom looked up. It was not in nalm-e to look into iiat gay, young,
handsome without a feeling of pleasure
face, and Tom felt the tears
;

he said, heartily, " God bless you, mas'r !"

start in his eyes as
" Well, I hope he vdll. What's your name ? Tom ? Quite as Ukely
to do it for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive
horses, Tom ?"
" I've been aUays 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 eases 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 stiU looked grave "I don't ;

doubt you mean to do weU."

" I sartin do, mas'r," said Tom.
" And you shall have good times," said Eva. " Papa is very good to
everybody, only he always wiU 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.
130 TINGLE TOm's cabin.

CHAPTER XV.

OF tom's new master, and various other matters.

Since the thread of our humble hero's life has now become interwoven
with that of higher ones, it is necessary to give some brief inti'oduction
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 flourishing farm in
Vermont, and the other became an opulent planter in Louisiana. The
mother of Augustine was a Huguenot French lady, whose family had
emigrated to Louisiana during the days of its early settlement. Augustine
and another brother were the only children of their parents. Having
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 —
that 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 To drop the
in vain. he saw and won the love of a high-
figure,
minded and beautiful woman, in one of the northern States, and they
were affianced. He returned south to make arrangements for their mar-
riage, 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 fiing the whole thing from Iris
heart by one desperate effort. Too proud to supplicate or seek expla-
nation, 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
 UNCLE T05I S CABTTT. 131

the reigning belle of the season and as soon as arrangements could be

;

made, he became the husband of a fine figure, a pair of bright dark eyes,
and a hundred thousand dollars and, of course, everybody thought liim
;

a happy fellow.
The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and entertaining
a brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa, near Lake Pontchar-
train, when, one day, a letter was brought to him in that well-remem-
bered writing. It was handed to him while he was in fall 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 the playful warfare of badinage which he was at the
moment carrying on with a lady opposite and, a short time after, was
;

missed fi'om the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and read the
letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from hei',
gi\'ing a long account of a persecution to which she had been exposed by
her guardian's famUy, to lead her to unite herself with their son and ;

she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to arrive; how
she had written time and again, till she became weary and doubtful how ;

her health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had dis-
covered the whole fi-aud 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."
And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St.
Clare. —
But the real remained the real, like the flat, bare, oozy tide-
mud, when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding
boats and white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming waters, has
—
gone down, and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare exceedingly real.
Of course, in a novel, people's liearts break, and they die, and that is
the end of it and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we
;

do not die when all that makes life bright dies to us. There is a most
busy and important round of eating, drinking, dressing, walking, visiting
buying, selling, talking, reading, and all that makes up what is com-
monly called living, yet to be gone through and this yet remained to
;

Augustine. Had his wife been a whole woman, she might yet have done
— —
something as woman can to mend the broken threads of life, and
weave again into a tissue of brightness. But Marie St. Clare could
not even see that they had been broken. As before stated, she consisted
of a fine figm-e, 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. -

K 2
 ;

132 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the sofa, and
pleaded sudden sick-headache as the cause of his distress, she recom-
mended to him to smell of hartshorn and when the paleness and head-
;

ache 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 was a very unfortunate thing for her, because he didn't enjoy
it

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 beautiful 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 affection, or much sensibility and the little that she
;

had had merged into a most intense and imconscious 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 surromided 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 and non-eligibles of the
other sex sighing at her feet, and she had no doubt that Augustine was a
Eaost 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 scrupulously she exacts
Jove, 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, poutings, and small
tempests, there were discontents, pinings, upbraidings. St. Clare was

good-natm-ed and self-indulgent, and sought to buy off with presents and
flatteries ;and when Marie became mother to a beautiful daughter, he
really felt awakened, for a time, to something like tenderness.
St. Clare's mother had been a woman of imcommon elevation and
purity of character, and he gave to this child his mother's 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 dislike
all that was given to her seemed so much taken from herself. From the
time of the birth of this child her health gradually sank. A life of
—
constant inaction, bodily and mental the friction of ceaseless ennui
1
UNCLE TOM. 8 CABIiV. 133

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 di-sdded
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 forte
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 feai-ed

that, with no one to look after her and attend to her, her health and life
might vet fall a sacrifice to her mother's ineflSciency. He had taken her
with him on a tour to Vermont, and had persuaded hi§ 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
om* view, there is yet time for an introduction to Miss Ophelia.
Whoever has travelled in the New England States will remember, in
some cool tillage, the large farm-house, with its clean-swept grassy yard,
shaded by the dense and massive i'oliage of the sugar-maple; and
remember the air of order and stillness, of pei'petuity 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 clumps of lilac-bushes growing up under the
its

windows. Within, he will remember wide, clean rooms, where nothing

ever seems to be doing or going to be done, where everytliing is once and
for ever rigidly in place, and where all 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 RoUin's History,
Milton's Paradise Lost, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and Scott's FamUy
Bible, 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 sewing
eveiy afternoon among her daughters, as if nothing ever had been done,
or were to be done —
she and her girls, in some long-forgotten fore part
of the day, " did up the work," and for the rest of the time, probably at
aU 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 utensUs, never seem deranged or disordered; 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
131 TJNCI.i; TOM S CABIN.

and cbeese 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
considered by her father and mother as one of " the children," and the
proposal that she should go to Orleans was a most momentous one to the
family circle. The old gray-headed father took down Morse's Atlas out
of the book-case, and looked out the exact latitude and longitude and ;

read Flint's Travels in the South and West, to make up his own mind as
to the nature of the country.
The good mother inquired, anxiously, " if Orleans wasn't an awful
wicked place,'.' saying, " that it seemed to her most equal to going to the
Sandwich Islands, or anywhere among the heathen."
It was knovra at the minister's, and at the doctor's, and at Miss Pea-
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 tlus very important process of talking alout
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 staunch colonisationist, inclined to the opinion that Misa

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 fully before the public mind, she was solemnly invited
out to tea by all her friends and neighbours for the space of a fortnight,
and her prospects and plans duly canvassed and enquired 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 con-
sidered, 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
;

thsa-e 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 hemstitched pocket-handkerchief; and
report even went so far as to state Miss Ophelia had one pocket-handkei-
 —

UNCLE tom's cabin. 135

chief witli lace all round —

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 shin-
ing brown linen travelling-dress, tall, square-formed, and angular. Her
face was thin, and rather sharp in its outlines the lips compressed, like
;

those of a person who is making up her mind definitely

in the habit of
on all subjects while the keen, dark eyes had a pecidiarly searching,
;

advised movement, and 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, and
exactness. In punctuality, she was as inevitable as a clock, and as
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 all evils was ex- —
pressed by one very common and important word in her vocabulary
" shiftlessness." Her finale and ultimatum of contempt consisted in a
very emphatic pronunciation of the word " shiftless and by this she ;''

characterised aU modes of procedure which had not a direct and inevit-

able 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 hantis 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 EngUsh 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, wero
her ideas with regard to most matters of practical life such as house- —
keeping in aU 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-Eng-
land 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
136 UNCLE xom's cabin.

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 of
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 her mobt
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, monopolised 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 wife. 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 an extent which those who knew him thought
perfectly incredible. But what more or other is to be known of Miss
Ophelia oxir reader must discover by a personal acquaintance.
There she is, sitting down in her state room, surrounded by a mixed
multitude of little and big carpet bags, boxes, baskets, each containing
some separate responsibility which she is tying, binding up, packing or
fastening, with a face of great earnestness.
"Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things? Of course you
haven't, —children never do ; there's the spotted carpet-bag and the little

blue band-box with your best bonnet —that's two ; then the India rubber
satchel is three and my tape and needle box is four-; and my band-box
;

five and my collar-box, six and that little hair trunk, seven. What
; ;

have you done with your sunshade ? Give it to me, and let me put a
paper round it, and tie it to my umbrella with my shade there, now." ;

—
" Why, aunty, we are only going up home what is the use ?"
" To keep it nice, child people must take care of their things if they
;

ever mean to have anything and now, Eva, is your thimble put up ?"
;

" Really, aunty, I don't know."

" Well, nevermind; I'll look your box over; thimble, wax, two spoons,
 UNCLE TOM 3 CABIN 137

scissors, knife, tape-needle ; all right, —put it in here. What 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."
many and then, when
" Well, aunty, I did lose a great ; 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'U you do now ?" said Eva. " That trunk is too
full 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 remained
;

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 he shut and locked,
— there are no two ways about it."
And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute statement, gave
i n. The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss Ophelia turned the
key, and pocketed it va. triumph.
" Now we're ready. Where's your papa? I think it time this baggage
was sent out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you see 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," said Eva, " and we havn'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-mai'ks, by which
she recognised her native city.
" Yes, yes, dear ; very fine," said Miss Ophelia, " But, 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 anxiousiy —
calling to their children, and everbody 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 fine military order, seemed
resolved to defend them to the last.
" Shall I take your trunk, ma'am ?" " ShaU I take your baggage ?"
" Let me 'tend to your baggage, missis ?" " Shan't I carry out these
jer. missis ?" rained down upon her unheeded. She sat with grim deter-
 —

138 UNCLE tom's cabin

mination, 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 fallen 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; " I
began 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
Christian manner, and not be pushed and shoved. Here," he added to a
driver, who
stood behind him, " take these things."
" go and see to his putting them in," said Miss Ophelia.
I'll

" 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-offering, 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 French style, of which there are specimens in
some parts of New 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 all 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
 — ;

UNCLE Toil's CABIN. 139

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 patternsand this, again, was surroimded by turf^
;

smooth as green a carriage-drive inclosed the whole. Two

velvet, while
large orange-trees, now fragrant with blossoms, 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
of flowers, golden jessamines, lemon-scented verbenum, all united their
bloom and fragrance, while here and there a mystic old aloe, with its
strange, massive leaves, sat looking like some hoary old enchanter, sitting
in weird grandeur among the more perishable bloom and fragrance
around it.
The galleries that surrounded the court were festooned with a curtain
of some kind of Moorish stuff, and could be dravrn dovsTi at pleasure, to
exclude the beams of the sun. On the whole, the appearance of the
place was luxurious and romantic.
As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready to burst from a
cage, with the wild eagerness of her delight.
" Oh, isn't it beautiful, lovely, my own dear, darling home !" she said
!"
to Miss Ophelia. " Isn't it beautiful
" 'Tis a pretty place," said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted, " though it
looks rather old and heathenish to me."
Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an air of calm
stUl enjoyment. The negro, it must be remembered, is an exotic of thu
most gorgeous and superb countries of the world, and he has deep in his
heart a passion for aU that is splendid, rich, and fanciful; a passion
which, rudely indulged by an untrained taste, draws on him the
ridicule of the colder and more correct white race.
St. Clare, who was in his heart a poetical voluptuary, smiled as Miss
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
 ;

140 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

in the ultra extreme of the mode, and gracefully waving a scented

cambric 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 master's domestic relations, in the
firsthour of his return !"
All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with quite an air,
and stood huddled together at 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, ofi'ering his hand to him
" how are you, boy ?" 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 minute ;" and so saying, he led
to the people in a
Miss Ophelia to a large parlour that opened on to the verandah.
While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird through the
porch and parlor, to a little boudoir opening Hkewise on the verandah.
A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman, half rose from a couch on which she
was reclining.
" Mamma !" said Eva, in a sort of a 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 tnie, orthodox, husbandly
.

fashion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie lifted her large
eyes on her cousin with an air of some curiosity, and received her with
languid poKteness. A crowd of servants now pressed to the entry door,
and among them a middle-aged mulatto woman, of very respectable
appearance, stood foremost, in a tremor of expectation and joy, at the
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.
 XTNCLE TOM's CABIN. 141

" Well !" said Miss Ophelia, " you southern cliildren can do something
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 kisssing
—
•'
Niggers," said St Clare, " that you're not up to ; eh?"
" Yes, that's 'it. How can she ?"
laughed, as he went into the passage.
St. Clare " Halloa, 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 the 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, now, take yourselves oflP, 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 filling 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;
" that the way you treat your company ?
is Seems to me, Dolph," 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 his scented
hair with a grace
" So, that's it, is it ?" said St. Clare carelessly. " Well, here, I'm
going show this Tom to his mistress, and then you take him
to to the
kitchen; and mind you don't put on any of your airs to him. He's
worth two such puppies as you."
" Master always will have his joke," said Adolph, laughing. " I'm
delighted to see master in such spirits."
" Here, Tom," said St, Clare, beckoning.
Tom entered the room. He looked wistfally on the velvet carpets, and
the before unimagined splendours of mirrors, pictures, statues, and cur-
 '

J 42 UNCLE TOM'S cabin.

tains, and, like the queen of Sheba before Solomon, there was no more
spii'it in him. He
looked afraid even to set his feet down.
" See here, Marie," said St. Clare to his wife, " I've boug'ht you a
coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he's a regular hearse for black-
ness and sobriety, and will drive you hke a funeral, if you want. Open
your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don't say I never think about
you when I'm gone."
Marie opened 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 t,'''^ lady ;
" it's more than
I expect, though."
" Dolph," 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, Maria," said St. Clare, seating himself on a stool beside
her " be gracious and say something pretty to a fellow."
sofa,
" 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 nere, 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.''
Itwas a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, representing
Eva and her father sitting hand in hand.
Marie looked at it vrith a dissatisfied air.
" "VVIiat 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 he added,
'•
Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness ? Don't be non-
sensical now."
" It's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare," said the lady, " to insist
on my talking and looking at things. You know I've been lying all day
with the sick-headache and there's been such a tumult made ever since
;

you came, I'm half dead."

 UNCLE Toil's CABIN. 143

"You're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am!" said Miss Ophelia,

suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair, -vehere she had
furniture, and calculating its
sat quietly, taking an inventoiy of the
expense.
" Yes, I'm a perfect martyr to it," said the lady.
" Juniper-berry tea is good for the sick-headache," said Miss Ophelia;
" at least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife, used to say so and ;

she was a great nurse."

" I'll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the
lake brought in for that especial purpose," said St. Clare, gravely j)ull-
ing the beU as he did so " meanwhile, cousin, you must be wanting to
;

retire to your apartment, and refresh yourself a little, after your journey.
Dolnh," he added, "tell Mammy to come here." The decent mulatto
woman, whom Eva had caressed so raptm'ously soon entered ; she was
dressed neatly, with a high red and yellow turban on 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 made
comfortable ;" and Miss Ophelia disappeared in the rear of Mammy.

CHAPTER XVI.

tom's mistress and her opinions.

"And now, Marie," said "your golden days are dawning.

St. Clare,
Here is our practical, business-like New England
cousin, who wUl take
the whole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to reifresh
yourseK, 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 after
^liss 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'swe 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
 —

144 UNCLE TOM S CABIN

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 Ufe. I believe that more of my iU-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 ?"
" Mammyis 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 you a good many nights lately, mamma ?"
said Eva.
" How should you know that ?" said Marie, sharply ;
" she's been
complaining, I suppose."
" She didn't complain ; she only told me what bad nights you'd had
so many in succession."
" Why don't you let Jane or Rosa take her place a night or two," said
St. Clare, " and let her rest ?"
" How can you propose it ?" said Marie, " St. Clare, you really are
inconsiderate So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me and a
! ;

strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy

felt the interest in me she ought to, she'd wake easier of course she —
would. I've heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never
was my luck ;" and Marie sighed.
Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air of shrewd,
observant gravity and she still kept her lips tightly compressed, as if
;

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 vnth me,
and her husband my father couldn't spare. He was a blacksmith, and of
course, very necessary; and I thought and said, at the time, that
Mamioy and he had better give each other up, as it wasn't likely to be
convenient for them ever to live together again. I wish now I'd insisted
on it, and married Mammy to somebody else but I was foolish and ;
 UNCLE TOM. S CABIN. 145

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 with my health, and I
can't go there ; and I advised her to take up with somebody else ; but no
—she wouldn't. Mammy had a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots,
that everybody don't see as I do,"
" Has she children ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" Yes ; she has two."
" I suppose she feels the separation from them ?"
" Well, of com'se, I couldn't bring them. They were Uttle dirty
things — have them about; and, besides, they took up too
I couldn't
much of her time ; Mammy has always kept up a sort
but I believe that
of sulkiness about this. She won't marry anybody else and I do believe ;

now, though she knows how necessaiy 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, tlie
;

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 has 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 cofiee or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It's

abominable, to be sure but St. Clare wiU have high life below stairs,
;

and they every one of them live just as they please. The fact is, our
servants are over indulged. I suppose it is partly our fault that they
are selfish, and act like spoiled children; but I've talked to St. Clare
till Iam 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 roimd 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 for 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
146 UNCLE TOM's cabin.
" But may 1, mamma ? I thiiik," slie said timidly, " that Mammy
isn't well. She told me that her head ached all the time, lately."
" Oh, that's just one of Mammy's fidgets ! Mammy is just like all the

rest of them —makes such a fuss about every little head-ache or finger-
ache ; it'll never do to encourage it never — ! I'm principled about this
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 complaiaing of every little ailment, you'll have your
hands full. I never complatu 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 bui'st iato a loud laugh.
" St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my ill-

health," said Marie, with the voice of a sufiering 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 rather a 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 aflFected by it was no longer in sight. " He never realises, never can,
and never will, what I sufier, 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, natm-ally, 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 answer
to this.
was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped away her
"While she
tears,and smoothed her plumage in a general sort of way, as a dove
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 commox.
understanding to assume the du'ection —giving her so many cautions,
directionsand 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 every thing so ;

that, when my next sick turn comes on, you'll be able to go forward
entirely, without consulting me only about Eva ; she requires —
watching."
 TJNCLE TOM S CA.BIN. 147

" She seems to be a good child, very," said Miss Ophelia ;

" I never
saw a better child."
" Eva's peciiliar," said her mother, " very. There are things about
her so singular; she isn't like me now, a particle :" and Marie sighed,
as if this was a truly melancholy consideration.
Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, " I hope she isn't ;" but had pru-
dence enough to keep it down.
" Eva always was disposed to be with servants and I think that well ;

enough with some children. Now, I always played with father's little
negroes — it me any harm. But Eva somehow always seems
never did
to put herself on an equality with every creature that comes near her.
It's a strange thing about the child. I never have been able to break
her of it. St. Clare, I believe encourages her in it. The fact is, St.
Clare indulges every creature imder this roof but his own wife."
Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.
" Now, there's no way with sei^vants," said Marie, " but to put them
doicn, 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 I 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 You heard her offering !

to take care of me nights, to let Mammy sleep. That's just a speoi-

raen 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
tired ?"
" 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 steep anywhere and everywhere. No danger but Mammy

gets sleep enough. But this treating servants as if they were exotic
flowers 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 vinaigretta.
" 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 under-
st/ood me, never appreciated me. I think it lies at the root of all my ill-

l2
 —

148 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

health. St. Clare means well, I am bound to believe but men are con-
;

stitutionally selfish and inconsiderate to women. That, at least, is my

impression."
Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New England
caution, and a very peculiar horror of being drawn into family difficul-
ties, now began to foresee something of this kind impending so com- ;

posing her face into a grim neutrality, and drawing out of her 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, shutting
her lips together in a way that said, as plain as words could, " You needn't
try to make me speak. I don't want anything to do with your affairs"
in fact, she looked about as sympathising as a stone lion. But Marie
didn't care for that. She had got somebody to talk to, and she felt it
her duty to talk, and that was enough and reinforcing herself by
;

smelling again at her vinaigretta, she went on.

" You see, I brought my own property and servants into the coimexion,
when I married St. Glare, 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, particularly

about the treatment of servants. He really does act as if he set his
servants before me, and before himself, too for he lets them make him
;

all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a finger. 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 are
nothing but grown-up children."
" I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that I don't !"
*
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 them. He says their
 " !

UNCLE TOM S CABIX. 149

faults arc all owing to us, and 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 difiPerent 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 my 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
Ibi- me to bear. I don't often show my 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 sub-
;

ject since. know by his looks, and little things that he says, tha'
But I
!"
he thinks so as much as ever and it's so trying, so provoking
;

jNIiss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she should say

something but she ratiled away with her needles in a way that had
;

volumes of meaning in it, if INIarie could only have understood it.

" So, you just see," she continued, " what you've got to manage, A
household without any rule where servants have it all their own way,
:

do what they please, and have what they please, except so far as I, with
my feeble health, have kept up government. I keep my cowhide about
and sometimes I do lay it on but the exertion is always too much for
;

me. If St. Clare would only have this thing done as others do
—
" And how's that !"
" Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other places, to be
flogged. That's the only way. If I wasn't such a poor, feeble piece, I
believe I should manage with twice the energy that St. Clare 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, it's peculiar that —
—
eye and if he speaks decidedly, there's a kind of flash. I'm afi'aid
of it, myself; and the servants know they must mind. I couldn't do as
 — ;

150 ITNCLE TOM S CABIN.

mucli by a regular storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn of his
eye, if once lie 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 ac-
count these wicked creatures will have tosettle, at last, especially for being
lazy ! You he stretched himself at full length on a
see, cousin," said he, as

lounge 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 have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my dear, for
setting me right."
" You do really try to be provoking," said Marie.
" Oh, come, Marie, 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 xet a fellow repose in the light of your smile."
" What's the matter about Dolph ?" said Marie. " That fellow's
impudence has been growing to a point that is perfectly intolerable
to me. I only wish I had the undisputed management of him a while.
I'd bring him down !"

" What you my dear, is marked with your usual acuteness and
say,
good sense," said St. Clare- " As to Dolph, the case is this that he has ;

so long been engaged in imitating my graces and perfections, that he has

at last really mistaken himself for his master and I have 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
to keep some of my clothes for my own personal wearing ; also, I put his
magnificence 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."
" Oh St. Clare, when will
! you learn how to treat your servants ? 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 lilce

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," said Miss Ophelia,
with blunt determination.
 ;

UJ^CLE TOM S CABIN, 151

-' 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 of 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 God
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 ! St. Clare, getting up quickly ; " what do you
come, come," said
know about And
he sat down to the piano, and rattled a lively
us ?"
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. I make no manner of 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."
" For 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 sui'e they can go to church when they like, though
;

they don't understand a word of the sermon, more than so many

any great use for them to go, as I see but they do
pigs, so it isn't of ;

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 OpheHa,
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 jau
;

never have any feeling for me."

152 UNCLE tom's cabin.

" My dear accusing angel !" said St. Clare.

" It's prov^oking to be talked to in that way."
" Then, how will you be talked to ? I'U talk to order, — any way
you'll mention, only to give satisfaction."
A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtains of the
verandah. St. Clare stepped out, and lifting up the curtain, laughed too.
" What is it ?" said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing.
There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one of his
button-holes stuck fuU of cape jessamines, and Eva, gaUy laughing, was
hanging a wreath of roses round his neck and then she sat down on his ;

Knee, like a chip-sparrow, stiU laughing.

!"
" O Tom, you look so funny
Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet way,
to be enjoying the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He Kfted his
eyes, when he saw his master, with a half-deprecating, apologetic air.
" How can you let her ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" Why not ?" said St. Clare.
" "WTiy, I don't know, it seems so dreadful !"
" You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large dog, even if

he was black ; but a creature that can think, and reason, and feel, and is

immortal, you shudder at confess it, cousin. I know the feeHng among
;

some of you northeners well enough. Not that there is a particle ol'
virtue in our not haviag it ; but custom with us does what Christianity
ought to do — obhterates the feeling of personal prejudice. I have often
noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger this was- with you than
with us. You loathe them you would a snake or a toad, yet you are
as
indignant at their wrongs. You would
not have them abused, but you
don't want to have anything to do with them yom-selves. You would
send them to Africa, out of your sight and smell, and then send a
missionary or two to do up all the self-denial of elevating them compen-
diously. Isn't that it ?"
" 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 oflf,
leading Tom
with her. " Your 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 miae 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 du professor, to hear you talk."
 'x-.'Tss?'

EVA DRESSING UNCLE TOM.

" There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one of his button-
holes stuck full of cape jessamines, and Eva, gaily laughing, was hanging a wreath
—
of roses round his neck." Page 152.
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 153

" A professor?" said St. Clare.

" Yes a professor of religion."
;

" Not at all not a professor, as your town folks have

; it ; and, what is

worse, I'm afraid, not a practiser, either."

" What makes you talk so, then ?"
" Nothing is easier than talking," said St. Clare. " I believe Shak-
epeare makes somebody say, '
I could sooner show twenty that were good
to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow my own showing,'
Nothing like division of labour. My forte lies in talking, and yours,
cousin, lies in doing."

In Tom's external situation, at this time, there was, as the world says,
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 the
escort of a servant, in her wal-ks or rides ; and Tom had general orders
to let everything else go, and attend to Miss Eva whenever she wanted
him —orders which om* readers may fancy were far from disagreeable 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 an uuder-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 inadequate to any trial of that
nature; one snuflf of anything disagreeable being, according to her
account, quite sufl&cient 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 be a Bishop
of Carthage, as men of his colour were, in other ages.
Then, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to which»his
too,
sensitive race are never indifferent and he did enjoy with a quiet joy the
;

birds, the flowers, the fountains, the perfume, and light and beauty of the
com-t, the silken hangings, and pictures, and lustres, and statuettes, and
gilding, that made the parlours within a kind of Aladdin'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 vsdll awake there vpith a gorgeousness and splendour
of which our cold western tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-off
mystic land of gold and gems, and spices, and waving palms, and
 ! —

154 UNCLE TOM S CABIIf.

wondrous flowers, and miraculoaiis 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 most mag-
nificent revelations of human life. Certainly they will, in their gentleness,
their lowly docility of heart, their aptitude to repose on a superior mind
and on a higher power, their childlike simplicity of affection, and
rest
facility of forgiveness. In all these they will exhibit the highest form of
the peculiarly Christian life, and, perhaps, as God chasteneth whom he
loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnace of affiction, 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, gor-
geously 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 patronised 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 enveloping 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-upright-
;

ness, 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
" AVhere's Eva ?" said Marie.

The child stopped on the stairs to say something to Mammy."

"
And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs ? Listen, reader,
and you will hear, though Marie does not.
" Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully."
" Lord bless you, Miss Eva my head allers aches lately. You don't
!

need to worry."
" Well, I'm glad you're going out and here" and the little girl threw
; —
—
her arms around her " Mammy, you shall take my vinaigrette."
" 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 for
head ache, and it'll make you feel better. No, you shall take it, to
please me, now."
" Do hear the 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 ?"
 '

TTNCLE TOM's CABIN. 155

" I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take to church

with her."
" Eva !" said Marie, stamping impatiently, " your gold vinaigrette to
3Iammy ! When will you learn what's proper 7 Go right and take it
!"
back, 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 ]\Iarie.
" 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."
" WeU, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting ?" said Miss 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 he
hasn't a particle of religion about him. It really isn't respectable."
" I know it," said St. Clai-e. " You ladies go to church to learn how
to get along in the world, I suppose, and your piety sheds respectabihty
on us. If I do go at aU I would go where Mammy goes ; there's some-
thing to keep a fellow awake there, at least."
" WTiat, 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. Ev.a, 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 httle obliging soul!" said St. Clare, kissing her; "go
along, that's a good girl, and pray for me."
" Certainly, I always do," said the child, as she sprang after her
mother into the carriage.
St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed Ms 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 he much unlike other folks ?
156 "UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

" You see, Evangeline," said her mother, " it's always right and pro-
per to be kind to servants, hut it isn't proper to treat them just as vve
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
my bed is better
be handier to take care of her, and because, you know,
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 alonsr."

" Well, ladies," said St. Clare, as they were comfortably seated at the
dinner-table, " and what was the bill of fare at church to-day ?"
" 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, and such things," said,
Marie. " The text was, He hath made everything beautiful in its sea-
'

son;' 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 all our institutions so con-
vincingly. 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 W'hich 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 I was to say anything
on this slavery matter, I would say out fair and square, We're io 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, evex'ywhere."

 ;

UNCLE TOm's CABIN". 157

"I do think, Aiignstine, 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 and show the beauty, in
further, 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 are
pretty frequent among us young men we'd like to hear that those are
;

right and godly, too."

" Well," said Miss Ophelia, " do you think slavery right or wrong ?"
" I'm not going to have any of your horrid New England directness,
cousin," said St. Clare gaily. " If I answer that question, I know
you'll be at me with half a dozen others, each one harder than the last
and I'm not a going to define my position. I am one of that sort that
lives by throwing stones at other people's glass houses, but I never mean
to put up one for them to stone."
" That's just the way he's always talking," said Marie " you can't ;

get any satisfaction out of him. I believe it's just because he don't like
religion that he's always running out in this way he's been doing."
" Religion " said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladies look at
!

him. " Religion Is what you tear at church religion ?

! Is that which
can bend and turn, and descend and ascend, to fit every crooked phase of
selfish, worldly society, religion? Is that religion which is less scrupu-
lous, less generous, less just, less considerate for man, than even my own
ungodly, worldly, blinded nature ? No ! When I look for a religion, I
must look for something above me, and not something beiicath."
" Then you don't believe that the Bible justifies slavery ?" said Miss
Ophelia.
" The Bible was my inother''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 fi-om me the comfort of respecting her; and it really is a

comfort in this world, to have anything one can respect. In short, you
see," said he, suddenly resuming his gay tone, " all I want is that
difierent things be kept in difi'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 world. 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
;
158 uNciE Tom's cabin.

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 veryuncharitable," said Marie.
" Well," said St. Clare, " suppose that something should bring down
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
version 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 rale," 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 feel 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 came
moment, with a flower in her hand.
in at this
" What about, papa ?"
" Why, which do you like the best to live as they do at your uncle's,
;

up in Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants, as we do ?"

" Oh, of coarse, our way is the pleasantest," said Eva.
" Whyso ?" said St. Clare, stroking her head.
" Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you know, said Eva,
looking up earnestly.
" Now, that's just like Eva," said Marie ;
" just one of her odd
speeches."
" Is it an odd speech, papa?" said Eva, whispering, 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 ; its 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
 ;

UKCLE XO-M's cabin. 159

there, over the stables, and there I heard him holding a meeting by
himself; and, in fact, I haven't heard anything quite so savoury aa
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 ti'ick
before."
" If he did,
he wasn't veiy politic for he gave the Lord his opinion of
;

me Tom seemed to think there was decidedly room for

pretty freely.
improvement in me, and seemed very earnest that I should be converted."
" 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 FREE MAN'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 bed-room where George and his wife were sitting. He was
little

sitting with his child on his knee, and his wife's hand in his. Both
looked thoughtful and serious, and traces of tears were on their cheeks.
" Yes, Eliza," said George, " I know aU you say is true. You are a
good child —a great deal better than I am and
; I will try to do as you
say. I'll try to act worthy of a free man. I'll try to feel like a Chris-
tian. God Almighty knows that I've meant to do well — tried hard to
—
do well when everything has been against me and now I'U forget all ;

the past, and put away every hard and bitter feeling, and read my Bible,
and learn a good man."
to be
" And when we 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. Eliza, if
these people only knew 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 own fretting and worrying about anything
else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have nothing but oiu- bare
 ;

160 TJNCLE TOMS CABIK

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 anything,"
" But yet we are not quite oat of danger," said Eliza; " we are not 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 HalHday was there, and with him a Quaker brother, whom he
introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phiiieas was tall and lathy, red-haii-ed,
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 a head peculiarities which sorted rather oddly with his broad brim
;

and formal pliraseology.

" 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
some apples, last year, to that fat
sold
woman with WeU,
I was tired with hard driving
the great ear-rings.
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 some
;

men in 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
very party. So I lay and heard them lay off all their plans. Tlus young
man, they said, was to be sent back to Kentucky, to his master, who was
going to make an example of him, to keep all niggers from running
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- 'S tie
 UNCLE TOM's cabin. 161

away ; and two of them were going to run down to New Orleans
his wife
to sell, on theu- 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 hought 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 go 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-spoken, 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 be down after us, six or eight strong. So, now, what's to be
done?"
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 biscuits, 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 husband,
;

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, noddiog his head to Simeon ;
" thou seest,

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 yom- 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'U 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.
" Ivolve .P" with a cm-ious and keen expression of face.
said Phineas,
" 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, and pointing to the pistols, " be not over
hasty with these- —young blood is hot."
" I will attack no man," said George. " All I ask of this country is
to be 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
 —

162 UNCLE TOM S CABIIT.

Orleans market. I know wliat 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 of offences,
but woe unto them through whom the offence cometh."
" Would not even you, sir, do the same in my place ?"
" I pray that I be not tried," said Simeon " the flesh is weak." ;

" I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong in such a case,"

said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms lik« the sails of a windmill.
" I an't sure, friend George, that I shouldn't hold a fellow for thee, if
thee had any accounts to settle with him."
" If man should ever resist evil," said Simeon, then George should feel
free to do it now
but the leaders of our people taught a more excellent
;

way ; wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God

for the ;

but it goes sorely against the corrupt will of man, and none can receive
it save they to whom it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be not
tempted."
" And so I do," 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,
" The old nature hath its way in thee pretty strong as yet."
To teU 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 nothiag particular could be alleged against

him, yet the more spiritual among them could not but discern an exceed-
ing lack of savour in his developments.
" Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own," said Rachel
Halliday, 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
any rate for there are some evil persons in
isn't safe to start till dark, at ;

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 1 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 ;
 —

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 163

could shoot ahead and let us know, if there were any danger. I am going
out now to warn Jim and the old woman and to see
to be in readiness,
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, fi-iend 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."
" AU I am sorry for," said George, " is the risk to you."
much oblige us, friend George,
" Thee'll no more about that. to say
What we do we are conscience bound to do can do it no other way. ; we
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 evening
meal, George and his vrife sat in their little room, with their arms folded
about each other, in such talk as husband and wife have when they know
that a few hours may part them for ever.
" EHza," said George, " people that have friends, and houses, and
lands, and money, and all those things, do, who have
cari't love as we
nothing but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creature ever had
loved me, but my poor, heartbroken mother and sister. I saw poor Emily
that morning the trader carried 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 I 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'U give my last drop of blood, but they shall not
take you from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my dead body."
" O Lord, have mercy !" said EUza, sobbing. " If he wUl only let us
get out of this country together, that is aU 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 ? Why
does he let such things happen ? And they tell us that the Bible is on
their side certainly aU. 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 better 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 G'^d lets them."
" Friend George," said Simeon, from the kitchen, " listen to this
Psalm ; it may do thee good."
M 2
 — —;

164 TTKCI.E TOM's cabin.

George di'ew 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. I was envious of the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of

For
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 into the sanctuary of God. Then under-
stood I their end. Surely thou didst set them in slippery places, thou
castedst them down to destruction.As a dream when one awaketh, so,
O Lord, when thou awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Never-
theless 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. good for
It is God. I have put my
me to draw near unto
"
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 ? often those who have least of all in
But is it

this life whom he chooseth kingdom. Put thy trust in him, and
for the
no matter what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter."
If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent ex-
horter, from whose mouth they might have come merely as pious and
rhetorical flourish, proper to be used to people in distress, perhaps they
might not have had much effect but coming from one who daily and
;

calmly risked fine and imprisonment for the cause of God and man, they
had a weight that could not but be felt, and both the poor desolate fugi-
tives 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 soimded at the door,
and Ruth entered.
" I just ran in," she said, " with these little stockings for the boy
three pair, nice warm woollen ones. It will be so cold, thee knows, in
Canada. Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza ?" she added, tripping
 UNCLE Ton's CABIN. 185

1-ound to Eliza's side of the tab^e,and shaking- her Avarmly by the hand,
and a seed-cake into Harry's hand. " I brought a little parcel
sli^Dping
of these for him," she said, tugging- at her pocket to get out the package.
'•
Children, thee knows, -will always be eating."
" thank you; you are too kind," said Eliza.
" Come, Ruth, sit down to supper," said Rachel.
" I couldn't any "way. I left John -with the baby, and some buscuits
in the oven ; and I can't stay a moment, else John will bm-n up all the
biscuits, and give the baby all the sugar in the bowl. That's the way he
does," said the little Quakeress, laughing. " So good-by, Eliza good-by,
;

George ; Lord grant thee a safe jom-ney ;" and, with a few tripping
the
steps, Ruth was out of the apartment.
A little while after supper a large covered waggon di'ew up before the
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 after 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 and the boy."
" Here are the two buffaloes," said Rachel. " 'Make the seats as com-

fortable as may be ; it's hard riding all night."

Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother, who
clung to his arm and looked anxiously about, as if she expected the pur-
suer every moment.
" Jim, are your pistols all in order ?" said George in a low firm voice.
" Yes, indeed," said Jim.
" And you've no doubt what you shaU do if they come ?"
" I rather think I havn't," said Jim, throwing open his broad chest,
and taking a deep breath. " Do you think I'll let them, get mother
again ?"
During had been taking her leave of her kind
this brief colloquy, Eliza
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 and Jim
placed on a rough board seat in front of them, and Phineas mounted in
front.
" Farewell, my from without.
friends," said Simeon,
!
" God bless answered aU from within.
you "
And the waggon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen road.
There was no opportunity lor 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 dreaiy
plains, up hiUs and down valleys, and on, on, they jogged, hour after
hour. The child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother's lap.
 "

166 T7NCLE IOM's CABIN.

The poor frightened old woman at last forgot her fears ; . and even Ehza,
as the night waned, found all her anxieties insufficient to keep her eyes
from closing. Phineas seemed, on the whole, the bribkest of the company,
and beguiled his long drive with whistling certain very un- Quaker-like
songs as he went on.
But about three o'clock George's ear caught the hasty and decided
click of a horse's hoof coming behind ^hem 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 hiU.
!
" There he is, I do believe " said Phineas. George and Jim both
sprang out of the waggon, before they knew what they were
doing. Ail
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, -within
hail.
" Yes, that's Michael !" said Phineas; and, raising his voice, " Halloa,
there, Michael!"
" Phineas,is that thee?"
" Yes what news ? they coming ? "
; —
" Right on behind, eight or ten on of them, hot with brandy, swearing
and foaming like so many wolves !

And, just as he spoke, a breeze 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 a word, both jumped in,
and Phineas lashed the horses to a run, the horseman keeping close
beside them. The waggon rattled, jumped, almost flew, over the frozen
gi'ound 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 Mil, a party of men looming up
against the red-streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their pur-
suers 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
pursuers gained on them fast the carriage made a sudden turn, and
;

brought 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
 "

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 167

clear and smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, ro^e 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; and 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 tmnkling, 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 and his boys to come
back and talk to these fellows."
In a twinkhng they were all out of the carriage.
" There," said Phineas, catching up Harry, " you each of you see to
the women and run, 7iow, if you ever did run.
;

There needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, the whole
party were over the fence, making with all speed for the rocks, while
Michael, thi-owing himself from his horse, and fastening the bridle to
the waggon, began driving it rapidly away.
" Come ahead," said Phineas, as they reached 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.
;

Come up !

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, with the boy
in his ai'ms. Jim came second, bearing his trembling old mother over
his shoidder, 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' scram-
bling 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 easUy leaped the chasm, and sat 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 fi-agments 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 curs, let us take
all the risk, and do all the fighting."
 !

168 UNCLE TOM's CIBIN.

" Thee's quite welcome to do the fighting, George," said Phineas,

chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke " but I may have the;

fun of looking on, I suppose. But see, these fellows are kinder debatino-
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 cm- old acquaintance, Tom Loker and Marks, with two consta-
bles, 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.
" Yes, I 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 plaguy scared
! !

" I don't know why I sliouldn't save my skin," said Marks. It's the
best I've got ; and niggers do fight like the devil, sometimes."
At this moment George appeared on the top of a rock above them,
and, speaking in a calm clear voice, said,
" Gentlemen, who 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. We've got the officers here, and a warrant to take 'em and ;

we're goin to have 'em, too. D'ye hear ? An't you George Harris, that
belongs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky ?"
" I am George 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, pufiy 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
 ;

UNCLE TOM S CL.HIN. 169

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 fight for om- liberty till

we die."
George stood out on the top of the rock, as he made
in fair sight,
his declaration of independence glow of dawn gave a flush to his
; the
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 a 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 tkrough Ame-

rica 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 fugitives

maJve 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 There is some-
struck the party below to sUence.
thing in boldness and determination that for a time hushes even the
rudest nature. Marks was the only one who remained wholly untouched.
He was deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary silence that
followed George's speech, he fired at him.
" Ye see, ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky," he
he wiped his
said coolly, as pistol on his coat-sleeve.
George sprang backward —Eliza uttered a shriek—the ball had passed
close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of his wife, and struck in
the tree above.
" It's nothing, Eliza," said George, quickly.
" Thee'd better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying," saidPhineas;
" they're mean scamps."
" Now, Jim," said George, " look that your pistols are all right, and
watch that pass with me. The fii-st man that shows himself I fii'e 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.
 170 ITNCLE TOM S CAJBIir.

" Good ! Now, there's stuff in that fellow," muttered Phineas, between
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 the 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, spring-
ing up the rocks.
George heard the words distinctly. He 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, and, the vt'ay
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 side; but, though wounded, he
would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a mad hvJl, he was leaping
right across thechasm into the party.
" Friend," said Phineas, 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 do^vn 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 came
down with some force, however more than was — at all agreeable or
convenient.
" Lord, help us ! they are perfect devils !" said Marks, 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 puflS.ng in a very energetic
manner.
" I say, Marks, " you jist go round and pick up Tom,
fellers," said

there, while I run and get on to my horse, to go back for help that's —
you ;" and, without minding the hootings and jeers of his company, Marks
was as good as his word, and was soon seen galloping away.
" Was ever such a sneaking varmint ?" said one of the men. " To
come on his business, and clear out and leave us this yer way !"
" Well, we must pick up that feller," said another. " Cuss 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 gvcf^ihing and swearing,
with alternate vehemence.
 THE " FRIENDLY" ARM.
" Friend,' said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and meeting liim with
'

a push from his long arm, thee isn't wanted here.' "—Page 170.
'
 ;

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 171

" Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom," said one. " Ye much
hurt ?"
" Don't know. Get me up, can't ye ? Blast that infernal Quaker ! If
it had not been for him, I'd a pitched some oa'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 up 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 sluflf into this place, and stop this infernal
bleeding."
George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift the burly form
ofTom into the saddle. After two or three ineffectual attempts, he reeled,
and fell heavily to the ground.
" Oh, I hope he isn't killed ?" said Eliza, who, with all the party, stood
watching the proceeding.
*'
"Why not ?" 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
the Methodist fashion, during aU the encounter, " it's an awful case for
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 consultation ^

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 wont be
! ;

much ti-avel 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 night, Ave
could have outrun 'em entirely."
As the 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 wo 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 him ;

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
172 iriTCLE TOM S CABIN.

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 't an't, friend," said Phineas. " Much Marks cares for
thee, if his own skin's safe. He's off, long ago."
" I believe I'm done for," said Tom. " The cussed sneaking dog, to
leave me to die alone ! My poor old mother always told me '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 his hand away. " Thee has no chance, unless
I stop the bleeding." And Phineas busied himself with making some
off-hand surgical arrangements with his own pocket-handkerchief, and
such as could be mustered by the company.
" You pushed me down there," said Tom, faintly.
" Well, if I hadn't, thee would have pushed us down, thee sees," said
Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. " There, there let me fix —
this bandage. We mean well to thee we bear no maUce. Thee shall be ;

taken to a house 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 and reso-
lution are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with the flowing of
the blood and the gigantic feUow really looked piteous in his help-
;

lessness.
The other party now canie 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
weU 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, is an ugly operation, any way they'll
" killing
fix it, man been a great hunter in my day, and I tell thee
or beast. I've
I've seen a bucli that was shot down, and a dying, look that way on a
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 173

feller with his eye that reely most made a feller feel wicked for killing on
him ;and human creatures is a more serious consideration yet, bcin', 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, consi-
;

derin' how I was raised, I fell in with them pretty considerably."

" "V\Tiat shall we do with this poor fellow ?" said George.
" Oh, carry him along to Amariah's. Thefe's old Grandmam Stephens
— —
there Dorcas, they call her she's most an amazin' nurse. She takes
to nursing real natural, and an't never better suited than when she gets a
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 partj' to a neat farm-house,
where the weary travellers were received to an abundant breakfast. Tom
Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much cleaner and softer bed than
he had ever been in the habit of occupying. His wound was carefuUy
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, hke a weary child. And here, for the present, we shall take our
leave of one party.

CHAPTER XVm.
MISS Ophelia's experiences and opinions.

OuPv friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often compared his more
fortunate lot, bondage into which he was cast, with that of Joseph
in the
in Egypt and, in fact, as time went on, and he developed more and
;

more imder 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
;

would sometimes make his own suggestions.

his class often acquire,
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
174 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

passing of power out of his hands ;

" let Tom alone. You only under-
stand what you want —Tom understands costs and coine to;and there
may be some end to money, by and by, 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 Chris-

tian faith, could have kept him from it. But to that nature, the very
unbounded trust reposed ia him was bond and seal for the most scru-
pulous accuracy.
With Adolph had been different. Thoughtless and self-
the case
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
tuum with regard to himself and his master, which sometimes troubled
even St. Clare. His own good sense taught him that such a training of
his servants was unjust and dangerous. A sort of chronic remorse went
with him everywhere, although not strong enough to make any decided
change in his course; and this very remorse reacted again into indul-
gence. He passed lightly over the most serious faults, because he told
himself that, if he had done his part, his dependents had not fallen into
them.
Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an odd
mixture of fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That he never
read the Bible never went to church ; that he jested and made free with
;

any and every thing that came in the way of his wit; that he spent his
Sunday evenings at the opera or theatre that he went to wine-parties,
;

and clubs, and suppers, oftener than was at all expedient were all things —
that Tom could see as plainly as anybody, and on which he based a con-
viction that " mas'r wasn't a Christian ;" a conviction, however, which he
would have been very slow to express to any one else, but on which he
foimded many prayers, in his own simple fashion, when he was by himself
in his little dormitory. Not that Tom had not his own way of speaking
his mind with something of the tact often observable in
occasionally,
his class; example, the very day after the Sabbath we have
as, for
described, St. Clare was invited out to a convivial party of choice spirits,
and was helped home, between one and two o'clock at night, in a condi-
tion when the physical had decidedly attained the upper hand of the
intellectual. Tom and Adolph assisted to get him composed for the
night, the latter in high spirits, evidently regarding the matter as a good
joke, and laughing heartily at the 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
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 175

as he sat in Ms library, in dressing-gown and slippers. St. Clare had

just been intrusting Tom with some money, and various commissions.
" Isn't all right there, Tom ?" he added, as Tom still stood waiting.
" I'm afraid not, mas'r," said Tom, with a grave face.

St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup, and looked
at 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 ottt. 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 flush crimson, but he laughed.
" Oh, that's all, is it ?" he said gaily.
" All," said
Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on his knees.
" O my dear young mas'r I'm afraid it will be loss of all all ^body
!
— —
and soul. The good Book says, it biteth hke a serpent, and stingeth
'

!"
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 eyes.
" 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
door.
And St. Clare did so ; for gross sensualism, in any form, was not the
peculiar temptation of his natm-e.
But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulations manifold of our
friend Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labours of a southern house-
keeper ?

There is all the difference in the world in the servants of southern

1/6 UXCI.E Tom's cabin.

establishments, according to the character and capacity of the mistress, s

«ho have brought them up.

South, as well as north, there are women who have an extraordinar}-
talent for command, and tact in educating. Such are enabled, with
apparent case, and mtliout severity, to subject to theii- 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
coromon 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 domestic 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 chamber, 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 estabUshment of which she had the keys.
The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, the kitchen and
cellar, that day, all went imder 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 wonder-
ings and murmm-ings about " dese yer northern ladies" from the domestic
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 nati\e
—
and essential cook, as much as Aunt Chloe cooking being an indigenous
talent of the African race but Chloe was a trained and methodical one,
;

who moved in an orderly domestic harness, while Dinah was a self-taught

genius, and, like geniuses in general, was positive, opinionated and
erratic, to the last degree.
Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectly scorned
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 177

logic and reason in every shape, and always took refuge in intuitive
certainty and here she was perfectly impregnable. No possible amount
;

of talent, or authority, or explanation, could ever make her believe that

any other way was better than her own, or that the coiu'se she had pur-
sued in the smallest matter could be in the least modified. This had been
a conceded point with her old mistress, Marie's mother and " Miss ;

Marie," as Dinah always called her young mistress, even after her mar-
riage, found it easier to submit than contend; and so Dinah had ruled
supreme. This was the easier, in that she was perfect mistress of that
diplomatic art which unites the utmost subservience of manner with the
utmost inflexibility as to measure.
Dinah was mistress of the whole art and mystery of excuse-making,
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 oflf every sin and fraUty, so as to
~maintain"^er own immaculateness entire. If any part of the 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 unspar-
~ing zeal.
But itwas very seldom that there was any failure in Dinah's last
results. Though her mode of doing everything was peculiarly meandering
and circuitous, and without any sort of calculation as to timeand 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 epicm-e 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, peeling
potatoes, picking pin-feathers out of fowls, and other preparatory
arrangements, Dinah every once in a while interrupting her meditations
to ghe 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 younget members with a rod of iron, and seemed to
consider them born for no earthly purpose but to " save her steps," as
1/3 TTJSCLE TOm's cabin.

she phrased it. It was the spirit of the system under which she had
grown up, and she carried it out to its fall extent.
Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through aU the
other parts of the estahlishraent, 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 observable
contest.
The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a great old-
fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of
it, an arrangement which

St. Clare had vainly tried to persuade Dinah to exchange for the con-
venience of a modern cook-stove. Not she. No Puseyite or conservative
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 weU have provided them for a squirrel or a magpie. The

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
delighted.
When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen, Dinah did not rise, but
smoked on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements obliquely
out of the corner of her eye, but apparently intent only on the operations
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 bfe. From the variety it contained. Miss Ophelia pulled out first a
fine damask table-cloth stained with blood, having evidently been used to
envelope some raw meat.
" What's this, Dinah ? You don't wrap up meat in your mistress's
best table-cloths ?"
" O Lor, missis, no; the towels was all a missin' — so I jest did it.

I laid out to wash that ar — 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 knitting-work, a paper of tobacccf and a pipe, a few crackers^
one or two gilded china saucers with some pomade in them, one or two
 "

UNCLE roM S CABIN-. 179

thin old shoes, a piece 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 Opheha,
with the air of one who 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 Aliss Opheha, holding them up.
" Laws, yes, I put them there this morning I hkes to keep my things —
handy," said Dinah. " You, Jake what are you stopping for You'll
! !

coteh it Be stUI, 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 j-ou use your mistress's best saucers for that ?"
" Law ! it was cause I was driv, and in such 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
to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it an't
handy a hftin' np the lid."
" V^Tiy don'*" you mix your biscuits on the pastry -table, there ?"
" 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 overher habitual respect of manner " what does ladies know 'bout ;

work, I want to know ? When'd mas'r ever get his dinner, if I was to
spend all my time a washin' and puttin' up dishes ? Miss Marie never
tolled me so, nohow."
" Well, here are these onions."
" Laws, yes !" said Dinah thar is whar I put 'em, now. I couldn't
;

'member. Them's particular onions I was a savin' for dis yer very stew
I'd forgot they was in dat ar old flannel."
Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting paper of sweet herbs.
" Jewish missis wouldn't touch dem ar. I hkes to keep my things
where I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, rather decidedly.
" But you don't want these holes in the papers."
" Them's handy for siftin' on't out," said Dinah.
" But you see it spills all over the drawer."
N 2
180 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

" Laws, yes ! if missis will go a tumblin' things all up so, it wiU.
Missis has spilt lots dat ar way," said Dinah, coming uneasily to the
drawers. " If missis only wUl go up stars till my clarin' up time comes
I'll have everything right but I can't do nothin' when ladies is round, a
;

henderin,' You, Sam, don't you gib the baby dat ar sugar-bowl I'll !

!"
crack ye 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
;

I don't see no kinder need on't and Dinah stalked indignantly about,
;

while Mis» Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering
bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, table-cloths, and towels
^br washing washing, wiping, and arranging with her own hands, and
;

with a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.

" Lor, now if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey an't ladies,
!

nohow," she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing distance.
" I has things as straight as anybody, when my clarin' up time comes;
but I don't want ladies round, a henderin', 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 zeal, 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 leisurely go
over her arrangements, looking things over, and discoursiuj'^ upon them •
making all the yoimg fiy scour most vigorously on the tin things, and
keeping up for several hours a most energetic state of confusion, which
she would explain to the satisfaction of all inquirers by the remark that
she was a " clarin' up." " She couldn't hev things a gwine on so as
they had been, and she was gwine to make these yer young ones
keep better order ;" for Dinah herself somehow indulged the illusion
that she, herself, was the soul of order, and it was only the i/oung wis,
and the everybody else in the house, that were the cause of anything
that fell short of perfection in this respect. When aU 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
seasons were often an inconvenience to the vhole household for Dinah ;

would contract such an immoderate attachment to her scoured tin, as to

insist upon it that it shouldn't be used again for any possible pui'pose, at
least tiU the ardour of the " clarin' up" period abated.
 " ;

UNCLE TOM S CABIN". 181

Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every department of

the house to a systematic pattern but her laboui's in all departments
;

that depended on the co-operation of servants were like those of Sisyphus

or the Danaides. In despair, she one day appealed to St. Clare.
" 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

" 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 natm-ed and hate severity make up our minds to a good deal of
inconvenience. If we untaught set in the
will keep a shambling, loose,
community why, we must take the consequence.
for our convenience,
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 them ;

and so I made up my mind, long ago, to let things go just as they do. I
will not have the poor devUs 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 you a capital dinner soup, raigout, roast fowl,
gets —
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 hurryscurryation of the prepa-
ratory process, we should never eat more ^ly 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 confound 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- —
one in every hole in the house that she washes
five different sugar-bowls, —
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,
!
 "

182 rwcxE tom's cabin.

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, they "
arn't. Why should they be ?
What upon earth is to make them so ?
" Why don't you instruct ?"
" Instruct ! Oh, fiddlestick ! What instructing do you think I should
do ? I look like it ! As
Marie, she has spirit enough, to be sure, to
to
kill off a whole plantation, if I'd let her manage but she wouldn't get ;

the cheatery out of them."

" Are there no honest ones P"
" Well, now and then one, whom nature makes so impracticably sim-
ple, truthful and faithful, that the worst possible influence can't destroy it.
But, you see, from the mother's breast the coloured child feels and sees
that there are none but underhand ways open to it. It can get along no
other way with its parent, its mistress, its young master and missie
play-fellows. Cunning and deception become necessary, inevitable habits.
It isn't fair to expect anything else of him. He ought not to be punished
for it. As to honesty, the slave is kept in 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, ifhe can get them. For 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 affair, 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 tiirn out in another
!

" This is perfectly horrible " said Miss Ophelia !

;
" you ought to be
!"
ashamed of yourselves
/'
" I don't as I am.know 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 its the same story the lower ;

class used up, body, soul, and spirit, for the good of the upper. It is 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."
 — !

UNCLE tom's cabin. 183

" 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 a while lay
aside our sectional prejudices, 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 on her
head a baske^of rusks and hot roUs.
" 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, and
resting her elbows on her knees, said
" O Lord! Iwish'tl'sdead!"
" Why do you wish you were dead ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" I'd be oat o' my misery " said the woman gruffly, without taking her
eyes from the floor.
" What need you getting drunk, then, and catting up, Prue ?" said a
spruce quadroon chambermaid, dangling, as she spoke, a pair of coral
ear-drops.
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, I would then you'll be glad of a drop, Uke 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.
" Thai-'s some tickets in that ar old cracked jug on the top shelf,"
said Dinah. " You Jake, climb up and get it down."
—
" Tickets what are they for ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" We 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 mff do I can't live no other ways— drink ana
;

forget my misery."
" You are very wicked and very foolish," said Miss Ophelia," " to steal
yom* master's money to make yom*self a brute with."
" It's mighty likely, missis but I will do it yes, I wiU.
;
—
O Lord
I wish I's dead, I do I wish I's dead, and out of my misery !" and
;

slowly and stiffly the old creature rose, and got her basket on her head

again but before she went out she looked at the quadroon girl, who still
;

stood playing with her ear-drops.

184 UNCLE tom's cabix.

" Ye thinkthat ye're mighty fine with them ar, a frolickin, and a
tossinyom' head, and a lookin' down on everybody. Well, 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 driiik 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 master'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 Jane. " 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 master'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 will
come to !" said Jane, tossing her pretty head till the ear-drops twinkled
again, " I shan't dance with you for a whole evening, if you go to asking
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 my honour," said Adolph, " I'll leave it to Miss Rosa, now."
" I know he's always a saucy creature," said Rosa, poising herself on
one of her little feet, and looking malicioasly 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."

"Do hear the horrid creature talk!" said both ladies, laughing
immoderately.
" Come, clar out, you have you cluttering up the kitchen,"
! I can't
said Dinah, " in my way,
round here."
foolin'
" Aunt Dinah's glum, because she can't go the ball," said Rosa.
 —

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 185

" Don't want none o' your light-coloured balls," said Dinah ;
" cuttin'

round, makin' believe you's white folks, Arter all, you's niggers, much
as I am."
" Aunt Dinah greases her wool stiflF, every day, to make it lie

straight," said Jane.

" And it will be wool, after aU," said Rosa, maliciously shaking down
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
!"
nSe. Get out vsrid ye, ye trumpery — I won't have
ye round
Here the conversation was interrupted in a two-fold manner. St.
Clare's voice was heard at the head of the stairs, asking Adolph if he
meant to stay aU 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
and attend to your muslins."
Our friend Tom, who had been in the kitchen during the conversation
with the old rusk-woman, had followed her out into the street. He saw
her go on, giving every once in a whUe a suppressed groan. At last she
set her basket down on a door-step, and began arranging the old, faded
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 di'inking. 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. " Ye
don't need to tell me that ar. I's ugly
!"
— I's wicked — I's gwine straight
to torment. O Lord ! I wish I's thar
Tom shuddered at these frightful words, spoken with a sullen im-
passioned earnestness.
" O Lord have mercy on ye ! poor crittur. Han't ye never heard of
Jesus Christ ?"
" Jesus Chi-ist —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 anybody ever tell you of the Lord Jesus, that loved us
didn't
poor sinners, and died for us ?"
" Don't know notliin' 'bout that," said the -^voman ; " nobody han't
never loved me, since my old man died."
I
 !

186 TJNciiE tom's cabin.

" Where was you raised ?" said Tom.

" Up in Kentuek. A man kept me to breed chil'en for market, and
sold 'em as fast as they got big enough ; last of all,
a he sold' me to
speculator, 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 I come here and
•
;

I thought then I'd have one to raise, cause mas'r wasn't a speculator. It
was de peartest little thing and missis she seemed to think a heap on't,
!

at first it never cried

; —
it was likely and fat. But missis tuck sick, and
I tended her and I tuck the fever, and my fnilk all left me, and the
;

cliild it pined to skin and bone,, and missis wouldn't buy milk for it.

She wouldn't hear to me, when I tolled her I hadn't milk. She said she
knowed I could feed it on what other folks eat and the child kinder ;

pined, and cried, and cried, and cried, day and night, and got aU gone to
skin and bones, and missis got sot agin it, and she said 't warn'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 kijpt me awake, and made me
good for nothing. She made me sleep in her room and I had to put it ;

away off 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 wiU drink I wiU, if I do go to torment for it Mas'r says
!

!"
!

I shall go to torment, and I tell him I've got thar now

" 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'U
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

torment, 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
sullenly 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'U 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 her eyes. She laid
both hands on her bosom, and sighed heavily.
 TJNCLE TOm's CAIilN. 187

CHAPTER XIX.

MISS Ophelia's experience 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 sink into
:

my heart," she repeated, earnestly. " I don't want to go ;" and she
turned from Tom, and went into the house.
Afew 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 ?"

"
" Pme isn't coming any more," said the woman, mysteriously.
" Why not ?" said Dinah. " She an't dead, is she ?"
" We doesn't exactly know. She's down cellar," said the woman,
glancing at Miss Ophelia.
After Miss Ophelia had taken the rusks, Dinah followed the woman to
the door.
" What has got Prue, anyhow ?" she said.

The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and answered in a

low, mysterious tone.
" Well, you musn't tell nobody. Prue, she got drunk agin — and they
had her down cellar —and thar they left her all day ; and I heam 'em
saying that ^e flies had got to her—and she^s dead .'"
Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her side the
spirit-Likeform of Evangeline, her large, mystic eyes dilated with hoiTor,
and every drop of blood driven from her lips and cheeks.
" Lor bless us INIiss Eva's gwine to faint away What got us all, to
! !

let her har such talk ? Her pa'll 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 sahes I it isn't
!"
ladies, like you
for sweet, deUcate theseyoung —
yer stories isn'tenough to kUl 'em
; it's

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 pai'ticulars which
he had drawn from her that morning.
 — —

188 TTNCLE TOM S CABIN.

—
" 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 on 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 selectmen, 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 ? They 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 Here is a whole class
dear child, what do you expect?
debased, uneducated, indolent, provoking put, without any sort of —
terms or conditions, entirely into the hands of such people as the
majority in our world are people who have neither consideration nor
;

self-control, who haven't even an enlightened regard to their own

interest —for that's the case with the largest half of mankind. Of course,
in a community so organised, what can a man of honourable and
humane feelings do, but shut his eyes all he can, and harden his heart ?
I can't buy every poor wretch I see. I can't turn knight-errant, and
undertake to redress every individual case of wi'ong in such a city as
this. The most I can dqfis to try and keep out of the way of it."
St. Clare's fine countenance was for a moment overcast; he looked
annoyed, 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 thi'ough the curtain — a specimen of what is

going on the world over, in some shape or other. If we are to be prying

and spying into all the dismals of life, we should have no heart to
anything. 'Tis like looking too close into the details of Dinah's
 — '

UNCLE tom's cabin. ] 89

kitchen;" and St. Clare lay back on the sofa and busied himself with
his paper.
Miss Ophelia sdt 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 !" —
" VDiat now ?" said St. Clare, looking up. " At it again, eh ?"
" I say it's perfectly abominable for you to defend such a system !

said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth.

" I defend it, my dear lady ? "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 didn'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 her 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," said St. Clare " that's just my
;

difficulty."
" But I always resolve I won't, and try to break it off."
" WeU, I have been resolving I won't, off and on, these ten years,"
said St. Clare ;
" but I havn't, some how, got clear. Have you got clear
of your sins, cousin ?"
all
" Cousin Augustine," said Miss Ophelia, seiiously, and laying down
her knitting work, " I suppose I deserve that you should reprove my
short-comings. I know all yoa say is ti'ue enough, nobody else feels
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 profes-
sions, I don't wonder you reprove me."
" Oh, now, cousin," said Augustine, sitting down on the floor and lay-
ing his head back in her lap, " don't take on so awfully serious You !

know what a good-for-nothing, saucy boy I always was. I love to poke

— —
you up that's all -just to see you get earnest. I do think you are des-
perately, distressingly good ; it tires me to death to think of it."
 "" —

190 UNCLE XOAl's CABIN.

" But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste," said Miss Ophelia,
laying her hand on his forehead.
" Dismally so," said he ;
" and I —well, I never want to talk seriously
in hot weather. What with
mosquitos and aU, a fellow can't get himself
up to any very sublime moral flights and I believe," said St. Clare, sud-
;

denly rousing himself up, " there's a theory now I understand now why !

northern nations are always more virtuous than southern ones —I see
"Ho that whole subject."
" O
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 efibrt. Now," said Augustine, drawing the basket up " I'll begin , :

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a fellow

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 going on — you'll hear. 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

—^may warp and bend language and —
politicians, who want to rule
by it 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, it'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.
" You seem to wonder but if you wiU get me fairly at it, I'U make a
;

clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed of God and man,
what is it ? Strip it of aU its ornament, run it down to the root and
nucleus of the whole, and what is it? Why, because my brother
Quashy is ignorant and weak, and I am intelligent and strong because —
I know how, and can do it —
therefore I may steal all he has, keep it, and
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 sim burns
me, Quashy shaU 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 wiU, and not his, 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-
 — !!

TTNCLE TOm's CABIN. 191

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
I'he thing 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 do 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 does the worst, only uses within limits the power that the lav/
gives him"
yt. Clare had started up, and, excited, was
as his manner was when
walking, with hurried steps, up and down
His fine face, classic the floor.

as that of a Greek statue, seemed actually to burn with the fervour of his
f'eeKngs. His large blue eyes flashed, and he gestured with an uncon-
scious 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
om- law^ to become absolute despot of as many men, women and children
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 I have been ready to curse my country, to curse ihe buman race!"
" Augustine Augustine " said Miss Ophelia, " I'm sm-e you've
! !

said enough. I never, in my life, heard anything Uke this even at ;

the north."
" At the north !" said St. Clare, wijjh 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 faii-ly at it."
" WeU, but the question is," said Miss Ophelia.
" Oh, yes, to be sure, the questionis —
and a deuce of a question it is
How came ?/ and misery ? Well, I shall answer in
;m in this state of sin
the good old words you used to teach me, Sundays. 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 be a pretty considerable item. My father, you know, came first

fi-om New England and he was just such another man as your father
;

—a regular old Roman upright, energetic, noble-minded, with an iron

;

wiU. Your father settled down in New England, to rule over rocks and
192 TINGLE TOm'S CABIN.

stones, and an existence out of Nature and mine settled in

to force ;

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 eveiybody 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

;

had black, fiery eyes, coal-black hair, a strong, fine Roman profile, and
a rich brown complexion. I had blue eyes, golden hair, a Greek outline,
and fair complexion. He was active and observing, I dreamy and in-
active. He was generous to his friends and equals, but proud, dominant,
overbearing to inferiors, and utterly unmerciful to whatever set itself up
against him. Truthful we both were he from pride and courage, I from
;

a sort of abstract ideality. We loved each other about as boys g^erally

do, ofi" and on, and in general ;he was my father's pet, and I my
mother's.
" There was morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feeling in me on
£f

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 gq^ ofi" 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 dressy-she always wore white —
and I used
to think of her whenever I read in Revelation 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
singing 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 —
immeasurably !
—
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,

ii^ must have been in the higher circles of spirits, and brought all his old
 TjxcLE tom's cabin. 193

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 Bm-mah in another, and in America in another but the aristocrat ;

of all these countries never goes over it. What would be hardship 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 sui-e, if anybody had asked him,
plump and fair, whether they had human immortal souls, he might have
hemmed and hawed, and said yes. But my father was not a man much
troubled with spiritualism religious sentiment 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 ;

inflexible, driving, punctilious business man; everything was to move

by system —to be sustained with unfailing accuracy and precision. Now,
if you take into account that all this was to be worked out by a set of lazy,
twaddhng, shiftless labourers, who had grown up all their lives in the
absence of every possible motive to learn how to do anything but shirk,' '

as you Vermonters say, and might naturally be on

you'll see that there
his plantation a great many things that looked horrible and distressing to
a sensitive child like me.
" Besides all, he had an overseer —a great, tall, slab-sided, two-fisted
renegade son of Vermont (begging your pardon), who had gone 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
; and this man ;

was the absolute despot of the estate.

" I was a little fellow then, but I had the same love that I have now
for all kinds of human things —a kind of passion for the study of humanity,
come in what shape it was found in the cabins and among the
would. I
field-hands a great deal, and, of course, was a great favourite and all ;

^.orts 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
any<-hing that he thought necessary ; and so he put down his f m*-, like a
o
 —

194 tJNCLE tom's cabin.

rock, between us and the field-hands. He told my mother, in language

perfecth' 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 aU Uving
beings; but he would have said it aU the same to the Virgin Mary herself,
if she had come in the way of his system.
" I used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases with him
endeavouring to excite his sympathies. He would listfen 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 efficiency, a
thorough basiness hand, and as humane as the general run. We can't
have perfection and if I keep him, I must sustain his administration as
:

a whole, even if there are, now and then, things that are exceptional. All
government includes some necessary harshness. General 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 com-
monly drew up his feet on the sofa, like a man that has disposed of a
business, and betook himself to a nap or the newspaper, as the case
might be.
" The fact is, my father showed the exact sort of talent for a statesman.
He could have divided Poland as easily as an orange, or trod on Ireland
as quietly and systematicallyany man living. At last my mother gave
as
up, in despair. known, till the last account, what noble
It never will be
and sensitive natures like hers have felt, cast, utterly 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 remained for ber 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, instinctively, 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 forin, anything that
my father said, or seemed directly to differ from him but she impressed, ;

burnt into my very soul, with all the force of her deep, earnest nature, an
idea of the dignity and worth of the meanest human soul. I have lookei^
in her face with solemn awe, when she would point up to the stars in tht
evening, and say to me, See there, Auguste the poorest, meanest soul
'
!

on our place will be living, when all these stars are gone for ever—will
long as God lives !'
live as
" She had some fine old paintings ; one, in particular, of Jesus healing a
blind man. They were very fine, and used to impress me strongly. See '

there, Auguste,' she would say the bhnd man was a beggar, poor and
;
'
 : ; •

UNCLE TOM 8 CABIN. 195

loathsome therefore he would not heal him afar off! He called him to
;

him, and put his hands on him ! Remember this, my boy.' If I 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 Vermont, 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 constitution
and habit, a duplicate of my father. I can see it leaking out in fifty
different ways—just that same strong, overbeai-ing, dominant spirit. You
know very well how impossible it is to persuade some of the folks in
your village that Squire Sinclare does not feel above them. The fact 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 lay-
ing down her knitting to begin, but St. Clare ttopped her.
" Now I know every word you are going to say. I do not say 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 democrat, and
the other a wilful, stout old despot. If both had owned plantations 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
irreverence 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
(
/lobler soul, more generous fellow, than Alfred, in all that concerns his
"equals and we got on admii-ably with this property question, without a
;

single unbrotherly word or feeling. We undertook to work the plantation

together; and Alfred, whose outward life and capabilities had double the
strength of mine, became an enthusiastic planter, and a 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
o 2
 !

196 UNCLE Tom's cabin.

know personally, or feel any individual interest in, bought and driven,
housed, fed, worked like so many horned cattle, strained up to military
precision- —the question of how little of life's commonest enjoyments
would keep them in working order being a constantly recurring problem,
the necessity of drivers and overseers, the ever ncvessaiy whip, first, last,

—
and only argument the whole thing was insufferably disgusting and
loathsome to me; and when I thought of my mother's estimate of one
poor human soul, it became even frightful
" It's all nonsense to talk tome about slaves enjoying all this To !

this day, Ihave no patience with the unutterable trash that some of your
patronising northeners have made up, as in their zeal to apologise for
our sins. We know
better.
all Tell me that any man living wants to
work all his day-dawn till dark, under the constant eye of a
days, from
master, 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 paii" of shoes a year, with enough food and shelter to
keep him in working order Any man who thinks that human beings
!

can, as a general thing, be made about as comfortable that way as any

other, I wish he might try it. I'd buy the dog, and work him, with a
!"
clear conscience
" I always have supposed," said Miss Ophelia, " that you, all of you,
approved of these things, and thought them right —accordmg to Scrip-
ture."
" 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 ; he stands, high and haughty, on that good old respectable
no,
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, consis-
tently. He says that there can be no high civilisation 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 INIiss'
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-holder can whip his refractory slave to death the capitalist —
can starve him to death. As to family security, it is hard to say wliich
 UNCLE Toil's CABIN. 197

the worst to have one's childi-en sold, or see tliem starve to death at
is

home."
" But it's no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it isn't worse
than bome other bad thing."
" I didn't give it for one —
nay, I'll say, besides that, ours is the more
bold and palpable infringement of human rights. Actually buying a man
—
up, Hke a horse looking at his teeth, cracking his joints, and trying his
—
paces, and then paying down for him having speculators, breeders,
traders, and brokers in human bodies and souls —
sets the thing before
the eyes of the civilized world in a more tangible form, though the thing
tlone be, after all, in its natm'e, 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 the matter in this light," i~aid 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 off than
a large class of the population of England. You see you must not
infer, from what I have told you, that Alfred is what is called a hard
master; for he isn't. He is despotic, and unmerciful to insubordination
he 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 of pride iu
having his slaves comfortably fed and accommodated.
" When I was with him, I insisted that he should do something for
their instruction and, to please me, he did get a chaplain, and used to
;

liave them catechised every Sunday, though, I believe, in his heart, that he
tliought it would do about as much good to set a chaplain over his dogs
and horses. And the fact is, that a mind stupefied and animalised 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 planta-
tion life ?"
" Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred saw plainly that
I was no planter. He
thought it absurd, after he had reformed, and
altered, and improved everywhere, to suit my notions, that I still re-
mained 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, I was always interfering in the details. Being myself one
 " .

198 UK CLE iom's cabin.

of the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too much fellow-feeling for the
lazy ; and when poor, dogs put stones at the bottom of their
shiftless
cotton-baskets to make them weigh heavier, or filled their sacks with dirt,
with cotton at the top, it seemed 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 I and my respected father did, years before,
to he told 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." He paused, and walked reflec-

tively 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 me as I expected, and I got the des-
pair of living that Solomon did. I suppose it was a necessary incident
to wisdom in us both but, somehow or other, instead of being actor and
;

regenerator in society, I became a piece of drift-wood, and have been

floating and eddying about, ever since. Alfred scolds me every time we
meet, and he has the better of me, I grant for he really does something.
;

His life is a logical, result of his opinions, and mine is a contemptible

non sequitur."
" My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way of spending

your probation ?"

" Satisfied ! Was I not just telling you I despised it ? But, 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
 TTNCLE TOM's CABIN. 193

houses; they are the associates of our children, and they form their minds
faster than we can ; always will cling to
for they are a race that childi'en
and assimilate with. K
Eva, now, was not more angel than ordinary,
she would he 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 he
uuinstructed and vicious, and think our cluldi'en 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
sky high. If we did not give them liberty, they would take it."
" And what do you think wiU be the end of this ?" said Miss
Opheha.
—
" I don't know. One thing is certain that there is a mustering among
the masses, the world over and there is a dies tree 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 kmgdom come.' Some- '

times I think all this sighing, and groaning, and stu-ring among the dry
bones foretells what she used to teU 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. But
there's the tea-bell — do —
go and don't say, now, I haven't had one
let's

downright serious talk for once in my life."

At table, jNIarie alluded to the incident of Prue. " I suppose you'll
think, cousin," she said, " that we are aU barbarians."
" I think that's a barbarous thing," said Miss Ophelia, ''
but I don't
think you are barbarians."
all
" Well, now," said Marie, " I know it's impossible to get along with
some of these They are so bad, they ought not to live. I don't
creatures.
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

had greater trials than
ever she had. It's just because they are so bad. There's some of them
that you cannot break in by any kind of severity. I remember father had
a man that was so lazy, he would run away just to get rid of work, aud
lie round in the swamps, stealing and doing all sorts of horrid things.
 .

200 irNCiiE tom"s cabik.

That man \ras caught and whipped, time and again, and it never did him
any good and the last time he crawled off, though he couldn't but just
;

go, and died in the swamp. There was no sort of reason for it, for father's
hands were always treated kindly."
" I broke a fellow in, once," said St. Clare, " that all the overseers and
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 They called him Scipio-
regular African lion.
Nobody could do anything with him
and he was sold round from over-
;

seer 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 exaspe-
rated, but I told him that it was his own fault, and laid him any wager
that I could break the man and finally it was agreed that, if I caught
;

him, I should have him to experiment on. So they mustered 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 myself, 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. He ran and bounded like a buck, and kept us
well in the rear for some time but at last he got caught in an impene-
;

trable thicket of cane then he turned to bay, and 1 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 fists, when a shot from a gun
brought him down, and he fell, wounded and bleeding, almost at my feet.
The poQr fellow looked up at me with manhood and despau- both in his
eye. 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 bargain, and
;

Alfred sold him to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in one fort-
night 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 myself,
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
I
 UNCLE lOM S CABIN. 201

to leave me. I never liad a braver, better fellow trusty and true as —
steel. Pie embraced Christianity afterwards, and became as gentle as a
child. lie used to oversee my place on the lake, and did it capitally,
too. I lost him the first cholera season. In fact, he laid down liis life
for me. For I was sick, almost to death and when, tlu'ough 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, I

right after, and there was no saving him. I never felt anybody's loss

moi'e."
Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father, as he told the
stoiy —her small lips apart, her eyes wide and earnest with absorl^ing
interest.
As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst
into 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 her feelings. " This
child," he added, " ought not to hear any of this kind of thing — she's
nervous."
" No, papa, I'm not nervous," said Eva, controlling herself suddenly,

with a strength of resolution singular in such a child. " I'm not nervous,
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."
" AVell, 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 stiU 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 ; accompany us up
but, if our readers will
to a little loft over the stable, theymay, perhaps, learn a little of lus
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 sreat deal of anxious thought.
 ;

202 TTNCLE TOM S CABIIJ-,

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 instructions,

ne 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, aud of
what he did remember he did not know exactly which to use. And while
he was working, and breathing very hard in his earnestness, Eva alighted,
like a bu'd, on the round of his chair behind him, and peeped over his
shoulder.
" O Uncle Tom what funny things you are making, there !"
!

" I'm trying to write to my poor old woman. Miss Eva, and my little
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 I could 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 quite like writing.
" Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful," said Eva, gazing
delighted on it. " How pleased your Avife'll be, and the poor little

children ! Oh, it's a shame you ever had to go away from them ! I mean
to ask papa you go back, some time."
to let
" Missis said that she would send down money for me, as soon as
they could get it together," said Tom. " I'm 'spectin' she will. Young
Mas'r George, he said he'd come for me and he gave me this yer dollar
;

as a sign ;" and Tom di-ew 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 I
Avas, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off, cause she felt so drefful,
!"
poor soul
"I Tom!" said St. Clare's voice, coming in at the door at this
say,
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 helping him to 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
 —

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 203

is going to spnd down money to redeem liim, 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 alle-
viate their horror of being sold, without any intention of fulfilling the
expectation 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-office.
ISIiss Ophelia still persevered in her labours in the housekeeping line.

It was miiversally agreed among all the household, from Dinah down to
the youngest m-chin, that Miss Ophelia was decidedly " cm'is " 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 she
;

did that she had no air at all and they were surprised that she should
; ;

be any relation of the St. Clares. Even Marie declared that it was abso-
lutely fatiguing to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And, in fact,
Miss Ophelia's industry was so incessant as to lay some foundation 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 there she was again,
going on as briskly as ever. It really was a labour to see her.

CHAPTER XX.

TOPSY.

One morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some of her domestic
cai-es, 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 Opheha, coming down, with her sewing in
her hand.
" I've made a purchase for your department — see here," said St. Clare ;

and, 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
 — —

204- UNCLE XOM's cabin.

eYerything in tlie room. Her mouth, half open -with astonishment at the
wonders of the new mas'r's parlour, displayed a white and hrilliant set
of teeth. Her woolly hair was hraided in sundry little tails, whicli 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
lady 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 her knees together, in a wild, fantastic sort of time, and
producing in her throat all those odd guttui'al sounds which distinguish
the native music of her race and finally, turning a summerset 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 paralysed 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 yo'^°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
eyes twinkling aa.she spoke.
" You're going to be good, Topsy, you understand," said St. Clare.
" Oh, yes, mas'r," said Topsy, with another twinkle, her hands still

devoutly folded.
" Now, Augustine, what upon for?" said Miss Ophelia.
earth is this
" Yom- house is now, that a body can't set
so full of these little plagues,
their foot down without treading on 'em. I get up in the morning, and
find one asleep behind the door, and see one black head poking out from
under the table, one lying on the door-mat and they are moppirig, and
;

mowing, and grinning between all the ratlings, and tumbling over the
kitchen floor What on earth did you want to bring this one for ?"
!
 DNCLE TOM. S CABIN. 205

" For you to educate— didn't I tell you ? You're always preaching
about educating. I thought I would niake you a present of a fresh-
caught specimen, and let you tiy your hand on her, and bring her up in
the way she should go."
" 1 don't want her, I'm sm-e ; I have more to do with 'em 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 heathens.
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 didn't think of it in that light," said ^Nliss
Ophelia, evidently softening. " Well, it might be a real missionaiy work,"
said she, looking rather more favourably on the child.
St. Clare had touched the right string. INIiss 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-nothing speeches. You are so good,
after all, that there's no sense in them. ^Vhy the fact is, this concern
belonged to a couple of drunken creatures that keep a low restaurant that
I have to pass by every day, and I was tired of hearing her screaming,
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'll make of her. You know I haven't any
gift that way, but I'd like you to try."
" Well, I'U 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 'nother nigger !" said Dinah,
surveying the new arrival with no friendly air. " Won't have her round
under my feet, / know !"
" Pah !" said Rosa and Jane, with supreme disgust " let her keep ;

out of our way ! T\Tiat in the world mas'r wanted another of these low
!"
niggers for, I can't see.

"You go long! No more nigger dan you be. Miss Rosa," said
Dijiah, who felt this last remark a reflection on herself. " You seem to
!r=^"

206 UNCLE TOM S CABI]!}'.

tink yourself white folks. You an't nerry one, black nor white. I'd like

to be one or turrer."
INIiss Ophelia saw that there was nobody in the camp that would

undertake to oversee the cleansing and dressing of the new arrival and ;

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,
strong, 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 —
endurance was the utmost to which her
for
principles could bring her. "When she saw, on the back and shoulders
of the child, great welts and calloused spots, inefiaceable marks of the
system under which she had grown up thus far, her heart became pitifu\
within her.
" See there !" said Jane, pointing to the marks, " don't that show
she's a limb ? We'll have fine works with her, I reckon. I hate these
nigger young uns ! wonder that mas'r would buy her
so disgusting ! I
!

The " young un" alluded all these comments with the sub-
to heard
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 chUd, with another grin.
" Never had any mother ? What do you mean ? Where were you
born ?"
" Never was born !
with another grin, that looked
" persisted Topsy,
so goblin-like, that, ifMiss 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." «
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 207

" Never was born," reiterated the creatm-e, more emphatically " never ;

had no father, nor mother, nor nothin'. I was raised by a speculator, with
lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used to take car 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 cheap,
when theys and gets 'em raised for market."
little,
" How long have you Hved 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 can't tell they don't know ;

anything about time," said Jane " they don't know what a year is they
: ;

don't know their own ages."

" Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy ?"
The child looked bewilder'd, 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,
;

and 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, Bcanning Miss Ophelia, cimningly.
Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy St. Clare was lean-
;

ing 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 ideas, 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 unsophisti-
cated 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 com'se, 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 end women under this regime, as many of us can
remember and testify. At all events, Miss Ophelia knew of nothiDg else
 —

208 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

to do, and therefore applied her mind to her heathen with the best dili-
gence 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 making
her own bed, sweeping and dusting her- own chamber —which she had
hitherto done, in utter scorn of all ofi"ers chambermaid of
of help from the
the establishment — to condemn herself to themartyrdom of instructing
Topsy to perform these operations. Ah, woe the day Did any of our
!

readers ever do the same, they will appreciate the amount of her self-
sacrifice.

Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her chamber, the
morning, and solemnly commencing a course of instruction in the art
first

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 expres-
sion of solemnity well befitting a fmieral.
" 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 wofu
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 ?"
" Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with another sigh.
" Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over the bolster — 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

this way, and tucked under firm and smooth at the foot —so—the narrow
hem at the foot."
" Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, as before but we will add, what Miss
;

Ophelia did not during the time when the good lady's back
see, that,
was turned, in the zeal of her manipulations, the young disciple had
contrived to snatch a pair of gloves and a ribbon, which she had adroitly
slipped into her sleeves, and stood with her hands dutifully folded,
as before.
" Now, Topsy, let's see you do this," said Miss Ophelia, pulling off the

clothes, and seating herself.

 ;

•
UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 209

Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went through the exercise
completely to Miss Ophelia's satisfaction smoothing the sheets, patting
;

out every wiinkle, 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 steaUng 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'a ribbon, an't it ?
! How could it a
got in my sleeve ?"
" Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie, you stole that
!"
ribbon
" Missis, I declar for't, I didn't ; never seed it till dis yer bles-sed
minnit."
" Topsy," said Miss Opheha, " 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 tellin 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 Feely must have left it on the bed, and it got
caught in the clothes, and so got in my sleeve."
Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that she caught the
child and shook her.
" Don't you teU 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 ?"
Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted in denying the
ribbon.
" Now, Topsy," said Miss Opheha, " if you'U confess all about it, I
won't whip you this time." Thus abjured, Topsy confessed to the ribbon
and with woeful protestations of pjsnitence.
gloves,
" Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other things since
you have 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."
" Laws, missis I took Miss Eva's red thing she wars on her neck."
!

" You did, you naughty child! Well, what else ?"
—
" I took Rosa's yer-rings them red ones."
" Go, bring them to me this minute, both of 'em."
p
210 uNci-E tom's cabin.

" Laws, missis, I can't they's burnt up — !"

—
" Burnt up ? what a story Go get 'em, or I'll whip you."
!

Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears and groans, declared that 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 how. 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 the world did you tell me you took those
things for, Topsy ?"
" Why, missis said I must 'fess ; and I couldn't think of nothin' else 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 Rosa, look-
ing indignantly at Topsy. " If I was Mas'r St. Clare, I'd whip her till
!"
the blood run, I would I'd let her catch it
!

" No, no, Eosa," said Eva, with an air of command, which the child
could assume at times " you mustn'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 Avith 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^hild flashed, and her cheek deepened in
colour. '
Eosa was cowed in a moment.
" Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, tha;t'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
 UNCLE TOM's cabin. 211

society. The fair, high-bred child, with her golden head, her deep eyes,
her spiritual, noble brow, and prince-like movements and her black,
:

keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute neighbour. They stood the representa-
tives of their races.The Saxon, born of ages of cultivation, command,
education, physical and moral eminence; the Afirio, born of ages of
oppression, submission, ignorance, toil, and ^ice!

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 expatiated on Topsy's
naughty, wicked conduct, the child looked perplexed and sorrowful, 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 sti'uck strangely on the wild, rude heart,
and a sparkle of something like a tear shone in tlie keen, round, gHtter-
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 inexphcable 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, Miss 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 never
;

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 tcuigs, which ever 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."
p 2
212 UJSfCLE TOU. S CABIN.

" 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.
" The horrid cruelties and outrages
" Or I either," said^ St. Clare.
that once and awhile find their way into the papers such eases 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 ;

resolved, 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 brutalised 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,"
said Miss Ophelia; and Miss Ophelia, after this, did labour, with a
commendable degree of zeal and energy, on her new subject. She
instituted regular hours and employments for her, and undertook to
teach her to read and- to sew.
In the 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 abomi-
nation so she broke her needles, threw them slily out of windows, or
;

down in the 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 quick as those of a practised conjuror, and her
command of her face quite as great and though Miss Ophelia could
;

not help feeling that so many accidents could not possibly happen in
succession, yet she could not, without a watchfulness which would leave
her no time for anything else, detect her.
Topsy was soon a noted character in the establishment. Her talent
for —
every species of drollery, grimace, and mimicry for dancing, tum-
bling, cUmbing, singing, whistling, imitating every sound that hit her
—
fancy seemed inexhaustible. In her play hours she invariable had
every child in the establishment at her heels, open mouthed with admira-
—
tion and wonder not excepting Miss Eva, who appeared to be fascinated
 — :

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 213

by her wild diablerie, as a dove is sometimes charmed by a glittering

serpent. Miss Ophelia was uneasy that Eva should fancy Topsys.
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 hei' 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, would have been done years ago."
it

Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the the upper servants
they soon found reason to alter their opinion. It was very soon dis-
covered 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 iavestigation was made, there was nobody found to stand
sponsor for the ifldignity. Topsy was cited, and had up before all the
domestic 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, and Miss

Ophelia was too just to feel at liberty to proceed to any lengths with-
out it.

The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, as further to

shelter the aggressor. Thus the times for revenge on Rosa and Jane,
the two chambermaids, were always chosen in those seasons when (as
not unfrequently happened) they were in disgrace with their mistress,
when any complaint from them would of course meet with no sympathy.
In 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
214 uj^cLE Tom's cabin.

days of careful and patient supervision, was so sanguine as to suppose

that Topsy had at last fallen into her way, coul4 do without overlooking,
and so go oflF and busy herself about something else, Topsy woxild hold
a perfect carnival of conftision for some one or two hom-s. Instead of
making the bed she would amuse herself with pulling off the pillow-
cases, butting her woolly head among the pUlows, 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

performances with that —singing and whistling, and making grimaces at
herself 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 ?"
" Dunno, missis —I spects cause Fs so wicked !"

" I don't know anything what I shall do with you, Topsy."

" Law, missis, you must whip me ; my old missis aUers whipped me.
I an't used to workin' unless I gets whipped."
" Why, Topsy, I don't want to whip you. You can do well, if you've
a mind to ; what is the reason you won't ?"
" Laws, missis, I's used to whippiu' 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 afi'air.
—
" Law, Miss Feely whip! wouldn't kill a skecter, 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,
evidently considering them as something peculiarly distinguishing.
" Law, you niggers," she would say to some of her auditors, " does

you know you's all sinners ? "Well, you is, everybody is. White folks ia
sinners, too —
Miss Feely 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 swarin' 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 e\'idently plume herself on the distinction.
 TOPSY WITH MISS OPHELIA'S WARDROBE.
" Onone 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." ^.Page 214.
 UNCLE IOM's CABIK. 215

Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sundays, teaching Topsy

the catechism. Topsy had an uncommon verbal memorj^, and committed
with a fluency that greatly encouraged her instructress.
" 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.
" Oh, childi-en never vmderstand it at the time ; but after they are
grown up it'll come to them."
" Mine hasn't come to me yet," said St. Clare, " though I'll 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

gi-eat hopes of you," said Miss Ophelia.

" Well, havn'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."
Topsy's eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly.
" What is it, Topsy ?" said Miss Opheha.
" Please, missis, was dat ar state Kentuck ?"
" What state, Topsy ?"
" Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear mas'r tell how we came
down from Kentuck."
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."
" Augustine, be still," said Miss Ophelia " how can I do anything
;

if you'll be laughing ?"

" Well, I won't disturb the exercises again, on honour ;" and St. my
Clare took his paper into till Topsy had
the parlour, and sat down
finished her recitations. They were all very well, only that now and
then she would oddly tran>pose some important words, and persist in the
mistake, in spite of every efibrt 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, and
getting her to repeat the oflfending passages, in spite of Miss Ophelia's
remonstrances.
 —

216 UNCJLE TOM. S CABIN.

" How
do you think I can do anything with the child, if you will go
on Augustine ?" she would say.
so,
" WeU, it is too bad, I won't again but I do like to hear the droll little
;

!"
image stumble over those big words
" But you confirm her in the wrong way."
" What's the odds ? One word is as good as another to her."
" You wanted me to bring her up right and you ought to ; remember
she a reasonable creature, and be careful of your influence over her."
is
" Oh, dismal so I 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 sins
brought her into disgrace in other quarters, always took refuge behind
his chair ; and St. Clare, in one way or other, would make peace for her.
From 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 family; for Topsy, to do her justice, was good-natured and liberal,

and only spiteful in self-defence. She is faii-ly introduced into our corps
de ballet, and will figure, from time to time, in her turn, with other
performers.

CHAPTER XXI.

KENTUCK.

Our 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 opening
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 ;

I
 —

UNCLE xom's cabin. 217

one who had something on her mind, which she was seeking an
opportunity to introduce.
" Do you know," she said, " that Chios 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.
I

" 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 / don't know," said Mr. Shelby. " Once get business
running wrong, there does seem to be no end 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."
" It does seem to me, my dear, that something might be done to
sh-aighten matters. Suppose we sell off allthe horses, and sell one of
your farms, and pay up square ?"
" Oh, ridiculous, Emily You are the ! finest woman in Kentucky, but
stillyou havn't sense to know that you don't understand business;
women never do, and never can."
" But, at least," said Mrs. Shelby, " could you not give me some little
insight into yours ? a list of all your debts, at least, and of all that is
owed to you, and let me try and see if I can't help you to economise."
" Oh, bother don't plague me, Emily
! —
I can't tell exactly.
!
I know
somewhere about what things are likely to be but there's no trimming ;

and squaring my affairs, as Chloe trims crust off her pies. You don't
know anything about business, I teU you."
And Mr. Shelby, not knowing any other way of enforcing his ideas,
raised his voice ; 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
supei-ior to that of her husband
would not have been so very
; so that it
absurd a supposition to have allowed her capable of managing as
Mr. Shelby supposed. Her heart was set upon performing her pro^
mise to Tom and Aunt Chloe, and she sighed as discouragements
thickened around her.
218 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

" Don't you think we might in some way contrive to raise that money ?
!"
Poor Amit 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'U 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 as
sacred as ours. I never could think of giving Chloe such advice."
" a pity, wife, that you have burdened them with a morality above
It's

their condition and prospects. I always thought so."

" It's only 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 condition."
" They are indeed," said Mrs. Shelby; "and that is why, from my
soul, I hate 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 coidd
consent to it."
" Degrade ! would it degrade me as much as to break nijjy faith with
!"
the helpless ? No, indeed
" Well, you are always heroic and transcedental," 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 turry, poetry
;

suthin good, any how ;" and 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 face of consideration.
" I'm a thinkin whether missis would be a having a chicken pie o'

dese yer."
» » Really, Aunt Chloe, I don't much care, serve them any way you
like."
Chloe stood handling them over abstractedly; it was quite ex^ident
 — "

UNCLE XOJl S CABIN. 219

that the chickens were not what she was thinking of. At last, with the
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
!

theirselves '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 eveiy word
of the conversation that had passed between her and her husband.
" Why, laws me, missis!" said Chloe, laughing again, " other folks
lures out der niggers and makes money on 'em Don't keep such a tribe !

catin '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 deso yer perfectioners, dey calls 'em, in Louisville, said he wanted a

good hand at cake and pastry, and said he give four dollars a-week to
one, he did."
« Well, Chloe."
" Well, laws, I's a thinkin, missis, it's time Sally was put along to

be doin' something. been under my care, now, dis some time,

Sally's
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 fraid to put my

cake, nor pies nother, 'long side no perfectione^'^ s."
" Confectioner's, Chloe."
" Law sakes, missis ! 't an't no odds ; words is so cmis, 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 afeard ? it's down river, somer near my old man,
!

perhaps ? " said Chloe, speaking the last in the tone of a question, and
looking 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'd
dark face brightened immediately, it really shone.
" Laws if missis isn't too good
! I was thinking 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#, year, missis ?"
 " — •

220 UNCLE Tom's cabin.

" Fifty-two," said Mrs. Shelby.

" Laws now, dere is ? and four dollars for each on 'em.
! Why, how
"
much'd dat ar be ?
" Two hundred and eight dollars," said Mrs. Shelby.
" VVhy-e!" said Chloe, with an accent of surprise and delight; " and
how 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 woiddn't hear to missis' givin lessons nor nothin. Mas'r's quite
right in dat ar ; 'twouldu't do no ways. 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 femily," said
;

Mrs. Shelby, smiling. " But when do you expect to go ?"

" Well, I warnt spectin nothin only Sam, he's a gwine 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 gwine 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 jis look over
Sis's things, and get 'em straightened up. But I'm gwine, Mas'r George
gwine to have four dollars a week and missis is gwine to lay it aU 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
jis sit down and write to my old man, and tell him aU 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, I 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
yer poor old aunty."
 UNCLE tom's cabim. 221

CHAPTER XXII.

*' THE GRASS WITHERETH —THE FLOWER FADETH."

Life passes, with us all, a day at a time; so it passed with our friend
Tom, tm two years were gone. Though parted from all his soul held
dear, and though often yearning for what lay beyond, stiil was he
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 horn*, 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 whatsover state he was, therewith to be content." It seemed to him
good and reasonable doctrine, and accorded well with the settled and
thoughtful habit which he had acquired from the reading of that same
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 across the room." It contained various
refreshing items of home with which our reader is fully
intelligence,
acquainted : stated how Aimt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner
in Louisville,where her skill in the pastry line was gaining wonderful
sums 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 the 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
came back.
The rest of this letter gave a list of George's school studies, each one
headed by a flourishing capital and also told the names of four new
;

colts that appeared on the premises since Tom left; and stated, in the
same connexion, 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 £va on
222 UNCLE Tom's cabin.

tlie expediency of getting it framed, to hang up in his room. Nothing

but the dif&culty of arranging it so that both sides of the page would
show at once, stood in the way of this undertaking.
The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the child's
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 eartlily, yet almost worshipped her as something heavenly and
divine. He gazed on her as the Italian on his image of the
sailor gazes
child Jesus —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 flower-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 at 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 land offices, in retm'n. Though a child,
she was a beautiful reader a fine musical ear, a quick poetic fancy, and
;

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 why and though it be not so in the physical, yet in moral
not ;

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 expect-
ing nature. Its mystic imageries are so many talismans and gems in-
scribed vsdth 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

'' i
 TOM AND EVA IN THE ARBOUE,.
" Tomami Eva wore seated on a little mossy seat, in an arbour, at the foot of
the Harden. It was Sunday evening, and Eva's Bible lay open on her knee.
—Page 223.
 UNCLE TOJl's CABIN. 223

summer had driven all who were able to leave the sultry and unhealthy
city, 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 and
pleasure-grounds. The common sitfing-room opened on to a large garden,
fragrant with every pictm'osque plant and flower of the tropics, where
winding paths ran down to the very shores of the lake, whose silvery
sheet of water lay there, rising and falling in the sunbeams a picture —
never for an hour the same, yet every hour more beautiful.
It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which kindles the
whole horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes the water another sky.
The lake lay in rosy or golden streaks, save where white-winged vessels
glided hither and thither, like so many spirits, and little golden stars
twinkled through the glow, and looked down at themselves as they
trembled in the water.
Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, in an arbour, at the
foot of the garden. Itwas Sunday evening, and Eva's Bible lay open on
her knee. She read, " And I saw a sea of glass, mingled with fire."
" Tom," said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the lake, " there
'tis."
" What, Miss Eva ?"
" Don't —
you see there ?" said the child, pointing to the glassy w^ater,

which, as and feU, reflected the golden glow of the sky.

it rose " There's
a sea of glass, mingled with fire.'
'

" True enough, Miss Eva," said Tom and Tom sang ;

" Oh, had I the wings of the morning,

I'd fly away to Canaan's shore
Bright angels should convey me home.
To the New Jerusalem."

" Where do you suppose New Jerusalemis. Uncle Tom ?" said Eva.

" Oh, up in the Miss Eva."

clouds,
" 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 conquering palms they bear."

" Uncle Tom, I've seen thein" said Eva.

Tom had no doubt of it at all ; it did not surprise him in the least.
 ;

224 UNCLE Tom's cabin.

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's
eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low voice—

" They all are robed ia spotless white,

And conquering palms they bear."

" Uncle Tom," said Eva, " I'm going there,"

" Where, Miss Eva ?"
The and pointed her little hand to the sky the glow of
child rose, ;

evening her golden hair and flushed cheek with a kind of unearthly
lit

radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly on the skies.

" I'm going there" she said, " to the spirits bright, Tom going, ; Pm
before long."
The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust ; and Tom thought how
often he had noticed, vrithin 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 once could for
hours, she became soon so tired and languid. He had heard Miss
Ophelia speak often of a cough, that all her medicaments could not cm-e ;

and even now that fervent cheek and little hand were burning with
hectic fever; and yet the thought that Eva's vrords suggested had never
come to liim till now.
Has there ever been a child like Eva ? Yes, there have been but ;

their names are always on grave-stones, and their sweet smiles, theu'
heavenly eyes, their singular words and ways, are among the buried trea-
sures 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 peculiar
charms of one who is not ! It is as if Heaven had an especial band 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 upward 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 immortality looks out from
its eyes.

Even so, beloved Eva fair star of thy dwelling

! Thou art passing !

away but they that love thee dearest know it not.

;

The coUoquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hasty call
from Miss Ophelia.
" Eva —Eva —why, !
child, the dew is falling ;
you mustn't be out
there I"

• m
 UNCLE TOM's cabin. 225

Eva and Tom hastened in.

Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. She was
from New England, aod 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 irrevocably 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 1 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. lie 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
—
anything in that cough it was only some little stomach affection, such
as children often had. But he kept by her more than before, took her
ofteiier to ride with him, brought home every few days some recipe or
— —
strengthening mixtm'e "not" he said, " that the clnld. tieeded it, hut
then it would not do her any harm."
If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to his heart than
anything else was the daily increasing maturity of the child's mind and
feelings. While still retaining all a child's fanciful graces, yet she often
dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach of thought, and strange
unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At such
times, St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, as
if that fond clasp could save her and his heart rose up with wild
;

determination to keep her, never to let her go.

The chUd's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works of love
and kindness. Impulsively generous she had always been but there was ;

a touching and womanly thoughtfulness about her now, that every one
noticed. She still loved to play with Topsy and the various coloured
Q
 "

226 UNCLE TOM's cabin.

children but she now seemed rather a spectator than an actor of 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, one day, " why don't we
teach our servants to read ?"
" What a question, child ! People never do."
" Why don't they ?" said Eva.
" Because it is no use for them to read. It don't help them to work
any and they are not made for anything else."
better,
" 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 everyone 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
creature I ever saw !"

"Here's poor Mammy!" said Eva. " She loves 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 answered,
" 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.
" How !
sober you look child " said Marie.
" Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma ?"
" To be sure they are. Father sent to France for them. They are
vorth 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 know,
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 227

maimna, it does come very hard on them, that they can't do tliese things.

Tom feels 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 with his eldest son, a boy

this time, St. Clare's brother Alfred,
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 Alfi-ed, dark-eyed,
;

with haughty Roman 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 \TLvaeity 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 ;

advanced and took the reigns 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
horse down this morning."
q2
 " ;

228 UNCLE tom's cabin.

" Yes, mas'r," said Dodo submissively ;

" he got that dust on his
own self."
" You rascal, shut your mouth!" said Henrique, %'iolently raising his
riding-whip. How dare you speak !"
"
The boy was a handsome bright-eyed mulatto, 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 back
!

•when I speak to you ? Take the horse back, and clean him properly.
!
I'll teach you your place

" Young mas'r," said Tom, " I specs what he was gwine to say waB,
that the horse would roll when he was bringing him up from the stable
he's so full of spu'its —
that's the way he got that dirt on him I looked ;

to his cleaning."
" You hold your tongue till you're asked to speak!" said Henrique,
turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to speak to Eva, who stood
in her riding-dress.
" Dear cousin, I'm sorry this stupid fellovr has kept you waiting," he
said. " Let's sit down here, on this seat, till they come. What's the
matter cousin ? —you look sober."
" How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo ?" said Eva.
•'
Cruel —wicked!" said the boy v?ith 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 the 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
win lie as fast as he can speak."
" You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so."
" Why, Eva, you've reaUy taken such a fancy to Dodo, that I shall be
jealous."
"
But you beat him, and he didn't deserve it."
"Oh, weU, it may go for some time when he does, and don'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."
;
 " —

X7NCLE TOm's CABIN. 229

Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make her hand-
V):ne cousinunderstand her feelinfi;s.
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."

Dodo 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 in 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 picayime for you to buy candy with, Dodo," said Henrique,
" go get some."
And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo stood looking
after the two children. One had given him money and one had given ;

—
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 hands
;

of his young master.

The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the two brothers,
St. Clare, from another part of the garden.
Augustine's cheek flushed; but he only observed, with his usual
sarcastic carelessness, " I suppose that's what we may call republican
education, Alfred ?"
" Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood's up," said Alfred,
carelessly.
" I suppose you consider this an instructive practice for hitn ?" 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 Dodo 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 Jefierson's pieces of French senti-
ment and humbug. It's perfectly ridiculous to have that going the

rounds among us to this day."

 " ! .

230 TJ]!fCLE TOM S CABIN.

" 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 repubHcan 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 I
should," said Alfred, setting his foot hard down, as if he were standing
on somebody.
" Itmakes 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
barbarism and brutality. We are breaking all humanising ties, and
making them brute beasts and, if they get the upper hand, such we
;

shall find them."

" 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 the
escape-valve, as long the boilers are strong, and the machiaery works
well."
" The nobles in Louis XVI.'s time thought just so ; and Austria and
Pius IX. think so now ; and, some pleasant morning, you may all be
uaught up to meet each other in the air, when the boilers burst."
" Dies declarabit," said Alfred, laughing.
" I teU 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 greasy, they will govern you, when their time comes,"
said Augustine " and they will be just such rulers as you make thera.
;

The French noblesse chose to have the people sans culottes,' and they *

had ^sans culotte' governors to their hearts' content. The people of

Hayti—
" Oh, come, Augustine ! as if we hadn't enough of that abominable,
 " :

UNCLE XOM S CABIN. 231

oontemptible Hayti !Tlie Haytians were not Anglo-Saxons if they;

had been, thei*e -would have been another story. The Anglo-Saxon is
the dominant race of the world, and is to be so.
" Well, there is a pretty fail- 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 warmth and fervour
to our calculating firmness and foresight. I£ ever the San Domingo
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 mothers' 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, A.ugustine, I think your talents might do for a circuit
rider," said Alfred, laughing. " Never you fear for us possession is our
!

nine points. V/e've got the power. This subject race," said he, stamping
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, They 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 imder. 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
dependents."
" 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 Alij-ed " 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-Uke or not and it is about as Chiistian-like as
;

most other things in the world," said Alfred.

 — !

232 UNCLE TOiU'S CABIN.

" 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 game of backgammon ?"
The two brothers ran up the verandah steps, and were soon seated at a
light bamboo stand, with the backgammon-board between them. As they
were setting their men, Alfred said
" 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 ^tna on them flat, and tell them to
stand up under it, as tell me to elevate my servants under all the super-
incumbent mass of society upon them. One man can do nothing,
against the whole action of a community, Education, to do anything!
must be a state education ; or there must be enough agreed in it to make
a current."
" You take the first throw," said Alfred and the brothers were soon
;

lost in thegame, 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 dark, 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.
" Good heavens! what perfectly dazzling beauty!" said Alfred.
" I tell you, Augustine, won't she make some hearts ache, one of these
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 iu
his arms.
" No, papa," said the child ; but her short, hard breathing alarmed hsr
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
Bofa.
 " ;

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 233

" Henrique, you must be careful of Eva," said he " you musn't ride ;

fastwith her."
" I'll take her under my care," said Henrique, seating himself by the
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, and then I shan't see you again for ever so long If I stay with you, !

I'd try to be good, and not be cross to Dodo, and so on. I don't
mean to treat Dodo ill but, you know, I've got such a quick temper.
;

I'm not really bad to him, though. I give him a picayune, now and
then and you see he di-esses 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,
and now he has not a creature him
to love : nobody can be good that
way."
" AYeU, 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, as I know of."
" Why can't you ?" said Eva.
" Love Dodo ! Wh.j, Eva, you wouldn't have me ! I may like him well
enough ; but you don'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 !

" 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 say- ;

ing, " I'm glad you feel so, dear Henrique I hope you will remember." !

The dinner-beU put an end to the interview.

234 UNCLB tom's cabin.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FOKESHADOWINGS.

Two days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine parted; and Eva,
wh.0 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
from which he had always shrunk, be-
to call in medical advice, a thing
cause it was the admission of an unwelcome truth. But for a day or
two Eva was so unwell as to be confined to the house, and the doctor
was called.
Maiie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's gradually decay*
ing health and strength, because she was completely absorbed in study-
ing 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 sufierer as herself; and, there-
fore she always repelled quite indignantly any suggestion that any one
around her could be sick. She was always sure m
such a case that it
was nothing but laziness or want of energy and that if they had had
;

the sufieriag 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 teU me about a cough. I've always
been subject to a cough all my days. When I was of Eva's age, they
tbought I was in a consumption. Night after night. Mammy used to sit
up with me. Oh, Eva's cough is not anything !"
" But she gets weak, and is short-breathed."
" Law 1 I've had that years and years, it's only a nervous aflFec-
tion."
" But she sweats so, nights !"
" Well, I have these ten years. Very often, night after night, my
olothes will be wringing wet. There won't be a dry thread in my
night clothes, and the sheets wiU be so that Mammy has to hang them
up to dry ! Eva doesn't sweat anything like that !"
Miss Onhelia shut her mouth for a season. But now that Eva
 " — !

UNCLE tom's cabin. 235

was fairiy and visibly prostrated, and a doctor called, Marie all on a
sudden took a new tui'n.
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 wretched
health, and her only darling child going down to the grare before
her eyes! And Marie routed up Mammy at nights, and rumpussed
and scolded with more energy than ever all day, on the strength of thia
new misery.
" M7 dear Marie, don't talk so!" said St. Clare. " You ought not
to give up the case so at once."
" You 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
feelwhen your only child is in this alarming state, I 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

and the exertions she made. The physician says there is
cousin's visit,
room for hope."
" Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray do ; it's

a mercy if people havn'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 eveiy ctoe 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 ti'ansport, declared that they
should soon have her as hearty as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the
physician alone felt no encouragement from this illusive truce. There
was one other heart, too, that felt the same certainty, and that was
the little heart of Eva. V^Tiat is it that sometimes speaks in the soul
 :

236 UNCLE iom's cabin.

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 immor-
tality 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 Kght
of sunset, sweet as the bright stillness of autumn, there her little
heart reposed, only troubled by sorrow for those who loved her so
dearly.
For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life was unfold-
ing before her with every brightness that love and wealth could 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 be a living^

all-surrounding reality. His love enfolded her childish heart with 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, instinctive perception that she was more in his heart
had an
than any other. She loved her mother because she was so loving a
creatm-e, 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 in-
deed.
She felt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she was as
daylight and sunshine. not usually generalise; but Eva
Children d'o

was an uncommonly mature child, and the things that she had wit-
nessed 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 had 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 feebleness of her Kttle 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
some their husbands, and some mothers cried for their little children
and when I heard about poor Prue— oh, wasn't that dreadful ?— and a
 — —

UNCLE TOM. S CABIN. 237

great many other times, I've felt that I would be glad to die, if my dying
could stop all this misery. I tooulcl die for them, Tom, if I could," said
the child earnestly, laying her little thin hand on his.
Tom looked 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
her.
" It's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here," he said to Mammy,
whom he met a moment after. " She's got the Lord's mark in her
forehead."
" Ah, yes, yes," said Mammy, raising her hands, " I've allers said 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 late 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 bm-ned 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, that 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. I want to say them now, before I get
weaker."
St. Clai'e trembled, as 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 come
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 mus'nt ;

indulge such gloomy thoughts. See here, I've bought a statuette 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 ?"
 238 UNCLE TOM S CABLN.

" I had rather he in heaven, though only for my friends' sake —

Iwould 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 ?"
" Oh, things that are done, and done all the time. I feel sad for our
poor people they love me dearly, and they are all good and kind to me.
;

I wish, papa, they were all free."

" Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are all well enough off
now ?"
" Oh, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what would
become of them ? There are very few men Uke 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
happy, 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 have all slaves made free ?"

to
" 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 she had to hear
it crying, Papa, these poor creatures love their
and she couldn't help it !

children as much as you do me. Oh, do something for 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
" There, there, darling," said St. Clare, soothingly ;
" only don't
distress yourself, and don't talk of dying, and I will do anything you
wish."
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 239

" Aud promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedom as
600U as — " she stopped, and said in a hesitating tone — "I ana
gone!"
" 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
" WTiere, 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.
" You will come to me," said the child, speaking in a voice of calm
certainty, 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 woiidliness 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 bed-room 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 bambo lounge in

the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on a
sofa, opposite the vrindow opening on the verandah, closely secluded,
under an avsming of transparent gauze, from the outrages of the mos-
quitos, 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.
 "

240 UK CLE TOM S CABIN.

Miss Ophelia, who, after some nimmaging, had hunted up a sma!!

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
the heart."
" Well ; why need you send for him ? This doctor that attends Eva
seems skilful."
would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie, " and I think
" I
I maysay mine is becoming so I've been thinking of it these two or
!

three nights past; I have such distressing pains, and such strange
feelings,"
" Marie, you are blue ; I don't believe il's heart-complaint."
" I dare sayyou 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'U 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 Marie ;
" but, believe it or not, my distress about Eva, and the
exertions 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 himself,

and went on smoldng, 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 wag
sitting on his knee, giving him an account of the services they had
heard.
'ihey soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia's room (which,
like the one in which they were sitting, opened to the verandah), and
-^iolei^t 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
di'aggirg the culprit along.
" Come out here, now !" she said, " I will tell your master !"

" What's the case now ?" asked Augustine.

" The case 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
 ;

TJNCLE TOM's cabin. 241

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!"
" I don't doubt it," said St. Clare. " Tell me of the lovely rule of
woman ! saw above a dozen women that would'nt half kill a
I never
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 kousekeeper, and this had been pretty actively
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
circumstances; but Marie's words went beyond her, and she felt less
heat.
" Iwould'nt 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 bar, agin and knock my head
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 nothing but a nigger, no ways
!

" Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia ; " I can't
have that trouble any longer."
 " ——

242 TTi^CLE Toil's CABIN.

" Well, I'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare.
" What is it ?"
« \^'Tiy, if youi" Gospel is not strong enoug-h to save one heathen
child, thatyou can have at home here, all to yourself, what's the use
of sending one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands
of just such? I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what
thousands of your heathen ai'e."

Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer; and Eva, who
had stood 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 verandah, 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,
he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There
sat the two childi-en on the floor, with their side faces towards them
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 make you so bad, Topsy?" Why won't you try and
does
be good Don't you love anybody, Topsy ?"
?

" Donno nothing 'bout love I love candy and sich, that's all," said
;

Topsy.
" But you love your father and mother ?"
" Never had none, ye know. I tolled 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 nothing but a nigger, if I was ever so good," said
Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white, I'd try then."
"
But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia
would love you if you were good."
Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of
expressing incredulity.
" Don't you think so ?" said Eva.
" No ; she can't bar me, 'cause I'm a nigger !— she'd's soon have a toad
ouch her. There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do nothin'.
I don't care," said Topsy, beginning to whistle.
^
" O Topsy, poor child, /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
Wause you've been a poor, abused child! I love you, and I want
 EVA AND TOPSY.
" Helifted up a curtain that covered the glass door, and looked in, making a
silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. ' Oh, Topsy, poor child, / love
you!' said Eva, laying her little, thin, white hand on Topsy 's shoulder. She
laid her head down, and wept and sobhed while the beautiful child, bending
;

over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel stooping to reclaim
a

sinner."— Page 242.

 ;•

'

uxcLE tom's cabin. 243

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, for 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 ot
heavenly love, had peneLrated the darkness of her heathen soul She !

laid her head do-svn between her knees, and wept and sobbed while the ;

beautiful child, bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright
angel 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 He loves you just as I do, only
you as me.
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 jNIiss Eva dear Miss Eva !" said the child, " I ^^-ill try I will
! !

try ! I never did care nothin' about it before."

St. Clare at this instant dropped the cui'tain. " It puts me in mind ot
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 theju"
" I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss Ophelia
j

" and it's a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me but 1 ;

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 excite
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 vrish I were like her. She might
teach me a lesson."
" It wouldn t be the first time a little ehUd had been used to instruct
an old disciple, if it were so," said St. Clare.

£2
 ;

244 UNOLE tom's cabitt.

CPIAPTER XXVI.

DEATH.

•'
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes."

Eva's bedroom was a spacious apartment, which, like all the other rooms
in the house, opened on to the broad verandah. The room communi-
cated, on one side, with her father and mother's apartment on the other, ;

with that appropriated to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own
eye and taste, in furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar
keeping with the character of her for whom it was intended. The
windows were hung 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 bedstead, 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, light
curtains of rose-coloured gauze, striped with silver, supplying that pro-
tection from mosquitos which is an 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 the hands of sculptured figures, were gauze cur-
tains 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 lUy, 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. There was a fireplace
in the room, and on the marble mantel above stood a beautifully wrought
statuette of Jesus receiving little children, and on either side marble
vases, for which it was Tom's pride and delight to offer bouquets every
morning. Two or three exquisite paintings of children, in various atti-
tudes, embellished the wall. In short, the eye could turn nowhere
without meeting images of childhood, of beauty, and of peace. Those
 — ;

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 245

eyes never opened, in the morning light, without falling on some-

little

thing which suggested to the heart soothing and beautiful thoughts.

The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a httle while
was fast passing away seldom and more seldom her light footstep
;

was heard in the verandah, and oftener and oftener she was found
reclined on a little lounge by the open window, her large, deep eyes fixed
on the rising and falling waters of the lake.
Tt was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was so reclining
her Bible half open, her little transparent fingers lying listlessly between
—
the leaves suddenly she heard her mother's voice, in sharp tones, in the
verandah.
"What now, you baggage! what new piece of mischief? You've
been picking the flowers, eh ?" and Eva heard the sound of a smart
slap.
" Law, missis ! they's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice say, which she
knew belonged to Topsy.
" Miss Eva A pretty excuse you suppose she wants your flowers,
!
;

you good-for-nothing nigger Get along off with you !"

!

In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge, and in the verandah.
" Oh, don't, mother I should like the flowex's
! do give them to me ;

I want them !"

" Why, Eva, your room is full now."
" 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 bash-
fulness, q[uite unlike the eldrich boldness and brightness which was usual
with her.
" It's a beautiful bouquet !" said Eva, looking at it.

It was rather a singular one —a brilliant scarlet geranium, and one

single white japonica, 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 havn't any flowers for. 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, mamma ;
you'd as lief as not Topsy should do it —had
you not ?"

" Of anything you please, dear

com-se, Topsy, you hear your young
!

mistress ; you mind."

see that
Topsy made a short curtsey, and looked down and, as she tamed ;

away, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek.

 a

246 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

" 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 have her pluck them, so be it."
to
" Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to be ; she's
ti-ying to be a good girl."
" She'U have to try a good while before she gets to be good," said
Marie, with a careless laugh.
" Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy ! everything has always been
against her."
" 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."

" But, mamma, isn't God her Father, as much as our's ? Isn't Jesus
her Saviour ?"
" Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody," said Marie.
" Where is my smelling-bottle ?"
" It's such a pity —
oh such a pity I" said Eva, looking out on the
!

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 ! I don't

know what's to be done : we ought to be thankful for our own ad-
vantages."
" I hardly can be," said Eva, " I'm so sorry to think of poor folks
•
that haTTi'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 —
- good deal of it."
" What for ?" said Marie.
 UNCLE TOAl's CABIN. 247

" Mamma, Iwant to give some avray to my friends, while I am al)le

to give it to them myself. Won't you ask aunty to come and cut it
for me ?"

iilarie raised hei' 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
fruit 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 it 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 kept 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 courfry.
:

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, perhaps
;

you will get to feel about it as I do."

St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eyeing the long, beautifid
cm-Is, which, as they were separated from the child's head, were laid, one
by one, in her lap. She raised them up, looked earnestly at them, twined
them around her thin fingers, and looked, from time to time, anxiously
at her father.
" It'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. C'are,
you will sec, 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 cambric
handkerchief.
Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other. It v, us
the calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from its earthly bonds;
it was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated the difference betvrcen the
two.
 —

248 uircrE xom's cabik.

She beckoned v?!!!! her hand to her father. He came, and sat down by
her.
" Papa, my strength fades away every 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 whole 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 hair cut ofi' 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.
Eva 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.
you all, my dear friends," said Eva, " because I love you.
" I sent for
I love you and I have something to say to you, which I want you
all ;

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, I am
afraid, are very careless. You are thinking only about this world.
I want you to remember that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is.
I am going there, and you can go there ; it is for you, as much as me.

But you want to go there, you must not live idle, careless, thoughtless
if

lives you must be Christians. You must remember that each one of you
;

can become angels, and be angels for ever. ... If you want to be
Christians, Jesus will help you. You must pray to him you must ;

read—"
H a>

i^

O r£3

H
rj>
^
'^

< 2
c^
_)
,£3C3

<
> P^
w ppH

of
 —

UNCLE xom's cabin. 249

The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, and said

sorrowfully
" Oh, dear ! you Poor souls !" and she hid her face in the
car^t read.
pillow and sobbed, while many
a smothered sob from those she was
addressing, who were kneeling on the floor, aroused her.
" Nev^r mind," she said, raising her face and smiling brightly through
her tears, " I have prayed for you and I know Jesus will nelp you, even
;

if you can't read. Try all to do the best you can pray every day ask ; ;

Him to help you, and get the Bible read to you whenever you can and ;

I think I shall see you all in heaven."

" Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom and
Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the Methodist
chm-ch. The younger and more thoughtless ones, for the time com-
pletely overcome, were sobbing, with their heads bowed upon their
knees.
" I know," said Eva, " yoa all love me."
'•
Yes oh, yes
; ! indeed we do. Lord bless her !" was the involuntary
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 and am gone to heaven, and that I want to see you all
there."'
It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and sobs, they
gathered round the and took from her hands what seemed
little creature,

to them a last mark of her love. They fell on their knees they sobbed, ;

and prayed, and kissed the hem of her garment and the elder ones ;

poured forth words of endearment, mingled in prayers and blessings,

after the manner of their susceptible race.
As each one took their gift. Miss OpheUa, who was apprehensive for
the efiect of all this excitement on her httle patient, signed to each one
to pass out of the apartment.
At were gone but Tom and Mammy.
last, all
" Here, Uncle Tom," said Eva, " is a beautiful one for you. Oh,
1 am so happy. Uncle Tom, to think I shall see you in heaven, for
—
I'm sm-e 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."
" O Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no how !" said the
faithful creature. " 'Pears like it's just taking everything off the place
and Mammy gave way
at oncet "
!
to a passion of grief.
Miss OpheHa pushed her and Tom gently from the apartment, and
 "

2.50 UNCLE TOM S CABIX.

tfconglit they were all gone; but, as slie turned, Topsy -was staudin"
there.
" Where did you start from ?" she said suddenly.
" I was wiping the tears from her eyes. " O Miss
here," said Topsy,
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; " bat, Lor, it's so
hard to be good ! no ways
'Pears like I an't used to it
!

" 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,
Ail 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 hand
shading his eyes, in the same attitude. When they were all gone,
he sat so still.
" Papa!" said Eva gently, laying her hand on his.
He gave a sudden start and shiver, but made no answer.
" Dear papa !" said Eva.

"I cannot" said St. Clare rising, "I cannot have it so! Tho
Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me !" and St. Clare pronounced
these words with a bitter emphasis indeed.
" Augustine has not God a right to do what he will with his
!

own ?" said 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

info his arms; "you must not feel so !" and the child sobbed and wej t
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 wf.3
wicked. I will feel —
any way, do any way only don't distress yourseU';
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, bentl- ;

ing over her, soothed her by every tender word he could think of.
Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her own, wheu
she fell into violent hystei-ics.
" Ycu didn't give me a cm-1, Eva," said her father smiling sadly.
 UJfCLE TOM S CABIN. 251

"
They are all yours, papa," said she, smiling — " yours
and mamma's;
you must give dear aunty as many as she wants. 1 only gave them
at.d
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 can help it."
" Wliat is being a Christian, Eva ?"
" Loving Chi'ist 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 him ;" and the young face grew fervent, radiant
with joy.
no more. It was a feeling which he had seen before in
St. Clare said
his but no chord within vibrated to it.
mother ;

Eva after this declined rapidly there was no more any doubt of the
;

event the fondest liope 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 per-
fect adroitness and practice in every art that could promote neatness,
and comfort, and keep out of sight every disagreeable incident of sick-
—
ness with such a perfect sense of time, such a clear, untroubled head,
such exact accuracy in remembeiing every prescription and direction of
—
the doctors she was everything to him. They who had shrugged theu*
shoulders at her little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike the careless
ft'eedom 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
Tom's greatest delight to carry her little frail form in his arms, resting
on a piUow, now up and down her room, now out into the verandah.
and when the fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake, and the child felt
freshest in the morning, he would sometimes walk with her under the
orange trees in the garden, or, sitting down m 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 tal^e me. Poor fellow it pleases him and you
! ;

know it's all he can do now, and he wants to do something !"

- " So do I, Eva," said her father.
 —
;;

252 tTNCLE TOM 8 CABi:N.

" Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to me. Yon
read to me— you sit —
up nights and Tom has only this one th.ng, 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
was such, was impossible for her to rest and, of course, it was against
it ;

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 room, to let down a
curtain because it was too light, or to put it up because it was too dark
and, in the day-time, when she longed to have some share in the nursing
of her pet, Marie seemed unusually ingenious in keeping her busy any-
where and everywhere all over the house, or about her own person ;

so that stolen interviews and momentary glimpses were all she could
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 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 I feel !throw things off as you do."
I can't
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
realise 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 could
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 resigna- ;

tion it was only a calm resting in the present, which seemed so beautiful
;

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 bright
hectic flush 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
away.
The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and foreshadow-
 " —

XTNCi.E tom's cabidt. 253

ings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said what she would
not disturb her father by saying. To him she imparted those mysterious
intim:itions 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
everywhere, Uke a dog, for ?" said Miss Ophelia. " I thought you was
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 watchin' for the bride-
groom."
" What do you mean, Tom ?"
" You know it says in Scripture, '
At midnight therewas a great
cry made. Behold, the bridegroom cometh.' That's what I'm 'spectin
—
now, every night, Miss Feeley 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
eoul. I must be thar, Miss Feely for when that ar blessed child goes
;

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 tells 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
favourite 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 aU 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 for weeks. Her father had been in in the evening,
and had said that Eva appeared more Uke her former self than ever she
had done since her sickness and when he kissed her for the night, he
;

said to Miss Ophelia, " Cousin, we may keep her with us, after all she ;
 "

2.54 UNCLE Tom's cabin.

is certainly better ;" and lie had retii-ed with a lighter heart in his bosom
than he h id had there for weeks.
But at midnight — strange, mystic hom*, when the veil between the
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 chai'ge, and who, at the turn of the night, had discerned what

experienced nurses significantly call " a change." The outer door was
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 feU on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why did
they ? 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, unmiatakeable, 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
presence of spiritual natures, the dawning of immortal life in that
childish soul.
They stood there gazing upon her, that even the ticking of
so stUl,
the watch seemed too loud. In a few moments Tom returned with the
doctor. He entered, gave one look, and stood sUent 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. Clare 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;
—
hut 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 ; and,
stooping over her he spoke in her ear —" Eva, darling !
 " ;

UNCLE TOM S CACIN. 255'

—
The large blue eyes unclosed a smile passed over her face slie tried ;

and to speak.
lo raise her head,
" Do you know me, Eva ?"
" Dear papa," said the chUd, with a last effort, throwang her arms
about his neck. In a moment they dropped again ; and, as St." Clare
raised his head, he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face she —
struggled for breath, and thi*ew up her little hands.
" O God, this is dreadful!" he said, turning away in agony, and

wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious of what he was douig. " O Tom,
my boy, it is killing me !

Tom had hands between his own and, with tears stream-
his master's ;

ing down his dark cheeks, looked up for help where he had always been
used to look.
" Pray that this may be 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 andAh, what said those eyes that spoke so
fixed.
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 breath-
less stillness.
" 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 said 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 thy sweet face no more. Oh, woe for them who
shall see
watched thy entrance into heaven, when they shall wake and find only
!"
the cold grey sky of daily life, and thou gone for ever
256 UNCLE TOM's cabin.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"THIS IS THE LAST OF EAUTH."

The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded in white

napkins, and only hushed breathings and muffled foot-faUs 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 robed in one of the simple white dresses she had been
lay,
wont to wear when
living the rose-coloured light through the curtains
;

cast over the icy coldness of death a warm glow. The heavy eyelashes
drooped softly on the pure cheek the head was turned a little to one
;

side, as if in natural sleep, but there was diffused over every lineament
of the face that 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 auguish." 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 Rose 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 —
fragrant, with graceful drooping leaves. Eva's little table, covered with
•white, bore on it her favourite vase, with a single white moss rose-bud in
 !

UNCLE tom's Cabin 257

it. The foldh of the drapery, the fall of the curtains, had been arranged
and re-arranged, by Adolph and Hose, with that nicety of eye which
characterises their race. Even now, while St. Clare stood there thinking,
little Rosa tripped softly into the chamber with a basket of white flowers.

She stepped back when she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully but, ;

seeing that he did not observe her, she came forward to place 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 with crying,
appeared, holding something under her apron. Rosa made a quick, for-
bidding gesture ; but she took a step into the room.
" You must go out," said Rosa, in a sharp, positive whisper ;
" you
haven't any business here !"
" Oh, do let me I brought a flower! such a pretty one !" said —
Topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rose-bud. " Do let me put just one
there."
" Get along !" said Rosa, more decidedly.
" Let her stay !" said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his foot. " She
shall come."
Rosa suddenly and Topsy came forward and laid her offer-
retreated,
ing at the feet of the corpse then suddenly, with a wild and bitter ciy,
;

she 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 in 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 angel."
" 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 an't nobody left now —there an't
!"

" That's true enough." said St. Clare ;

" but do," he said to Miss
Ophelia, " see if you can't comfort the poor creature."
" I jist wish I hadn't never been born," said Topsy. " I didn't want to
be born, no ways ; and
no use on't."
I don't see
Miss Ophelia raised her gently but firmly, and took her from the room;
but, as she did so, some tears fell from her eyes.

8
258 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

" Topsy, you poor child," she said, as she led her into her room, " don't
give up ? J can though I am not like that dear little child. 1
love you,
hope I've learnt something of the love of Christ from her. I can love
you ; I do, and I'll try to help you to grow up a good Christian girl."
^liss 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
lost.
" 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 foot-falls 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 and there were white scarfs and ribbons
;

and crape bands, and mourners dressed in black crape; and there were
words read fi-om the Bible, and prayers offered; and St. Clare lived, and
walked, and moved, as one who had 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,
and there, by the mossy seat where she and Tom had talked, and sung
and read so often, was the little grave. St. Clare stood beside it looked —
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
in and filled up the little grave, he could not realise 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 I

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, and
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 sympathise with
her ; it was perfectly wonderful to think how hard-hearted and unfeehng
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-
 ;

UNCLE TOM's CABIN". 259

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 ;

the streets busily, and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart, with hurrj'
and bustle, and change of place and peoplo 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 newspaper, and
speculating on politics, and attending to business 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 ?
" Mr. St. Clare is a singular man," said Marie to jNIiss Ophelia, in a
complaining tone. " I used to think, if there was anything in the world
he did love, it was our dear Eva
little ; 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, I don't believe in such things; it's all talk. If people have
feeling, they will show 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 shader. 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 cretur !" she
added, wiping her eyes.
" Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me," said Marie
;

" he hasn't spoken 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 tliink. I know just what I feel nobody else —
seems to. Eva used to, but she's gone !" and Marie lay back 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 in
s 2
260 UNCLE tom's cabin.

possession. Whatever she had, she seemed to survey only to pick flaws
in it ; away, there was no end to her valuation of it.
but, once fairly
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 b:fore 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.
" O 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, Father, 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 dreamUy, 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, falling
! ;

on his knees. " Do, do, dear mas'r, believe it !"

" How do vou 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, Tom :'
and he brings light and joy

1
 UNCLE TOM's CABlrf. 261

into a poor feller's soul —makes all peace : and I'sso happy, and loves
everybody, and feels willin' jest to be the I<ord's, and have the Lord's will
done, and be jest where the Lord wants to put me. I know 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. Clare
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 see mas'r a
Christian."
" 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.
" Feels it in my soul. O mas'r the
!
'
love of Christ that passeth
.knowledge.'
" Singular !" said St. Clare, turning away, " that the story of a man
that lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can affect people so yet.
But he was no man," he added suddenly. " iS'o man ever had such 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 to 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 Lazanis. 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 I"
" I can jest fairly see it, mas'r," said Tom.
" I wish I had your
Tom." eyes,
" I wish Lord mas'r had !"
to the dear
" But, Tom, you know that I 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

gesture,
" Wouldn't it shake your faith some, Tom ?"
" Not a Tom.
grain," said
" Why, Tom, you must know I know the most."
" O mas'r, haven't you jest read how he hides from the wise and
 " ;!

262 UJTCLE TOM S CABIN.

prudent, and reveals unto babes? But mas'r wasn't in earnest, for
sartiu, now ?" Tom, anxiously.
said
" No, Tom, I was not .1 don't disbelieve, and I think there is reason
lo believe; and still I don't. Its 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.
" Thank you, my boy," said St. Clare, when Tom rose. " I like to
hear you, Tom ; but go, now, and leave me alone ; some other time, I'll

talk more."
Tom silently left the room.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

REUNION.

Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, and the waves
of 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 the hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on
StUl must we
and drink, and sleep, and awake again still bargain,
eat, —
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 had unconsciously wound
life

themselves around this child. It was for Eva that he had managed his
property was for Eva that he had planned the disposal of his time
; it

—
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
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 263

she was gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to
be done.
True, there was another life —a life which, once beheved in, stands
as u solemn significant figure before the otherwise unmeaning ciphers of
time, changing them to orders of mysterious, untold value. St. Clare
knew this well ; and often, in many a weary hour, he heard that slender,
childish voice calUng 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 had one of those natui'es which could better and
more clearly conceive of religious things from its own perceptions and
instincts, than many
a matter-of-fac't and practical Christian. The gift
to appreciate and the s^nse to feel the finer shades and relations of moral
things, often seems an attribute of those whose whole life shows a care-
less disregard of them. Hence More, Byron, Goethe, often speak words
more wisely descriptive of the true religious sentiment than another 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 con-
science, 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 thouglit more soberly and
practically of his relations to his servants — enough to make him ex-
tremely 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 per-
fected as soon as he could get through the necessary formalities. Mean-
time, 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; and he would insist on keeping him constantly about him, and,
fastidious and unapproachable as he was with regard to his deeper feel-
ings, he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor would any one have won-
dered at it, who had seen the expression of afiection and devotion with
which Tom continually followed his yormg 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 for
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
!
264 TJKCLE TOM S CABIN.

St. Clare ; he did not like it that Tom should be so ready to leave
him.
" You haven't had such very bad times here, that you need be in such
a rapture, Tom," he said di-ily.
" No, no, mas'r ! 'taint that — it's bein' a free man ! That's what
I'm joyin' for."
" Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you've been better
off than to be free ?"
" iVo, 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 as I have given you." ^
" Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clai-e mas'r 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 nature, mas'r!"

" I suppose so, Tom, and you'll be going oflp and leaving me, in a

month orhe added, rather discontentedly. " Though why you

so,"
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 trouble," 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 vny 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 your wife and children, and give my love to all."

to
" I's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom earnestly, and with
tears in his eyes ;
" the Lord has a work for mas'r."
" A work, eh! said St. Clare; " well, now, Tom, give me your views
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 he —
might do 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-
 . —

UNCLE tom's cabin. 265

thing; and as she was a woman that had a great faculty of making
everybody unhappy when she was, her immediate attendants had still
stronger reasons to regret the loss of their young
mistress, whose winning
ways and gentle intercessions had
been a shield to them from
so often
the tyrannical and selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old Mammy, in
particular, whose heart, severed from all natural domestic tics, had con-
soled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost heart-broken. She
cried day and night, and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilful and alert
in her ministrations on her mistress than usual, which drew down a con-
stant storm of invectives on her defenceless head.
Miss Ophelia felt the loss but, in her good and honest 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 dihgent 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 gloiy
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 indifierence
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 Umb ? You've been stealing some-
thing, I'U. 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; " 'tant
none your business !"
o'
" 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 the 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 !" said Miss Ophelia, fii-mly.
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 Scripture, arranged
 —

268 UNCLE tom's cabin.

for every day in the year, and in a paper the curl of hair that 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 boi»k

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, holding
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 cm-1 —and Topsy's utter
distress.
bat there were tears in his eyes, as he said
St. Clare smiled;
"Come, come —don't
cry; you shall have theiri!" 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
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 ? youi's 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 ? They'll have a day of fasting appointed for this backsliding, if you

become a slave-holder !"

" 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 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
unless 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.
 uwciiii Tom's cabin. 267

'•
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 classs of mind, cordially hated the
present 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"

" 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."
" Really, 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,
concluding 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 cot 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. " Ridiculous !

I thought cousin was

too pious for such horrid things," she added, as she
Carekssly wrote her name ; " but if she has a fancy for that article, I'm
sure she's welcome."
" There, now, she's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare, handing
the paper.
" No more mine now than she was before," said Miss Ophelia.
" Nobody but God has a right to give her to me ; but I can protect
her now."
" 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, followed him
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 caf>e .of your death ?"

" No," said St. Clare, as he read on.

" Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great cruelty, by-
and-bye."
 — —

268 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself ; but he answered
negligently
" Well, I mean to make a provision, by-and-bye."
" When ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" Oh, one of these days."
" What, if you should die first ?"
" Cousin, what's the matter .P" 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
himself with an earnest air.
" Want me to read to you, Tom.f*" said St. Clare, seating himself
carelessly 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 to the last of the
verses.
" Then shall the King say unto them on his left hand. Depart from
me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire for I was an hungered, and ye gave
;

me no meat I was thirsty, and ye gave me no diink I was a stranger,

: :

and ye took me not in naked, and ye clothed me not ; I was sick, and
:
 : :

•0NCLE tom's cabin. 269

in prison, and ye visited me not. Then shall they answer unto Him,
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 ttie least of these my
brethren, ye did 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 Uves ;

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 was absent and thoughtful all tea-time. After tea, he and
Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the parlour, almost in
sUence.
Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito curtain,
and was 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 ^olian accompaniment. He seemed
in a deep reverie, and to be solUoquising 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 hand-writing come and look at it. She copied
and arranged this from Mozart's Requiem." Miss Ophelia came accord-
ingly.
" It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. " I think

I can hear her now."

He struck a few majestic chords, and began sin^ng that grand old
Latin piece, the " Dies Irae."
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 aflfect him strongly, especially when St. Clare sang the
more pathetic parts. Tom would have sympathised more heartily, if
he had known the meaning of the beautiful words
" Kecordare, Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa tuae vise,
Ne me perdas ilia die
 :

270 UNCLE TOM S CABtN.

Qnserens me sedisti lassns,

Redemisti crucem passus,
Tanvus labor non sit cassus.' *

St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the "vroi ds for ;

the shadowy veil of years stemed drawn away, and he seemed to hear
his mother's voice leading his. Voice and instrument seemed hoth livins-,
and threw out with vivid sympathy those strains which the ethereal
]Mozart first own dying requiem.
conceived as his
"\^Tien 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 subUme conception is that of the 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 IMiss Ophelia.

" It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare, stopping thought-
ftJly. " 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 ^liss Ophelia, "it is impossible for a person who
does no good not to do hann."
"'
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 vara 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. " leave me any time for general reflections,
You never
cousin; you always bring me short up against the actual present you ;

have a kind of eternal noic, always in your mind."

" Xoic is all the time I have anything to do with," said Miss Ophelia.

—
" Dear little Eva poor child!" said St. Clai'e, " she had set her little
simple soul on a good work for me."

•These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated

" Think, O Jesus, for what reason
Thou endured'st earth's spite and trea.~on,
Nor me lose, in that dread season :

Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted,

On the cross thy soul death tasted,
"
Let not all these toils be wasted
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 271

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 feehnji;.
•*
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 foun-
dation 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 scepti-
cism than any other thing.".
" If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, " why didn't you do it.P"

" Oh, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which
consists 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 you going to do dififerently now ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" God only knows the future," said St. Clare. " I am braver than I
was, because I have lost all ; and he who has nothing to lose can afi'ord
all risks."
" And what are you going to do ?"
" My
duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it out,"
said St. Clare, " beginning with my own servants, for whom I have j ct
done nothing ; and perhaps some future day, it may appear that I can
at
do something for a whole class something to save my country from the
;

disgrace of that false position in which she now stands before all civilised
nations."
" Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will voluntarily emanci-
pate ?" said Miss Ophelia.
" I don't know," said St. Clare. " This is a day of great deeds.
Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and there, in the earth.
The Hungarian nobles set free millions of serfs, at an immense pecuniary
loss; 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
 —

272 UNCLE TOm's CA-BIBT.

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 edu-
cate ? 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
clerk or mechanics, if I wanted him taught a trade ? If I wanted to put
;

Jane and Rosa 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
;

I have OA'ercome 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 mo-
ments; 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,"
Le said. " I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she were near me.
I keep thinking of things she used to say. Strange, what brings these
past things so vividly back to us, sometimes !"
St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes more, and
then said
" I believe I'U 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 if he
should attend him.
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 273

" No, my boy," said St. Clare. an horn-."

" I shall be back iu
Tom sat down was a beautiful moonlight
in the verandah. It
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 wife 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 to the habitual prayer that he had always offered for him and ;

then his thoughts passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now tiiought
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 liim, 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 wrapped in a cloak, and lying on a
several men, bringing a body,
shutter. The Hght 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 bm'den 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
them.
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 have any presence of mind for Marie was in strong hysteric
;

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 pain and loss of blood but as Miss Opheha
;

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
T
 " — — ;

274 UNCLE TOM's cabin.

evident, from the expression of his face, that there was no hope ; but he
applied himself to di-essiag the wound, and he and Miss Ophelia and
Tom proceeded composedly with this work, amid the lamentations and
sobs and cries of the 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, and 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-
reproach 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 was
;

evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. After'a while, he laid his
hand 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 " pray "
hand
" If you would like a clergyman —" said the physician.
! !

Sj;. Clare hastily shook his head, and said 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
to himself, at broken intervals,

" Recordare Jesu pie

• » « «

Ne me perdas— ilia die

Quaerens me — aedisti lassuB."

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 lips moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn fell brokenly
from them.
" His mind is wandering," said the doctor.
 THE DEATH OF ST. CLARE.
" I am dying,' said St. Clare, pressing his hand
'
— —
pray.' And Tom did i)ray,
'

—
with all his mind and strength. It wa.s literally prayer offered with strong crying
and tears."— Paec 27-t.
 UNCLE TOM S CAI?I>'. 275

" No ! it is coming hoime at last!" said St. Clare, energetically ;

" at
!"
last ! at last
The effort of speaking exhausted him. of death The sinking paleness
fell on him ; but with shed from the wings of some
it there fell, as if it

pitying spuit, 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 spu-it parted, he opened liis eyes, with a sudden
light, as of joy and recognition, and said " Mother " and then he
'

was o-one !

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE UNPROTECTED.

We hear often of the distress of the negro servants, on the loss of a

kind master, and with good reason for no creature on God's earth is
;

left more utterly unprotected and desolate than the slave in these
cu'cumstances.
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 law regards him, in every
the slave has none.
respect, as devoid of rights as a bale of merchandise. The only possible
acknowledgement 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 resounded 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
 ;

276 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

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 ci'ystal, 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 ! f

Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of and while he

eternity ;

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 ; hour when he had poured forth his prayer into the
for in that
bosom of his Father, he had found an answer of quietness and assurance
springing up within himself. In the depths of his own afiiectionate
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 dwelleth
in God, and God in him." Tom hoped and trusted, and was at peace.
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 mourning-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 unfeeling,
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, tier 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 ! !
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 277

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 Feely, I've got such a bad temper it's very bad ;

of me. I was trying on Miss Marie's di-ess, 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 I 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.
" YoQ see, iSIiss mind the whipping so
Feely," said Rosa, " I dont
much, if Miss you was to do it but, to be sent to a man ! and
jNIarie or ;

such a horrid man —

the shame of it. Miss Feely !"
!

Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the imiversal custom to send
women and young girls to the w'hipping-houses, to the hands of the
—
lowest of men men vile enough to make this their profession there to —
be subjected to bmtal exposure and shameful correction. She had
known it before but hitherto she had never realized it, till she saw the
;

slender form of Rosa 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, and 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-chaii-, with Mammy standing
by her combing her hair Jane sat on the ground before her, busy in
;

chafing her feet.

" How do you find yourself to-day ?" said Miss Ophelia.
A deep sigh and a closing of the eyes was the only reply for a
moment and then Marie answered, " Oh, I don't know, cousin
; I ;

suppose I'm as well as I ever shall be!" And Marie wiped her eyes
with a cambric handkerchief, bordered with an inch of deep black.
" I came," said Miss Ophelia, with a short dry cough, such as com-
monly introduces a diificult subject, " I came to speak with you about
poor Rosa."
Marie's eyes were open wide enougn now, and a flush rose to her
sallow cheeks, as she answered sharply
" Well ! what about her ?"
" She is very sony for her fault."
'* She is, is she ? SheT be sorrier before I've done with her ! I've
 " " "

278 UNCIiE xom's cabik.

endured that child's impudence long enough ; and now I'll bring her
down — I'll make her lie 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 has all her life
presumed on her delicacy, and her good looks, and her lady-hke airs, till
she forgets who she is and I'll give her one lesson that wiU 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."
" Dehcacy !" 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 than the
!

raggedest wench that walks the streets She'll take no more airs with
!

me!"
" You will answer to God for such cnielty !" said Miss Ophelia, with
energy.
" 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
particularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a moment, as if'
she had swallowed some explosive mixture, and was ready to burst. Then,
recollecting 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 she was hm-ried, in spite of her tears and intreaties.
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 whUe 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 bofal
him next. Marie had held several consultations with her lawjer.
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 279

After eommunicating with St. Clare's brother, it was determined to

sell the place, and all the servants, except her own personal pro-
perly, and these she intended to take with her, and go hack to her
father's plantation.
" Do
ye know, Tom, that we've all got to be sold ?" said Adolph.
" How
did you hear that ?" said Tom.
" I hid mysslf behind the cui-tains 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 fuU. The hope of liberty, the thought
of distant wife and childi'en 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 his arms tightly over his
bosom, and choked back the bitter tears, and tried to pray. The poor
old soul had such a singular, unaccountable prejudice in favour of liberty
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
mth marked and respectful kindness.
" Miss Feely," he said, " Mas'r St. Clare promised me my free-
dom. 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."
" speak for you, Tom, and do my best," said Miss OphoUa ; " but,
I'll

if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can't hope much for you nevertheless, ;

I AvUl try."
This incident occurred a few days after that of Rosa, while Misa
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
^larie 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 diplomatic
skill of which she was mistress.

She found iSIarie reclining at length upon a lounge, supporting herself

on one elbow by pillars, while Jane, who had been out shopping, was
displaying before her certain samples of thin black stuffs.
280 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

" That will do," said Marie, selecting one ;

" only I'm not sure about
its 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."
" There's one thing I wanted to speak with you about," said Miss
Ophelia. " Augustine promised Tom his liberty, and began the legal
forms necessary to it. I hope you will use your influence to have it

perfected."
" 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 afforded ;

any way. Besides, what does he want of liberty ? He's a great deal
better 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 ai-e always wanting what they

a discontented set,

haven't got. Now I'm principled against emancipating in any case.

Keep a negro under the care of a master, and he 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
sale, the chance of his getting a bad master."
" Oh, that's all humbug !" said Marie. " It isn't one time in a hun-
dred 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 fee.
any fears on that head."
 — ;

UNCLE tom's cabin 281

" Well," said energetically, " I know it was one

Miss Ophelia,
husband that Tom should have his liberty
of the last wishes of your
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 handkerchief at this appeal,
and began sobbing and using her smelling bottle with great vehe-
mence.
" Everybody goes against me I" 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 feeHng 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 confusion 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-wai'ehouse to await the convenience of
the trader, who was going to make up a lot for auction.
282 UNCLE Tom's cabin.

CHAPTEK XXX.

THE SLAVE WAREHOUSE.

A slave-warehouse! Perhaps some of my readers conjure up horrible

visions of such a place. They fancy some foul, obscure den, some hor-
rible Tartarus " informis, ingens, cui lumen ademptum" But no, innocent
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 ex-
ternally 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 propeity 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 purchaser;" and that soul immortal, once bought with
blood and anguish by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the
rocks rent, and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased, mortgaged,
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 on 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
says Mr. Skeggs, the
it !"

keeper. " My Sambo, I see !" he said,

people are always so merry !

speaking approvingly to a burly negro who was performing tricks of low

buflbonery, which occasioned the shouts which Tom had heard.
As might be imagined, Tom was in no humour to join these proceed-
n ><

o !i)

rg
W
pa >
'

rt
<
^ =H

w
;>
<^ ;3
h-i 6(1
r/? a
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<^ OJ

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O •s
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p

sf^
 "

UNCLE TOil S CABIN. 283

ings ; and therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible from the 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
towai'd making him callous, unthinking and brutal. The slave-dealer
collects his gang in Virgiaia or Kentucky, and drives them to some con-
venient, 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
—
home, are too strong for him to be gay is marked as sullen and danger-
ous, and subjected to all the evils which the iU-will of an utterly irre-
sponsible and hardened man can inflict upon him. Briskness, alertness
and cheerfulness of appearance, especially before observers, are constantly
enforced upon them, both by the hope of thereby getting a good master,
and the fear of all that the driver may bring upon them if they prove
unsaleable.
" "What dat ar nigger doin here ?" said Samho, 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-moiTow?" said Tom, quietly.
—
" Sold at auction haw haw boys, an't this yer fun ? I wish't I was
! !

—
gwkie 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.
" Please to let me alone !" said Adolph fiercely, straightening himself

up with extreme disgust.

" Law, now, boys dis yer's one o' yer white niggers
! kind o' cream —
colour, ye know, scented !" said he, coming up to Adolph and snufBng.
" O Lor he'd do for a tobaccer-shop they could keep him to scent
! ;

snuff"! Lor, he'd keep a whole shop agwine 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 fcambo gave a ludicrous imitation of Adolph's manner " here's de ;

airs and gi'aces. We'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.

 "

284 irxcLE tom's caeiu-.

" Lor, you did Be hanged if they ar'n't lucky to get shet of ye.
!

Spects they's gwine to trade ye off with a lot of cracked tea-pots and
sich like!" saidSambo, with a provoking grin.
Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adversary, sweai--
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 difierent directions, except Sambo, who, presuming on
the favour which the keeper had to him as a licensed wag, stood his
ground, ducking his head Avith a facetious grin whenever the master
made a dive at him.
— —
" Lor, mas'r, 'tan'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 cuff's without much inquiry, and, leaving general orders 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 sleep 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 for her and some forty or fifty others, with
;

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 soft

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, isa 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,

I
 "

UNCLE TOM S CABIN^. 285

IS a member of a Christian Chm-ch 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 the
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
rcli^-ion, and their lot had been as happy an one as in their condition

it was possible to be. But the only eon 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

creditors 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 woi'd 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 hear.
" 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
may be together !

" 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 the
V oman; " but I'm so 'feard of losin' you that I don't see anything but the
danger."
" Why, mother ? The man said we were both Kkely, and would sell

well."
Susan remembered the man's look and words. With, a deadly sick
ness at her heart, she remembered how he had looked at Emmelinc's
hands, and lifted up her curly hair, and pronounced her a first-rate
28G UNCLE Toil's CABIN.

article. Susan had been trained as a Christian, brought up in the daily

reading of the Bible, and had the same horror of her child's being sold to
a liffe of shame that any other Christian mother might have; but she had
—
no hope no protection.
" Mother, I think we might do first-rate, if you could get a place as
cook, and I as chambermaid, or seamstress in some family. I daresay
•we shall. Let's both look as bright and lively as we can, and tell all we
can do, and perhaps we shall," said Emmeline.
" I want you to brush your hair all back straight to-morrow," said
Susan.
" What for, mother ? I don't look near so well that way."
" 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
look 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, we shouldn't ever see each other again after to-
if

—
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 your hymn-book ;

and if you're faithful to the Lord, he'll bo faithful to you."

So speaks the poor soul in sore discouragement for she knows that ;

to-moiTow 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
that 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 offend, it were better for him
that a mill-stone were hanged about his neck, and 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 wUd and melancholy dirge, common
as a funeral hymn among the slaves :

" Oh, where is weeping Mary ?

Oh, where is weeping Mary ?
'Kived in the goodly land.
 TJNCLE tom's cabin. 287

She is dead and gone to Heaven

She is dead and gone to Heaven ;

'Kived in the gooiily 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 after 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."

Sing on, poor souls ! The night is short, and the morning will pai-t
you for ever !

But now is moi'ning, and everybody is astir;

it and the worthy
Mr. Skeggs busy and bright, for a lot of goods is to be fitted out
is

for auction. There is a brisk look-out on the toilet injunctions passed ;

ai'ound to everyone 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 EmmeKne.
" 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 gii'l. " You go
right along, and curl yourself real smart !" he added, giving a crack to a
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' difierence 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

I
 "

288 UNCI.E TOM S CABIN.

talented gentlemen, enthusiastically forcing up, in English, and French

conamingled, the bids of connoisseurs in their various wares. third A
one, on the other side, still unoccupied, was surrounded by a group wait-
ing 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 what 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. thought I'd just look at his
I
—
" Catch me ever 'buying any of St. Clare's people! Spoilt niggers,
every one ! Impudent as the devil !" said 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. 'Pon my word, I'll buy that fellow.
I like the shape of him."
" You'll find it'll take aU you've got to keep him. He's deucedly
extravagant !"
" Yes, but my lord will find that he ca'rit 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'll buy
him, that's flat !"
Tom who had been standing wistfully examining the multitude of
faces thronging around him for one whom he would wish to call
master and, if you should ever be under the necessity, sir, of select-
;

ing out of two hundred men one who was to become your absolute
owner and disposer, you would perhaps reaUse, just as Tom did, how
few tiiere were that you would feel at all comfortable in being made
over to. Tom saw abundance of men, great, burly, gruflf men little, ;

chirping, dried men long-favoured, lank, hard men

; and every variety ;

of stubbed-looking, common-place men, who pick up their fellow-men

as one picks up chips, putting them into the fire or a basket with
equal unconcern, according to their convenience but he saw no St. ;

Clare.
A httle before the sale commenced, a short, broad, musculai- man, in
a checked shirt considerably open at the bosom, and pantaloons much
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,
 UNCLE TOM S CABI.V. 289

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 roimd, bullet head, large, light-grey eyes, ^vith their
shaggy, sandy eye-brows, 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 personal examination of the lot. He seized Tom by the jaw, and
pulled open his mouth to inspect his teeth made him strip up his sleeve,
;

to show his muscle; turned him round, made him jump and spring, to
show his paces.
" Where was you raised ?" he added briefly to these investigations.
" InKentuck, 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 Avalked on.

Again he stopped before Susan and Emmeline. He put out his heavy,
dii-ty hand, and drew the girl towards him passed it over her neck and
;

bust, felt her arras, looked at her teeth, and then pushed her back against
her mother, whose patient face showed the suffering she had been going
through at every motion of the hideous stranger.
The girl was frightened, and began to cry.
" Stop that, you minx !" said the salesman " no whimpering here, the
;

sale is going to begin." And accordingly the sale began.

Adolph was knocked off at a good sum, to the young gentleman who had
pre'viously stated his intention of buying him and the other servants of;

the St. Clare lot went to various bidders.

" Now, up with you, boy d'ye hear ?" said the auctioneer to
! Tom.
Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks round ; all

—
seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise the clatter of the salesman
crying off his qualifications in French 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 !

He was pushed from the block the short, bullet-headed man

;

seizing him roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one side, saying, in
a harsh voice, " Stand there, you .'"
Tom hardly realised anything but still the bidding went on rattling
; —
U
290 TTNCIiE TOM S CABIN.

clattering, now French, 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.
" mas'r, please do buy my daughter."
" I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't afford
it !" said the gentleman, look,

ing with painful interest as the young girl mounted the block, and looked
around her with a frightened and timid glance.
The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colourless cheek, her eye
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 the bids. In a few moments they have run
beyond his purse. He is silent ; the auctioneer grows warmer ; but bids
gradually drops 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 advan-
tage over him, both in obstinacy and concealed length of purse, and the
controversy lasts but a moment the hammer falls he has got
; — the girl,
body and soul, unless God help her
Her master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation on the Red
River. Shepushed along in the same lot with Tom and two other men,
is

and goes off, weeping as she goes.

This benevolent gentleman is sorry but then the thing happens every
;

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 another 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 ob-
tained, let them write these words of the great Paymaster, to whom they
shall make up their account in a future day " When he maheth inquisi- :

tion for blood, he forgetteth not the cry of the hwnble!"

 ^\Ar\M\^^

EMMELINE ABOUT TO BE SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER

" The young girl mounted the block, and looked aiouud hci with a liighUiKd
and timid glance." — race 290.
1
 —;;

TTNOLE TOM's CABIN. 291

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE MIDDLE PASSAGE.

" Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look upon iniquity
v.'herefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and holdest the tongue when
the wicked devouretli the man that is more righteous than he?" — Hab. i. 13.

On the lower pai't of a small, mean boat, on the Red River, Tom sat
chains on his wrists, chains on his feet, and a weight heavier than chains
lay on his heart. All had faded from the sky —moon and star ; all had
passed by hira, as the trees and banks were now passing, to return no
more. children, and indulgent owners
Kentucky home, with wife and
St. Clare home, with all its refinements and splendours the golden head ;

of Eva, with its saint-like eyes the proud, gay, handsome, seemingly
;

careless yet ever-kind St. Clare hours of case ani indulgent leisure all
; —
gone and in place thereof, what remains ?
!

It is one of the bitterest apportionments of a lot of slavery, that the

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 Uable to become the bond-slave of the coarsest and most bnital
— -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, or
some low haunt of vulgar debauchery. The great diflference is that the
tableand chair cannot feel, and the man can for even a legal enactment
;

that he shall be " taken, reputed, adjudged in law, to be a chattel per-

sonal," 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
and another, in New Orleans, to the number of eight, and driven them,
handcuffed, in couples of two and two, down. to the good steamer Pirate,
which lay at the levee, ready for a trip up the Red River.
Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, he came
round with that air of efficiency which ever characterised 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 Unen and shining
boots, he briefly expressed himself as follows :

" Stand up."

Tom stood up.
V 2
 — "

UNCLE tojj: s cabin.

" Take off that stock!" and as Tom, encumbered by his fetters, pro-
ceeded to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, with no gentle 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 dila-
pidated 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," Gaid 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-
lished Bible to his pocket.It was well he did so for Mr. Legree, having ;

refittedTom'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.
" Well, I'll I have none o' yer bawling
soon have that out of you.
prayiag, singing niggers on my remember. Now, mind your-
place ; so
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 be as
!
—
J' say."
Something within the silent black man answered No ! and, as if re-
peated by an invisible voice, came the words of an old prophetic scroll,
as Eva had often read them to him •' Fear not —
for I have redeemed ;

thee. I have called thee by my name. Thou art mine !

But Simon Legree heard no That voice is one he never shall

voice.
hear. He only glared for a moment on the downcast face of Tom, and
walked off. He took Tom's trunk, which contained a very neat and
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 ;
 TJNCI/E TOm's cabin. 293

the trunk, that was funnier than all, and occasioned abundant wit-
ticisms.
This liitle affaii- being over, Simon sauntered up again to his pro-
perty.
" Xo^Y, Tom, I've relieved you of any extra baggage, you see. Take
mighty good care of them clothes. It '11 be long enough before you get
more. I go iu ..or maKing 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.

" ^^'ell, 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.
" Mone o' yom- shines, gal! You's got to keep a pleasant face when
I —
speak to ye d'ye hear ? And you, you old yellow poco moonshine!"
he said, giving a shove to the mulatto woman to Avhom 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, retreating 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 facination, 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 o' yer cursed overseers ; I does my own
overseeing; and I tell you things is seen to. You's every one on ye
—
got to toe the mark, 1 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 yourselves; for I dont show no mercy!"
The women involuntarily drew in their breath, and the whole gang
satwith downcast dejected faces. Meanwhile Simon turned on his heel,
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
a naturalist studying some out-of-the-way specimen.
294 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

" Yes, indeed. I'm none o' yer gentlemen planters, -with Uly fingers,
to slopround and be cheated by some old cuss of an overseer Just feel !

of my knucldss, now look at my fist.

; Tell ye, sir, the flesh on't has
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 made
;

your heart just like it."

" Why, yes, I may say so," said Simon, with a hearty laugh. " I
reckon ther's as little soft in me as in any one going. Tell yon, nobody
comes it over me Niggers never gets round me neither with squalling
!

nor soft soap — that's a fact."

" You havea fine lot there."
" Real," said Simon. " There's that Tom, they teii'd me he was
suthiu' uncommon. I paid a little high for him, 'tending him for a driver
and a managing chap only get the notions out that he's larnt by being
;

treated as niggers never ought to be, he'll do prime The yellow woman !

I got took in in. I rayther think she's sickly, but I shall put her through
for what worth she may last a year or two. I don't go for savin'
she's ;

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 glass.
" And how long do they generally last ?" said the stranger.
" Well, don no ; '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 I fust begun, have considerable trouble fussin' with 'em and trying
to make 'em hold out —
doctorin' on 'em up when they's sick, and giving
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 I lost money on ;

'em, and 'twas heaps o' trouble. Now, you see, I just put 'em straight
tlirough, 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 liimself 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 absoiate will, without even a sliadow of protection ; and,
jaw as he is, you cannot say there are not many such."
" Well," said the other, " there are also many considerate and humane
men among planters."
 UNCLE TOm's cabin. 295

" Granted," said the young man " but, in ray opinion, it is you con-
;

iiumane men that are responsible for all the binitality and out-
eiderate,
rage wi'ought by these wretches because if it were not for your sanction
;

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, pointing 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 natui-al, 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 six
months, and been orful oneasy. 'Pears lilie he warn't willing to have
nobody rest, day nor night and got so curous, there couldn't nobody
;

suit him. 'Pears like he just grew crosser every 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 he tell me he'd
sell me to just the hardest master he could find ; and he'd promised me
my fi'eedom, too, when he died."
" Had you any friends ?" said Emmeline.
" Yes, my husband—he's a blacksmith. Mas'r gen'ly 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 when they hear a tale of distress,
a natural impulse in every one
to think ofsomething 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 membt;r of the Methodist Church, and had an unenlightened
296 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

but very sincere Emmeline had been educated much

spirit of piety.

more intelligently —taught and write, and diligently instructed in

to read
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 appa-
rently of God, in the grasp of ruthless violence ? How much more
must it shake the faith of Christ's poor little ones, weak in knowledge
and tender in years !

—
The boat moved on freighted with its weight of sorrow up the red, —
muddy, tm-bid 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 stopped at a small town,

and Legree, with his party, disembarked.

CHAPTER XXXII.

DARK PLACES.

" The dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty.

Trailing wearily behind a rude waggon, and over a ruder road, Tom
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 di'eary pine barrens,
where the wind whispered mournfully, and now over log causeways,
through long cypress swamps, the doleful trees rising out of the slimy,
spongy ground, hung with long wreaths of funereal black moss, while ever
and anon the loathsome form of the moccasin snake might be seen gliding
among broken stumps and shattered branches that lay here and there,
rotting in the water.
enough, this riding, to the stranger, who, with well-
It is disconsolate
filledpocket and well-appointed horse, threads the lonely way on some
errand of business but wilder, drearier, to the man enthralled, whom
;

every weary step bears further from all that man loves and prays for.
 — — — "! ;

UNCLE TOXl's CABIN. 297

So one should have thought that witnessed the sunken and dejected
expression on those dark facesthe wistful, patient weariness with which
;

those sad eyes rested on object after object that passed them in their sad
journey.
Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occasionally pulling
away spii-it, which he kept in his pocket.
at a flask of
" I 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!" roared Legree; " 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 common
among the slaves

" Mas'r seed me cotch a coon,

High boys, high :

He laughed to split— d'ye see the moon v

Ho ho ho boys, ho
: ! !
,
Ho yo! hi— e oht"
! !

The singer appeared to make up the song to his own pleasure, gene-
rally hitting on rhyme, witho^it much attempt at reason and all the ;

party took up the chorus at intervals

" Ho I ho 1 ho ! boys, ho !

High—e—oh! high—e—oh !"

It was sung very boisterously, and with a forced attempt at merri-

ment ;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 ref^ige in that — —
inarticulate sanctuary of music, and found there a language in which to
breathe its prayer to God There was a prayer in it which Siaion could
!

not hear. He only heard the boys singing noisily, and was well pleased
he wus making them " keep up their spirits."
" Well, my little dear," said he, turning to Emmeline, and laying his
liand on her shoulder, " we're almost home !"
298 UNCLE TOM. S CABIN.

When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified j but when
he laid his hand on her, and spoke as he now did, she felt as if slie 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 were her mother.
" You didn't ever wear ear-rings," he said, taking hold of her small
ear with his coarse fingers.
" No, mas'r !" said Emmeline, 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 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 and taste, who had bestowed some considerable atten-
of opulence
tion to the adornment of his grounds. Having died insolvent, it had
been purchased, at a bargain, by Legree, who used it, as he did every-
tliing else, merely as an implement for money-making. The place had
that ragged, forlorn appeai'ance, which is always produced by the
evidence that the care of the former owner has been left to go to
utter decay.
What was once a smcoth-shaven lawn before the house, dotted here and
there with ornamental shrubs, was now covered with frowsy tangled grass,
M'ith 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 jessamine 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 fiower-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-trets, whose graceftd forms and everspringing 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 floui'ish and grow
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 being supported by brick pillars.
But the pluce looked desolate and uncomfortable some windows
;
 ;

UNCLE tom's cabin. 299

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 boai'd, 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 tm-ning to Tom and his companions " Ye see what
;

ye'd get if ye try to run off. These yer dogs has been raised to track
niggers and they'd just as soon chaw one on yer up as eat their supper.
;

So, mind yerself ! 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 tolled 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 brutahty as systema-
tically as he had his bull dogs and, by long practice in hardness and
;

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 I'ead 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 the another he was pretty sure,
;

through one or the other of the three parties, to get informed of what-
ever was on foot in the place.
Nobody can live entirely without social intercouse; and Legree en-
coui'aged his two black satelhtes to a kind of coarse familiarity with him
— a familiarity, however, at any moment liable to get one or the other of
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 Ulustratiou of
the fact that brutal men are lower even than animals. Their coarse,
dark, heavy features ; theii- great eyes, rolling enviously on each other
their barbarous, guttm-al, half-brute intonation •
their dilapidated gar-
 —

500 UNCLE TOM. S CABIN.

—
meats fluttei-ing 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- ;

mistd to bring you one, you know."

The woman, gave a sudden start, and, di-awing 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' your
words — go 'long !" said Legi'ee, 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- 1 please for all !

you!"
Tom heard no more for he was soon following Sambo to the quar-
;

ters. 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 hours.
He looked into severalthey were mere rude shells, destitute of any
;

species of 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 wiU be mine ?" said he to Sambo, submissively.
" Dunno ken turn in here, I s'pose," said Sambo " 'spect thar's
; ;

room for another thar thar's a pretty smart heap o' niggers to each on
;

'em, now sure, I dunno what I's to do with more."

;

It was late in the evening when the weary occupants of the shanties
—
came flocking home men and women, in soiled and tattered garments,
surly 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-
 UNCLE TO.m'S cabin. 301

seers ; for it was now in the very heat and hurry of the season, and no
means were untried to press everj'one up to the top of their capabili-
left
ties. " True," says the negligent lounger ; " picking cotton isn't hard
work." Isn't it ? And it isn't much inconTenience, either, to have one
drop of water fall on yom* head ;
yet the worst torture of the Inquisition
is produced by di-op after di'op, drop after drop, falUng 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, ssmeness, with not even the consciousness of fi'ee-
•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 women, 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 hke 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 pro-
tracted 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!" 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.
" Wal, Lucy, yo my woman now. You grind dis yer corn, and get wjy
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'U 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 he 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 jes keep to your own row."
Tom was hungiy with his day's journey, and almost faint for want of
food.
" Thar, yo!" said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, which o -
tained a peck of corn ;
" thar, nigger, grab —
take care on't, yo won't get
no more yer week."
dis
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
 '

302 UNCLE TOM's CABIBT.

went about getting own

It was a new bind of work there
his supper.
—a deed of was but it woke an answering touch in
charity, small as it ;

their hearts —
an expression of womanly kindness came over their hard
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 ^for he had need —
of comfort.
" What's that ?" said one of the women.
" A Bible," said Tom.
" Good Lord han't seen un since I was in Kentuck."
!

" Was you raised in Kentuek ?" 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 teU ! you never hearn woman. " I used to
on't ?" said the other
har missis a readin' on't sometimes, in Kentuek but, laws o' me we ; !

don't har nothin' here but crackin' and swarin'.

" Read a piece, anyways !" said the first woman, cui-iously, 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 t-j find Him," said the woman. " I
would go ; 'pears like I never shjuld 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 its 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 in 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 fii'e, 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 untaught heart to
keep its faith, unswerving, in the face of dire misrule, and palpable,
unrebuked injustice ? In that simple heart waged a fierce conflict the :
 TOM READING HIS BIBLE.
rose in the purple sky, and looked
down, calm
- T>,. .nvPr fair-browed moon

knee."— Page 302.

^
 —

TJNCIiE TOM's cabin. 303

erusliing 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, likedead corpses of wife, and child, and friend, rising from the
dark wave, and surging in the face of the half- drowned mariner Ah, !

was it easy here to believe and hold fast the great pass-word of Christian
faith, that " God IS, and is the rewabder of them that diligently seek
Him?"
Tom rose, and stumbled into the cabin that had heea
disconsolate,
allotted to him. The was already strewn with weary sleepers, and
floor
the foul air of the place almost repelled him but the heavy night-dews
;

were cLill and bis limbs weary, and, wrapping about him a tattered
blanket, which formed his only bed-clothing, he sti'etched himself in the
straw and fell asleep.
In dreams, a gentle voice came over his ears he was sitting on the
;

mossy seat in by Lake Pontchartrain, and Eva, with her

the garden
serious 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 through the lire
;

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 fized 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 erf gold fell off Kke 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 13a beautiful belief,
That ever round our head
Are hovering, on angel winga.
The spirits of the dead."
 —;

304 U2fCLE TOM S CAF.IA''.

CHAPTER XXXIIL

CASSY.

" And behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter
and on the side of their oppressors there was power, out they had no comforter."
EccT.. iv. 1.

It took but a short time to familiarise 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
principle, 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 without 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 antipathy
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

sTibtle is the atmosphere of opinion, that it will make itself felt without
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-suiferers, 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
affaurs in short absences and, in his view, the first, second and third
;

requisite for that place was hardness. Legree made up liis mind that, 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
rcmarkftblv delicate hands and feet, and dressed :n neat and respectable
 " "

TTxcLE tom's cabin. 305

garments. By the appearance of her face, she might have been between
thirty-five and it was a face that, once seen, could never be
and forty ;

forgotten— one of those that at a glance seem to convey to us an idea of

a wild, painful and romantic history. Her forehead 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 face ;

was deeply wrinkled with lines of pain, and of proud and bitter endu-
rance. Her complexion was sallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin,
her features sharp, and her whole form emaciated. But her eye was
the most remarkable feature — so large, so heavily black, overshadowed
by long lashes of 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 pi-ide expressed by her
whole demeanour.
Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not know. The first

he did know, she was walking by his side, erect and proud, in the dim
grey of the dawn. To the gang, however, she was known for there was ;

much looking and turning of heads, and a smothered yet apparent exulta-
tion among the miserable, ragged, half-starved creatures by whom she
was surrounded.
" Got to come to it, at last —grad of" it !" said one.
" He ! he ! he !
" said another ; you will know how good it is,

misse !

« We'll see her work !

!"
" Wonder if she'll get a cutting up, at night, like the rest of us
" I'd 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 him 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
and the disgrace and humiliation of the circumstances in which she was
placed.
 " "

806 TJNCI-E TOM S CABIN.

In the course of the day, Tom was working

with the mulatto woman
who had been bought same lot with himself. She was evidently
in the
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 handfals of cotton from his
own sack to hers.
" Oh, don't, don't !" said the woman, looking surprised ;
" it'll get you
into trouble."
Just then Sambo came up. He seemed to have a special spite against
thiswoman and, flourishing his whip, said, in brutal, guttural tones,
;

—
" What dis yer, I-uce fcolin' a' ?" and, with the word, kicking the
woman with his heavy cow-hide shoe, he struck Tom across the face with
his whip.
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
something better than camphire !" 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 you a trick
more !

The woman seemed stimulated, for a few moments,, to an unnatural

strength, and worked with desperate eagerness.
" See that you keep to dat ar," said the man, " or yer'll wish yer's

dead to night, I reckm

!

" 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.
" O, 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
again. 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 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'll be done helping
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.
 " '

TTNCLE XOM's CABIN. 307

But the action of the woman had

been seen by the driver across the
field ; came up to her.
and, flourishing his whip, he
" What what !" he said to the woman, with an air of triumph, " you
!

a fooHn' ? Go along yer under me now mind yourself, or yer'll cotch

! —
It!"
A glance like sheet lightning flashed from those black eyes; and,
facing about, with quivering lip and dilated nostrils, she drew her-
self up, and fixed a glance, blazing with rage and scorn, on the
driver.
"Dog!" she said, "touch ine, if you dare! I've power enough yet
to have you torn by the dogs, burnt alive, cut to inches I've only to !

!
say the word
" What de devil yon here for, den ?" said the man, evidently cowed,
and sullenly retreating a step or two. " Didn't mean no harm, Misse
Cassy!"
" 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 ofi" in quick time.

The woman suddenly turned to her work, and laboured with a

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, with their baskets on their heads,
defiled up to the building appropriated to the storing and weighing the
cotton. Legree was there, busily conversing with the two drivers.
" Dat ar Tom's gwine to make a powerful deal o' trouble kept a ;

puttin' into Lucy's basket. One o' these yer dat will get aU der niggers
to feelin' 'bused, if mas'r dont watch him " said Sambo.
!

" Hey-dey The black cuss!" said Legree. " He'U 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 heself !

!
couldn't beat Mas'r at dat " said Quimbo.
" Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to do tiU he gets
over his notions. Break him in !"
" Lord, mas'r '11 have hard work to get dat out o' him !"
" It '11 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 the 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 havp
mc when he telled her to."

x2
 —

308 xjiNCi,E Tom's cabin.

" I'd a flogged her into't," said Legree, spitting, " only there's such a
press o' work, it don't seem wuth a while to upset her jist now. She's
slender but these here slender gals will bear half killing to get their
;

!"
own way
" "Wal, Lucy was real aggravatin' and lazy, sulkin' round; wouldn't
do nothin' — and Tom he tuck up for her."
" He did, eh ? Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of flogging
her. It '11 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
liUcy's basket. I ruther guess der weight's in it, mas'r.
" / do the weighing ! " said 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.

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 an
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 Misse 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.
She fixed her black eyes steadily on him, her lips moved slightly, and
she said something in French. What it was no one knew but Legree's ;

face became perfectly demoniacal in its expression as she spoke he half ;

 —

UNCLE Ton's CABIN. 309

raised his hand, as if to strike —a gesture which she regarded Avith fierce
disdain, as she turned and walked away.
" And now," said Legree, " come here, you Tom. You see, I telled
ye I didn't buy 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 — —
possible."
" Ye'U larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did know, before
I'vedone 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 willin' 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 7iever shall do it never."

Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and an habitually respectful
manner, that had given Legree an idea that he would be cowardly, and
easily subdued. AVhen he spoke these last words, a thrill of amazement
went through every one the poor woman clasped her hands, and said,
;

" O Lord " and every one involuntarily looked at each other and
!

drew in their breath, as if to prepare for the storm that was about
to burst.
Legree looked stupefied and confounded but at last burst forth. ;

" What ye blasted black beast tell me ye don't think it right to do

! !

what I tell ye "V\Tiat 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 thmk ye'r a gentleman, master Tom, to be a telling your
master what's right, and what an't 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.
Mas'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 be
mistaken. Legree shook with anger his greenish eyes glared fiercely, ;

and his very whiskers seemed to curl with passion but, like some fero- ;

cious beast, that plays with its victim before he devours it, he kept back
his strong impulse to proceed to immediate violence, and broke out into
bitter raillery.
 — — —a

310 UNCLE TOM'S CABIK.

last, let down among us sinners !

" Well, here's a pious dog, at —
saint,a gentleman, and no less, to talk to ns 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 twelve hun-
dred dollars, cash, for all there is in yer old cussed black sliell ? An't
yer mine, now, body and soul ?" he said, giving Tom a violent kick with
his heavy boot " tell me !"
!

In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutal oppression,

this question shot a gleam of joy and triumph through Tom's soul.
He suddenly stretched himself up, and, looking earnestly to heaven,
while the tears and blood that flowed down his face mingled, he
exclaimed
" 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'll see
; Here, Sambo
! !

Quimbo give this dog such a breakin' in as he won't get over this
!

month!"
The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom, with fiendish
exultation in their faces, might have formed no unapt personification of
powers of dai'kness. The poor woman screamed with apprehension,
and all rose, as by a general impulse, while they dragged him unresist-
ing from the place.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE quadroon's STORY.

" And and on the side of the op-

behold the tears of such as were oppressed ;

pressors there was power. WTierefore I praised the dead that are already dead more
than the living which are yet alive." Eccl, iv. 1, 2.

It was and Tom lay groaning and bleeding alone, in an

late at night,
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 night was damp and close, and the thick air swarmed with
 J li'iMlf'^'^'^ ill!
W) '

Al„

CASSY TENUliVG POOH TOM.

" Cassy, sitting down on the floor, drew up her knees, and, embracing them
with her arms, looked fixedly before her, with a bitter and painful expression of
—Page 311.
C'Oimtenance."-
 TTNCLE TOJl's CABIN. 311

myriads of mosquitos, which increased the restless torture of his wounds,

— —
whilst a burning thii'st a torture beyond all others filled up the utter-
most 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 ? Oh, for the Lord's massy, please give me some
water!"
— —
The woman Gassy for it was she set down her lantern, and, pouring
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 woidd 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 I'm a miserable slave, like yom-seK a lower
missis ! —
one than you can ever be !" said she bitterly. " But now," said she,
going to the door, and dragging in a small palliasse, over which she had
spread linen cloths wet with cold water, " try, my poor fellow, to roll
yom'self on to this."
Stiff with woimds and bruises, Tom was a long time in accomplishing
this movement but when done he felt a sensible relief from the cooling
;

apphcation 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
relieved.
" Now," said the woman, when she had raised his head on a roll of
damaged cotton, which served for a piUow, " there's the best I can do
for you."
lorn- thanked her; and the woman, sitting down on the floor, drew
up her knees, and, embracing them ^vith her arms, looked fixedly before
her, with a bitter and painful expression of countenance. Her bonnet
fell back, and long wavy streams of black haii' fell around her singular
and melancholy face.
" It's no use, my poor fellow !" she brokp out at last, " it's of no use,
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 of the question, for you
;

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 bittel* woman, with her wild eyes and
;
 — —
;

312 TJxVCI.K TOM S CABXX,

melancholy voice, seemed to him an embodiment of the temptation with

which he had been wrestling.
" O Lord O Lord !" he groaned, " how can I give up ?"
!

" There's no use in calhng 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. Wliy shouldn't we go ?"

Tom and shuddered at the dark, atheistic words.

closed his eyes,
" You woman, " you don't know anything about it—
see," said the
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 here ;

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 yoa or any one of us the
least good and this man there's no earthly thing that he's too good to
; !

do. I could make any one's hair rise, and their 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 wa7it 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 the old ruined shed.
Tom folded his hands all was darkness and horror.
;

" O Jesus! Lord Jesus! have you quite forgot us poor critturs?" burst
" Help, Lord, I perish !"
forth, at last.
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 tui-n 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 sufi'ering to keep
;

from hurting them."

*'
Poor critturs !" said Tom, " what made 'em cruel ? And if I give
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 woi'ld, and it's clean gone, for ever
and now I caiit lose 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
 —

UNCLE tom's cabin. 313

woman ;
" he won't charge it tq us, when we're forced to it ; he'll charge
it to them that drove us to it."
" Yes," said Tom ;
" but that won't keep us from growing wicked. If
I get to he as hard-hearted as that ar' Sambo, and as wicked, it won't make
much odds to me how I come so ; it's the Jem' so — that ar's what 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
;

" 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 anguish.
There was a silence awhile, in which the breathing of both parties
could be heard, when Tom faintly said, " Oh, please, missis !"

The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to its usual stern,
melancholy expression.
" Please, missis, I saw 'em throw my coat in that ar' corner, and 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 of 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 ar' !" said Tom, —" it seemed to come
so natural to him, and we have to fight so hard for't ? O Lord, help us!
!"
O blessed Lord Jesus, do help us
" Missis," said a while, " I can see that somehow you're
Tom, after
quite 'bove me in everything but there's one thing missis might learn,
;

even from poor Tom. Ye said the Lord took sides against us, because he
lets us be 'bused and knocked round but ye see what come on his own ;

—
Son the blessed Lord of Glory. Wa'n't he al'ays poor ? and have we,
any on us, yet come so low as he come ? The Lord han't forgot us I'm —
sartin o' that ar'. If we sufi'er with Him, we shall also reign. Scripture
says ; but if we deny Him, He also will deny us. Didn't they all suffer
314 UNCLE tom's cabin.

— tlie Lord and all His ? It tells how they was stoned and sawn asunder,

and wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins, 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'U see," said Cassy. " What'll you do ? To-morrow they'll be
at you again. I know 'em, have seen
I 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 tvill take care of my soul ? O Lord,
do !
— don't let me give out !"

"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 Emme-
line, 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 !1-know the Lord'll 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 remember is playing about, when I was a child, in splendid

I
—
parlours when I was kept dressed up like a doU, and company and
visitoi's 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 fourteen 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 a going to die. My father was
 tJNCLE tom's cabin. 315

a well man only four hours before he died —

it was one of the fii-st

cholera cases in New The day after the funeral my father's

Orleans.
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.
He 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 so 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 friend 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, stopping, " Oh, how I did love that man How I love !

him now, and always shall whUe I breathe He was so beautiful, so

!

high, so noble ! He
me into a beautiful house, with servants,
put
horses, and and furniture, and dresses. Everything that
caiTiages,
money could buy he gave me but I did'nt 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 wfiat he seemed to think I

was, he would be willing to marry me and set me free. But he convinced

me that it woxdd be impossible and he told me that if we were only
;

faithful to each other, it was mamage before God. If that is true, wasn't
I that man's wife ? Wasn't I faithful ? For seven years didn't I study
eveiy look and motion, and only Hve and breathe to please him. He had
the yellow fever, and for twenty days and nights I watched with him —
alone and gave him aU his medicine, and did everything for him and
; ;

then he called me his good angel, and said I'd saved his hfe. We had two
beautrful children. The fii'st was a boj, 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
and 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 childi-en. Oh, those were happy
days ! I thought I was as happy as any one could be but then there ;

came e^dl times. He had a cousin come to New Orleans who was his
—
particular friend he thought all the world of him but, from the fii-st
;
 ;

316 UNCXE tom's cabin.

time I I couldn't tell why, I dreaded him, for I felt sure he was
saw him,
gTiiiig- misery on us. He got Henry to going out with him, and
to bring
often he would, not come home nights till two or three o'clock. I 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 intro-
duced him to another lady, and I saw soon that his heai't was gone from
me. He never told me, but I saw it —
day after day. I felt my
I knew it

heart breaking, but I could not say a word. this the wretch offered At
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 1 could not 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 me 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
'
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 purpose
;

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, ^^~dy and soul, to one I hated. I
used to love to read to Henry, to play to him, to waltz with him, and
sing to him ; but everything 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. Elise was a timid little thing but Henry was bold and high-
;

spirited, like his father, ajjd he had never been brought under in the least
by any one. He was Jways finding fault, and quarrelling with him
and I used to live in diiily fear and dread. I tried to make the child
respectful — I tried to keep them apart, for I held on to those children
like death ; but it did no good. He sold both those children. He took
me to ride, one day, and when I came home they were nowhere to be
 ;

UNCLE tom's cabin. 317

fonnd ! He sold them he showed me tJhe money, the price

told me he had ;

of their blood. Then it seemed as if all good forsook, me. T raved and
—
cm-sed cursed God and man and, for awhile, I believe, he really was
;

afraid of me. But he didn't give up so. He told me that my children

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 woi^d 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 Heniy broke —
away from two or three men who were holding him, and ran screaming,
and caught ray dress. They came up to him, swearing dreadfully and ;

one man, whose face I shall never forget, told him that 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 plead they only —
laughed the poor boy screamed and looked into my face, and held on
;

to me, until, in tearing him oflF, they tore the skirt of my dress half
away; and they carried him in, screaming 'Mother! mother! mother!'
There was one man stood there seemed to pity me. I offered him all
the money T 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
bought him and that he was going to break him in, once for all. 1
;

torned 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 di? :?y and furious. I remember seeing a great sharp bowie-knife jxx
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
they 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 talie
318 irKCLE TOM'S CABI^f.

stinie pains to make myself agreeable. At length, one day, came a gen-
tleman named Stuart. He seemed to have some feeling for me he saw ;

that something di'eadful 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 where my Henry was they told him he had been
to the hotel ;

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 woman was keeping her. ;

He oflfered an immense sum for her, but they would not ^ell her. Butler
found out that it was for me he wanted her 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 I had a

son born. Oh, that child !
—how I loved it ! How just like my poor
Henry the little had made up my mind yes, I
thing looked ! But 1 —
had, I would never again let a child live to grow up I took the little !

fellow 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 death. How I mourned and cried over it

and who ever dreamed that it was anything but a mistake that had made
me give it the laudanum ? but it's one of the few things that I'm glad of
now. 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 cho-
lera came, and Captain Stuart died everybody died that wanted to live
;

—
and I I, though I went down to death's door I lived ! Then I was
sold, and 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 beguiled
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 teU me," she said, after a pause, " that there is a God a God —
that looks down and sees all these things Maybe it's so. The sisters in
the convent used to teU 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 wiU stand up before God, a witness against
those that have ruined me and my children, body and soul
 UNCLE TOJl's CABIN. 31V

" 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 they keep pushing me on and on and I'll do it,
; —
too, some of these days !" she said, clenching her hand, while an insane
light glanced in her heavy black eyes. " I'll send him where he be-
longs —a short
too way —
one of these nights, if they bum me alive
for it !" A wild,
long laugh rang through the deserted room, and ended
in an hysteric sob she chrew 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, ap-
Dvoaching 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, 1 wish you'd go to Him that can give you living
waters !"

" Go to him ! "Where is he ? Who is he ?" said Cassy.

" Him that you read of to me — the Lord."
" I used to see the picture of him over the altar, when I was a girl,"
said Cassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in an expression of mournfux
reverie ;
" but he isn't here! there's nothing here, but sin and long, long,
long despau- ! 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
comfort she couid, Cassy left the shed.
 —

320 UNCLE Tom's cabin.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE TOKENS.

" And slight withal may be the things that bring

Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever ; it may be a sound,
A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound-^
Striking the electric chain wherewith we're darkly boimd."
Chnde Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto 4.

The sitting-room of Legree's establishinent was a large, long room,

with a wide, ample fireplace. It bad 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 often
notices in close old houses. The wall paper was by
defaced, in spots,
slops of beer and wine ; or garnished with chalk memorandums, and
long 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 up and down the
articles of clothing, scattered
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 ?"
 " ;

UNCLE tom's cabin. 321

" Hes, I have," she said, coolly ;

" come to have my own way,
!
too
" You lie, you jade! I'll be up lo ray word. Either behave yourself,
or stay dowu 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 are under my hoof, for all that," said he, tui'ning 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 waist.
" 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 afraid of me, Simon," she said deUberately, " and you've r-eason
to be ! But be careful, for I've got the devil in me !"
These 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 ii-ritable and restless under the

hideous yoke of her servitude, and her irritability, at times, broke out
into ravuig 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 and uninstructed minds. When Legree brought Emme-
to coarse
liiie 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 ;

him ^vith 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 liis 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 simlKng one
322 •UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

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 him in !"

" Won't I?" said Legree, rising passionately. " I'd like to know if
I won't ? came
He'll be the first nigger that ever 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 ?" 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 oi
fair hair —
hair 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 bm'ned him. " Where
—
did this come from? Take it ofi"! burn it up! burn it up!" he —
screamed, tearing it off, and throwing it into the charcoal. " What did
you bring it 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 any more 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 thi'ough the window-

pane out into 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 of fair hair 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
 UNCLE xom's cabin. 325

had led liim, at the bell, to worship and to pray.

sound of Sabbath Far
in New England had trained her only son with long, un-
that mother
wearied love and patient prayers. Born 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 tyranni-
cal, he despised aU 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 a 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 &
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 hoiTor and That pale, loving
affi-ight.
—
mother ^her dying prayers, her forgiving love wrought in that de- —
moniac heart of sin only as a damning sentence, bringing with it a
fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation. 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 bed-
side, and felt the soft twining of that hair around his fingers till the 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 evU, perfect love is the most fearful torture, the seal and sen-
tence 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 !thought I'd for-
I
got that ? Curse me if I think there's any such thing as forgetting
T 2
324 UNCLE Tom's cabin

anything, 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 thi'ough a shat-
!

tered fanlight over the door, the air was unwholesome and cliilly, like
that of a vault.
Legree stopped at the foot of the stairs, and heard a voice sing-
ing. It seemed strange and ghostlike in that dreary old house, per-
haps because of the already tremulous state of his nerves. Hark !

what is 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 1"

" 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 I

Parents and children there shall part 1

Shall part to meet no more.!"

And clear and loud swelled through the empty halls the refrain

" O there'll be mouining, mourning, mourning,

O there'll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ I"

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 in
;

the before him, and shuddered to think what if the form of his
room
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'l let that fellow alone after this!
What did 1 want of his cussed paper ? I believe I am bewitched,
sure enough ! I've been shivering and sweating ever since Where !

did he get that hair ? It couldn't have been that ! I burnt thai

up, I know I did ! It would be a joke if hair could rise from the
dead!"
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 325

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, putting ;

on his hat, he went on to the verandah and blew a horn, with which he
commonly summoned his two sable drivers.
Legree was often wont, when in a gracious humoui', to get these two
worthies into his sitting-room, and, after warming them up with whiskey,
amuse himself by setting tliem to singing, dancing, or fighting, as the
humour took him.
It was between one and two o'clock at night, as Cassy was return-
ing 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 of dogs and other symp.toms 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,
upsetting chau's, and making all manner of ludicrous and horrid grimaces
at each other.
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
•ap staii's, and tapped at Emmeline's door.
326 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

EMMELINE AND CASSY.

Cassy entered tlie room, and found Emmeline sitting, pale with, fear,
in the furthest corner of it. As she came in, the girl stai-ted up
nervously; but on seeing who it was, rushed forward, and catching
her arm, said, " O 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 dovra stairs all this evening !"
" I ought to know," said Cassy, dryly. " 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 in 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 an't aft-aid 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 ?" said the girl, looking with breathless interest
into her face.
" 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 of,

ometimes, for good jokes. heard screams here that I haven't been
I've
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 black blasted tree, and
the ground all covered with black ashes. Ask any one what was done
there, and see if they will dare to tell you."
" O what do you mean ?"
" I won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you, the Lord
only knows what we may see to-morrow, if that poor fellow holds out
as he's begun."
 " " " —

PNCLE xom's cabin. 327

" Herrid Emmeline, every drop of blood receding from her

!" said
cneeks. " O me what I shall do !"
Cassy, do tell
" What I've done. Do the best you can do what you must, and make ;

it up in hating and cursing."

" He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy," said
Emmeline " and I hate it so
;
—
" You'd better drink," said Cassy. " I hated it, too and now I can't ;

live without it. One must have something things don't look so dread- ;

fulwhen you take that."

" Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing," said Emme-
line.

" Ilother told you!" said Cassy, with a thrilling and bitter emphasis
on the word mother. " What use is it for mothers to say anything ? You
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 I ? Haven't 1 a daughter ? Lord knows where

! —
she is, and whose she is now! Going the way her mother went before
her, I suppose, and that her children must go after her There's no end !

to the curse for ever

" 1 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 Idll one's self," said Emmeline.
" I don't know why no wickeder than things we live and do day after
;

But the me things when I was in the convent

sisters told
day.
make me afraid to die. If it would only be the end of us, why then —that
Emmeline turned away and hid her face in her hands.
While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree, overcome
with his carouse, had sunk to sleep in the room below. Legree was not
an habitual drunkard. His coarse, strong nature craved and could
endure a continual stimulation, that would have utterly wTecked 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 ?
 UKCLE TOMS CABIET.

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 his
fingers ; and then, that it slid smoothly round his neck, and- tightened,
and tightened, and he could not draw his breath and then he thought ;

voices whispered to —
him whispers that chilled him with horror. Then
it seemed to him he was on the edge of a frightful abyss, holding on and
struggling in mortal fear, while dark hands stretched up, and were pull-
ing him over and Cassy came behind him laughing, and pushed him.
:

And then rose up that solemn veiled figure, and drew aside the veil. It
was his mother and she turned away from him, and he 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 insensate ;

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 woke with an oath and a curse. What
to him was the gold and pm'ple, the daily miracle of morning What !

to bim the sanctity of that star which the Son of God has hallowed
as his own emblem ? 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, dryly.
" 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 sBould 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've
done what I could for him."
" You have ? What business have you meddling in my matters ?"
" None, to be sure. I've saved you some thousands of dollai's, at
different times, by taking care of yoiu- hands —
that's all the thanks I get.
 " —

UNCLE tom's cabin. 329

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

many other planters, had but one form of ambition

Legree, like
to have in the heaviest crop of the season and he had several bets
;

on this very present season pending in the next town. Cassy, there-
fore, 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 won't," said Cassy.
" I'd like to know tchy, 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 cares what he knows ? The nigger shall say what
please, or
—a cuss 1

" Or you'll lose your bet on the cotton-crop, by keeping him out of the
field just at this very press."
" But he he wiU don't I know what niggers is ?
will give up, com'se ;

He'll beg dog this morning."

like a
" He won't, Simon you don't know this kind.
;
You may kill him by
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 from
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 dawn, the angelic glory of the morning-star, had
light of
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 tlirone,
 ;

S30 UNCXE TOM S CABIN.

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 of 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 ? A n't
quite so crank as ye was last night ? Ye 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 braised and faiat, and, as Tom
made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally.
" What makes ye so spry this morning, Tom ? Cotched cold, maybe,
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 shaU do just so again, if ever the time comes. I never wiU
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 ?" —
" 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 eternity to
!"
come after that
Eternity —the word through the black man's soul with light
thrilled
and power as he spoke — it through the sinner's soul, too, like
thrilled
the bite of a scorpion. Legree gnashed on him with his teeth, but
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'U 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 wont give up to mortal man. I wiU 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
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 331

may whip me, starve me, burn me — it'll only send me sooner where I
want to go."
" I'll make ye give out, though, 'fore I've done!" said Legree, in a
rage,
" I shall have help" said Tom. " You'll never do it."
" Who the devil's going to help you ?" said Legree, scornfully.
" The Lord Ahnighty !" said Tom.
" D —n you!" said Legree, as with one blow of his fist he felled Tom
to the earth.
A cold soft hand fell on Legree's at
moment. He turned
this — ^it was
dream of the night
Cassy'sj but the cold soft touch recalled his 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, have it your own way," he said doggedly to Cassy.
" Hark ye " 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 hath 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
your throat, sucking your blood, bleeding away your life, di'op by drop
I know the man!"
 — — "

332 UHOLB tom's cabin.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LIBERTY.

" No matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of
slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god sink
together in the dust, and he stands redeemed, regenerated and disenthralled, by the
irresistible genius of universal emancipation." Cukkan.

A WHILE 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 road side.
Tom Loker we left groaning and touzling in a most immaculately

clean Quaker bed, under the 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 is
;

folded neatly across 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 cussedly 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 oflf 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,
untucking 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 ofl" up to the lake," said Tom ;
" the quicker the
better."
" Probably they will do so," said Aunt Dorcas, knitting peacefully.

^
 UMCLB TOM S CABTN. 33S

" And hark ye," said Tom ;

" we've got correspondents in Sandusky
tliat wateli the boats for us. I don't care if I tell now. I hope they ivill

get away, just to spite Marks — the cursed puppy — — n him !

^d
!"

" Thomas!" said Dorcas.

" I you, granny, if you bottle a fellow up too tight, I shall split,"
tell

said Tom. —
" But about the gal tell 'em to dress her up some way so's
to alter her. Her description's out in Sandusky."
" We will attend to that matter," said Uorcas, with characteristic com-
posure.
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
qiute a name in the land. Tom always spoke reverently of the Quakers.
" Nice people," he would say " wanted to convert me, but couldn't
:

come it exactly. But tell ye what, stranger, they do fix up a sick

fellow 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 w'ith his
old mother,was forwarded separately and a night ; or two after, George
and Ehza, 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 ! "^Vhat is it ? Is there any-
!

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 and your braver mothers were willing that their best
and noblest should die ?
Is there anything in it glorious and dear to a nation, that is not also
glorious and dear for a man ? What is freedom to a nation, but freedom
to the individuals in it ? What is freedom to that young man who sits
there with his arms folded over his broad chest, the tint of African blood
in his cheek, its dark fires in his —
eye what is freedom to George Harris ?
To your fathers, fr-eedom 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 bi-ute ; the right to
call the wife of his bosom his wife, 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, unsub-
 — !

334 UNCi/E tom's cabin.

ject to the will of another. 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 form
the axticles 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 cm-ly hair. " I say, George, it's almost a
pity, isn't it ?" she said, as she held up some of it playfully. " Pity it's

all got to come off ?"

George smiled sadly, and made no answer.
Eliza turned to the glass, and the scissors glittered as one long lock
was detached from her head.
after another
" 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 ?" she said, turning round to her
husband, laughing and blushing at the same time.
" You 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

be 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 cany 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. this 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 Well, indeed," said he, holding her off at
be off.

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 ?"
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 335

The door opened, and a respectable, middle-aged woman entered, lead-

ing Harry, dressed in girl's clotlies.

little
" What a pretty girl he makes," said Eliza, turning him round. " "We
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 sighs
and peeping at her from under his dark curls.
" Does Harry know mamma ?" said EUza, stretching her hands
towards 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
take 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. " Your
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 and the friendly family who had
to the door,
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 set-
tlement of Canada, whither they were fleeing, being fortunately about
crossing the lake to return thither, 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 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,
 ;

336 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

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 per-
severance which characterised him, had come on to Sandusky, seeking
whom he might dovour,
" You would scarcely know the woman from a white one," said 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.
Mrs. 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.
George 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, and
the lordly boat ploughed her way right gallantly onward.
Oh, what an untold world there is cue human heart ! Who 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 arise to snatch it from him.
—
But the boat swept on hours fleeted, and at last, clear and fall rose
— —
the blessed English shore shores charmed by a mighty 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 neared 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 bus-
 U.N CLE TOM S CABIN. 337

band aud wife, with tlieii- wondering child in their arms, knelt do.vn and
up their hearts to God
lifted

" 'T was something like the burst from death to lifo

From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven ;

From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife,

To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven ;

Wliere all the bonds of death and hell are riven.

And mortal puts on immortality,
When Mercy's hand hath turned the golden key,
And 3Iercy's voice hath said, Rejoice, thy soul is
'
free.'

The little party were soon guided by ^Irs. Smyth to the hospitable
abode of a good missionary, whom Christian charity has placed here as
a shepherd to the out-cast and wandering, who are constantly finding an
as3-lum on this shore.
Who first day of freedom ? Is not the
can speak the blessedness of that
se?ise and finer one than any of the five ? To move
of liberty a higher
tpeak 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 piUow, under laws which ensure 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 was it to sleep in the exuberant possession of such blessedness!

And yet these two had not one acre of ground, not a roof that they could
call their own, they had spent their all to the last dollar. They had
nothing more than the birds of the air, or the flowers of the field yet —
they could not sleep for joy. " O ye who take freedom from man, with
"
what words shall ye answer it to God ?
 —

338 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE VICTORY.

" Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory.'

Have not many of us in the weary way of life felt, in some hours, how
far easier it were than to live ?
to die
The martyr, when faced even by a death of bodily anguish and hon-or,
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 througli any

crisis of siiflfering that is the birth-hour of eternal glory and rest.

But to live, to wear on day after day of mean, bitter, low, harrassing
servitude, every nerve damped 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 what there may be in man or woman.

the true searching test of
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 excitment passed off, came back
the pain of his bruised and weary limbs, came back the sense of his
utterly degraded, hopeless, forlorn estate and Che 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
 —

TTNCiiE iom's cabin. 339

his wager ; 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 fii"e, after he had returned from his daily toil but, ;

after the treatment he received, he used to come home so ex-

ci-uel

hausted that his head swam and his eyes faUed 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 which had upborne
and ti'ust

him hitherto should give way and despondent dark-

to tossings of soul
ness. 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 wrestled, in his own soul,
in darkness and sorrow. He thought of Miss Ophelia's letter to his
Kentucky friends, 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 to his soul bitter thoughts that it was —
vain to serve God, that God had forgotten him. He sometimes saw
Cassy and sometimes, when summoned 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 surroimd us in the race of life. Had
the word power, or could the failing eye and weary sense no
lost its
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 ;

Legree 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 everyday 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 ? Hea'^e that ar' old pack of trash in the fireand join my
church !"
 —

340 UNCLE xom's cabin.

" The Lord !" said Tom, fervently.

forbid
" You Lord an't going to help you if he had been, he wouldn't
see the ;

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 !"

" 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, and
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 still 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 vis'on rose before him of One crowned with thorns,
buffetted and bleeding. Tom gazed in awe and wonder at the majestic
patience of the face the deep pathetic eyes thrilled him to his in-
;

most heart Ms soul woke as, with floods of emotion, he stretched

;

out his hands and fell upon his knees when gradually the vision
;

changed, the sharp thorns became rays of glory, and in splendour in-
conceivable he saw that same face bending compassionately towards him,
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 Father on
his throne."
Howlong Tom lay there he knew not. When he came to himself, the
was gone out, his clothes were wet with the chill and drenching
fire

dews but the dread soul-crisis was past, and, in the joy that filled him,
;

he no longer felt hunger, cold, degradation, disappointment, wretched-

ness. From his deepest soul, he that hour loosed and parted from every
hope in the life that now is, and offered his own willan unquestioning
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 soli-

tude 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 Bun shall cease to shine ;

But God, who called me here below,

Shall be for ever mine.
 •UNCLE tom's cabix. 841

" And when this mortal life bhall 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 Grod's praise
Than when we first begun."

Those who have been familiar with the religious histories of the slave-
population,know that relations like what we have narrated are very com-
mon 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 loss of all
things, shall only hasten on the process by which he shall be made a
king and a 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. Past now the bleeding of earthly regrets —past its fluctuations

of hope, and fear, —

and desu-e, 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
seemed eternal
near, so vivid,
blessedness — that life's from him unharming.
uttermost woes fell

AU noticed the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness and alertness

seemed 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 ?" Legree said to Sambo. •'
A
while ago he was all down in the mouth, and now he's peart as a cricket."
" Dunno, mas'r gwine to run off, mebbe."
;

" Like to see him try that," said Legree, with a savage grin, " wouldn't

we, Sambo ?"

342 xjNciiE tom's cabin.

"Guess we would! haw! ho!" said the sooty gnome, laughing ob-
sequiously. " Lord, de fun To see him sticken' in the mud, chasin'
!

and tarin' through de bushes, dogs a-holdin' on to him Lord, I laughed !

fit to spht, dat ar' time we cotched Molly. I thought they'd 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 ! 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!"
This was spoken as Legree was getting on his horse to go to the
neighbouring town. That night, as he was returning, he thought he
would turn his horse and ride round the 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 that
transparent stillness iu 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 nay 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 ? '
How I
hate these cursed Methodist hymns ! Here, you nigger " said he,
!

coming suddenly out upon Tom, and raising his riding-whi]p, "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 shoidders.
" There, you dog," he said, " see if you feel so comfortable after
that!"
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 343

But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, as before, on
the heart. 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 send the lightning of conscience across the dark and wicked soul.
He understood full well that it was God who was standing between him
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 of old his Master roused in the demo-
niac soul, saying, " What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of Naza-
reth ? Art thou come to torment us before the time ?"
'iom'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 treasury 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 opportunities
were scanty hut on the way to the fields and back again, and during
;

the hours of labour, chances fell in his way of extending a helping hand
to the weary, the disheartened and discouraged. The poor worn-down
brutalised 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
imperceptibly the strange, silent, patient man, who was ready to bear
—
every one's burden, and sought help from none who stood aside 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 sickness,
and who filled the baskets of the weaker ones in the field, at the terrible
risk of coming short in his own measure —
and who, though pursued with
\mrelenting 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 a 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
344 UNCLE tom's cabin.

foundation, is more a native element in this race than any other and it ;

has often been found among them, 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-nigh
crushed and overwhelmed by the avalanche of cruelty and wrong which
had fallen upon her, felt her soul raised up by the hymns and passages
of Holy Writ which lowly missionary breathed into her ear in inter-
this
vals, 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 iufluences.
Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of her life,
Cassy had often resolved 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 witness, or which she had in her own person
suffered
One night, after all in Tom's cabin were sunk in sleep, he was
suddenly 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 Tom
remarked, as the light of the moon
moonlight.
fell upon Cassy's large, black eyes, that there was a wild and peculiar

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 sudden
energy. " Come on."
Tom hesitated.
" Come !" said she in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on him. " Come
along ! He's asleep —sound.
enough into his brandy to keep him
I put
so. I wish I'd had more, I shouldn't have wanted you. But come, 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, iirmly, 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,
 —

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. i-15

and li-ve by ourselves ; I've heard of its 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 oflf

" Then I shall do it," said Cassy, turning.

" O
Misse Cassy!" said Tom, throwing himself befoi'e 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 hundi-eds 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 I" 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 shed 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 oiu" 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 JSe gives it to us, ;

and that's the victory. AVhen 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 is to beagony —this
thy victory ; by this shalt thou reign with Christ when his kingdom shall
come on earth.
The deep fervour of Tom's feelings, the softness of his voice, his
tears, fell like dew on the wild, unsettled spirit of the poor woman.
A softness gathered over the lurid fires of her eye ; she looked down,
and 'lorn could feel the relaxing muscles of her hand as she said
" Didn't I tell you that evil spirits followed me ? O Father Tom, I
can't pray I wish I could.
! I never have prayed since my children
were sold What you say must be right I 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. I pray the Lord for ye. O Misse Cassy, turn
to the dear Lord Jesus. He came to bind up the broken-hearted, and
comfoit all that mourn !"

Cassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped from her down-
cast eves.
346 TTNCLE TOM's CABIN.

" 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
—
vras possible I'd 'vise ye and Emmeline to do it that is, if ye could go
;

without blood-guiltiness —
not otherwise."
" Would you try with us. Father Tom ?"
it
" No,'' said Tom " time was when I would
; but the Lord's given
;

me 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 of 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 no
;

place for us. Down in the darkest swamps their dogs 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 !

Cassj^ had often revolved, for hom's, 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
 ;

UNCLE tom's cabin. 347

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE STRATAGEM.

" The Wily of the wicked is as darkness ; he knoweth not at what he stumbleth."

The garret of the house that Legree occupied, like most other garrets,
was a great space, dusty, hung with cobwehs, and littered
desolate
with The opulent family that had inhabited the house
cast-off lumber.
in the days of its splendour had imported a great deal of splendid
furnitm-e, some of which they had taken away with them, wliile some
remained standing desolate in mouldering unoccupied rooms, or stored
away One or two immense packing-boxes, in which this
in this place.
furniture was brought, stood against the sides of the garret. There was
a small window there, which let in through its dingy, dusty panes a
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 incuiTed 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
and the sound of
cursings,
violent blows, used to ring through that old garret, and mingled with
wailings 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 oppor-
tunity of knowing what was there, for he would chain him 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 gi-adually falling into
desuetude. had suddenly occurred to Gassy to make use of the
It
superstitious excitability which was so great in Legree for the purpose
ot her liberation, and that of her fellow-sufferer.
The sleeping-room of Gassy was directly under the garret. One day,
348 UNCLF XOm's cabin.

without consTiiting Lesrree, she suddenly took it upon her, with some
considerable osientatlon, 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 greet zeal and confusion, vhen 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, dog-
gedly.
" 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 hinders your sleeping ?"
!

" I could tell, I suppose, if you want to hear," said Cassy, dryly.
" Speak out, you minx !" said Legree.
" Oh ! nothing. I suppose it wouldn't disturb you. Only groans and
people scuffling, and rolHiig round on the garret-floor half the night, from
!"
twelve till morning
" People up garret !" said Legree, uneasily, but forcing a laugh, " who
are they, Cassy ?"
Cassy raised her sharp black eyes, and looked in 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 nis riding-whip ; but she
glided to one side, and passed through the door, and looking back,
said, " If you'U sleep in that room you'll know all about it. Perhaps
you'd better try it
!
" and then immediately she shut and locked 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 the
train of influences shehad begun.
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 wind, most doleful and
lugubrious wailing sounds proceeded from it, which, in a high wind,
increased to a perfect shriek, such as to credulous and superstitious 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.
 UKCLE tom's Cabin. 349

No one is so thorouglily superstitious as the godless man. The

Christian is composed by the belief of a wise, all-ruling Father, whose
presence fills 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 pjet, " a land of darkness and the shadow of death," with-
out any order, where the light is as darkness. liife and death to him
are haunted 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 tyi'ant, 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 brutal man cannot live in constant associa-
tion 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 despau", hardened

womanhood witloin her, and waked the fires of fiercer passions, she had
become in a measure his mistress, and he alternately tyrannised over and
di'eaded her.
This influence had* become more harrassing and decided, since partial
insanity had given a strange, weird, unsettled cast to all her words and
language.
A night or two Legree was sitting in the old sitting-room,
after this,
by the wood fire, that threw uncertain glances round
side of a flickering
the room. It was a stormy, windy night, such as raises whole squad-
rons of nondescript noises ia ricketty 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
Cassy reading the first part of the evening, took it up, and began to turn
itover. It was one of those collections of stories of bloody murders,
ghostly legends, and supernatural visitations, which, coarsely got up
and illustrated, have a strange fascination for one who once begins to
read them.
Legree poohed and pished, but read, turning page after page, till,
 " "" " —

350 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

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"
" No matter what I believe," said Gassy, sullenly.
" 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
such 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.
" Rats 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
outo' 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 rats walkdown stairs, and come walking thi-ough 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
!
speak out
" You may sleep there yourself," said Cassy, " if you want to know."
" Did come from the garret, Cassy ?"
it
" Ji{—what?" said Cassy.
« Why, what you told of."
" I didn't tell you anything," said Cassy, with dogged suUenness.
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.

 " —!

TJNCi,E tom's CABiy. 351

'
Don't swear," said Cassy,
'
" nobody knows who may be hearing you.
Hark ! What was that ?"
" "V\Tiat ?" said Legree, starting.
A heavy Dutch clock, that stood in the comer of the room, began,
old
and slowly struck twelve.
For some reason or other Iiegree neither spoke nor moved a vague ;

horror fell on him while Cassy, with a keen sneering glitter in her eyes,
;

stood looking at hini, counting the strokes^

" Twelve o'clock ; well, notv 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 cussedly it

blows ?"
" Simon, come here," said Cassy in a whisper, laying her hand on his,
and leading him to the foot of the stairs " do you know what that is ? ;

Hark!"
A wild shriek came pealing down the stairway. It came from the
garret. Legree's knees knocked together his face grew white with ;

fear.
" Hadn't you better get your pistols ?" said Cassy, -with a sneer that
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, and look-
ing back after him. " Come on."
" I believe you are the devil " said Legree. " Come back, you hag
!
!

come back, Cass You shant go !

!

But Cassy 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 shrieking 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
tliat same fearful light in her eye.
" I hope you are satisfied," said she.
" Blast you, Cass!" said Legree.
" 'N'^Tiat for ?" said Cassy. " I only went up and shut the
- doors.
Whafs the matter with that garret, Simon, do you suppose ?" said she.
" None of your business " said Legree.
!

" Oh, it an't ? Well," said Cassy, " at any rate, I'm glad I 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
352 UNCLE tom's cabin.

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 sufBcient 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 wanted 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,
which 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, per-
haps, 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
Emm^eline in the room of the latter, busy in assorting and arranging two
small 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," said Emmeline.

" I mean they shall," said Cassy, coolly. " Don't you know that
they must have their chase after The way of the thing
us, at any rate ?

is to be just this. We will steal out of the back door, and run down
by the quarters. Sambo and 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 wont 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 Iv'e got a
nice bed made up in one of the great boxes. We must stay in that
garret a good while for, 1 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 his boast that nobody ever got away from him.
So let him hunt at his leisure."
 tJNCLE tom's cabin. 353

" Gassy, how "well you have planned it !" said Emmeliae. "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 pur-
suing them with violent execrations. At the sound, the feebler spii'it of
EmmeJIne 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-
and flashing it before the eyes of the
letto, 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.
" "WeU," 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
" HuUoa, 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 dol-
^

lars 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 of 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 baneful effects of slavery. Some ran one way, and some
another. 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 ?" said Sambo, to
whom his master brought out a rifle.
" You may fire on Cass, if you like it's time she was gone to the
;

devil, where she belongs but the gal, not," said Legree. " And now,
;

boys, be spry and smart. Five doUars for biTn that gets 'em; and a
glass of spirits to every one of you, anyhow."
The whole band, with the glare of blazing torches, and whoop, and
shout, and savage yell, of man and beast, proceeded down to the swamp,
A. a
354 UK CLE TOM S CABIN.

followed, at some distance, by every servant in th.e house. The estab-

lishment was, of a consequence, wholly deserted when Cassy and £mme-
iine glided into it the back way. The whooping and shouts of their
pursuers were still filling the air and, looking from the sitting-room
;

windows, Cassy and Emmeline could see the troop, with their flambeaux,
just dispersing themselves along the edge of the swamp.
" See there !" said Emmeline, pointing to Cassy " the hunt is begun
: !

Look how those lights dance about Hark the dogs Don't you 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-bye. Meanwhile," said she, deliberately taking a key from the

pocket of a coat that Legree had thrown down in his hurry, " meanwhile
I shall take something to pay om* passage."
She unlocked the desk, took from it a roll of bills, which she counted
over rapidly.
" Oh, don't let's do that 1" sjid 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 fr'ee states ? Money
wUl 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
inquire 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 ?"

" Are you sure they won't come and search the garret ?"
" I'd like to see Simon Legree doing that," said Cassy, " No,
 UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 355

indeed ;he will be too glad to keep away. As to the sei'vants, they
\\ould any of them stand and be shot sooner 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.
" 1 meant to stop your fainting," said Cassy, " and I did do it. And
now I tell you, Emmeline, you must make up j^our mind not to faint, let
what will come ; there's no sort of need of it. If I had not stopped you,
that wi-etch might have had his hands on you now."
Emmeline shuddered.
The two remained some time in silence, Cassy busied herself with a
French book; Emmeline, overcome with the exhaustion, fell into a doze,
and slept some time. She was awakened by loud shouts and outcries,
tiie tramp of horses' feet, and the baying of dogs. She started up with
a faint shriek.
" Only the hunt coming back," said Cassy, coolly ;
" never fear.
Look out of this knot-hole. Don't you see 'emdown there? Simon
all

has to give it up for this night. Look how muddy his horse is, floun-
cing about in the swamp the dogs, too, look rather crest-fallen. Ah,
;

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 ?
" If they do hear anything, it will make them very particular to keep

away," said Cassy. " No danger we may make 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 dii'e vengeance on the morrow
went to bed.

A a 2
 356 UNCLE XOJVt's CABIN.

CHAPTER XL.

THE MARTYK.

" Deem not the just by heaven forgot

Though life its common gifts deny
Though with a crushed and bleeding heart,
And spurned of man he goes to die ;

For God hath marked each sorrowing day,

And numbered every bitter tear
And heaven's long years of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here." Bryant.

The —
longest way must kave 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
just 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 on the tops of the mountains, and gales
and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are unclosing.
The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly temper
of Legree to the last degree and his fury, as was to be expected, fell
;

upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedly announced the

tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light in Tom's eye, a sud-
den upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he
did not join the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him
to do it but, having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when
;

commanded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would not, in his

hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him.
Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of him
to pray, and ofiered up prayers for the escape of the fugitives.
When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the long-working
 — ;

UNCLE TOM S CABIN. 857

hatred of his soul towards his slave began to gather in a deadly and
desperate form. Had man braved him steadily, powerfullj',
not this —
resistlessly — ever since
he bought him ? Was there not a spirit in him
Avhich, silent as it was, burned on him like the fires of perdition ?
" I hate him!" said Legi'ee, that night, as he sat up in his bed; " I
hate him? And isn't he MINE? Can't I do what I like vsdth him?
Who's to hinder, I wonder ?" And Legree clenched his fist and shook it
as if he had something in his hands that he could rend in pieces.
But then Tom was a faithful, valuable servant and although Legree ;

hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was still somewhat of
a 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. If it suc-
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.
Ye say that the interest of the master is a sufficient safeguard for the
slave. In the fury of man's mad
he will wittingly, and with open
will,
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 recon-
noitred through the knot-hole, " the hunt's going to begin again to-
day!"
Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on the space
in front of the house and one or two leashes of strange dogs were
;

sti-uggling 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 profusedly 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 hohday 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,
 " ; !

358 TJ>rCI,E lOM S CABIN.

«<
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 in her face and voice, as she spoke.
" If it wasn't for yoti, child," she said, looking at Emmeline, VA.go '•'

out to them and I'd thank any one of them that would shoot me down
;

for what use -svill freedom be to me ? Can it give 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 poor old
mother again ! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you love me or
!
not
The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down by her, put
her arm round her neck, stroked her soft brown hair and Emmeline ;

then wondered at the beauty of her magnificent eyes, now soft with
tears.
" O Em !" hungered for my children, and thirsted
said Cassy, " I've
for them, and my
with longing for them
eyes fail Here 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 EmmeUne, " he is our Father !"
" His wrath is upon us," said Cassy, " he has turned away in
anger."
" No, Cas' y ! , 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, Cassy looked down on Lcgree as, weary
and dispirited, he alighted from his horse.
" Now, Quimbo," said Lcgree, 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 uo less cordial hatred of Fom. Legree had told them at
first that he had bought him for a general overseer in his absence and ;

, this had begun an ill-wiU on their part, which had increased, in their de-
 TJNCLK TOM S CABIN. 359

based 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 concealment.
He knew the deadly character of the man he had to deal with, and his
despotic power. But he felt strong in God to meet death, rather than
betray the helpless.
He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, " Into Thy
hands I commend my spu'it 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 along, " ye'll cotch it,
now; rU houn' 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's
!"
niggers to run away ! See what ye'll get
The savage words none of them reached that ear a higher voice there —
was, saying, " Fear not them that kill the body, and after that have no
more that they can Nerve and bone of that poor man's body vi-
do."
brated 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 and seizing him grimly by
the collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm
of determined 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 teU me what you know about these yer

Tom stood silent.

" D'ye hear ?" said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an in-
censed lion. " Speak!"
" / han't got nothing to tell, mas'r," said Tom, with a slow, firm,' deli-
berate utterance.
" Do you dai-e to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don't know "
?
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 !
 369 UNCIiE TOM'S cabin.

Legree took in a long breath; and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by
thearm 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 his master, and answered, " Mas'r, if you was 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 more 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 tempest,
made a moment's blank pause. Legree stood aghast,
this burst of feeling
and looked at Tom and there was such a silence that the tick of the old
;

clock could be heard, measuring, with sUent 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, 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 im-
mortal life and where his spirit is, neither degraded 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 buffetting and brutal stripes ?

Nay There stood by him One, seen by him alone, " like unto the
!

Son of God."
The tempter stood by him, too, blinded by fmious despotic will, every
moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the innocent.
But the brave, true heart was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his
Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save nor ;
 UJVCIiE TOM S CABIN. 361

could utmost extremity wring from Mm words, save of prayer and holy
trust.
" He's most gone, mas'r," said Sambo, touched in spite of himself, by
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 !"
Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. " Ye poor, miser-
able critter!" he said, " there an't no more ye can do! I forgive ye,

with all my 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 that voice in thy soul —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
life —
as if that were any favour to him.
" Sartin, we's been doin' a drefiul wicked thing!" said Sambo;
" hopes mas'r '11 have to 'coimt 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 himself. He brought it back, and poured it down Tom's
thx'oat.
" O Tom !" said Quimbo, " we's been awful wicked to ye!"
" I forgive ye, with all my heai't " said Tom, faintly. !

" O Tom ! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow .P"

said Sambo —" Jesus,
been a standin' by you so, all this night
that's !
—Who is he ?"
The word roused the failing, fainting spii-it. He poured forth a few
energetic sentences of that wondrous One —his life, his 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 Lord give me these two more souls, I
! !

pray!"
That prayer was answered
362 tiNCLE Tom's cabin.

CHAPTER XLL
THE YOUNG "VIASTER.

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 in ^ur story.

The letter t'f 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 Red
River.
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-bed of her husband, who lay delirious in the crisis of a
fever. Master George Shelby, -w'ho, in the interval had clianged 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
had taken the precaution to send the name of the lawyer who did busi-
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 com'se, an absorbing pressure
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 recognisable shape, let the
consequences to her prove what they might. In the meantime, they
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.
 UNCLE Tom's cabin. 363

Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result; am!,
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 inquii'ies, in hopes of discoveiiug Tom's whereabouts, and re-
storing him.
After some mouths of unsuccessfui 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 Red River, resolving to find out and re-
purchase his old friend.
He was soon introduced into the house, where he foimd Legree in the
sitting-room.
Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality.
" I understand," said the young man, " that you bought, in New
Orleans, a boy named Tom. He used to be on my father's plac and I
came buy him back."
to see if I couldn't
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 knew, 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 ;

btt 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 shed," 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 sufiering, ;

for every nerve of sufieringwas blunted and destroyed. He lay, for the
most part, in a quiet stupor for the laws of a powerful and well-knit
;

fiame would not at once release the imprisoned tipirit. By stealth, there
had been there, in the darkness of the night, poor desolate creatures,
who stole rest, that they might repay to him
from their scanty hours'
some of those ministrations of love in which he had always been so
abundant. Truly, those poor disciples had little to give only the cup —
of cold water but it was given wdth full hearts.
;

Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face tears of late re —

pentance in 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 thev scarce knew more that tlie
 — " " ";

364 "UNCLE tom's cabin.

name, but whom the yearning ignorant heart of man never implores in
vain.
Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and, by
over-hearing, learned the sacrifice that had been made for her' and Em-
meline, had 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.
"V^'Tien George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart
sick.
" Is it possible ? —
it possible ?" said he, kneeling down by him.
^is

" 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 feeWe
!

voice, "Mas'r George !" He looked bewildered.

Slowly the idea seemed to fiU 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 for-

got me. It warms my soul ; it does my old heart good ! Now I shall
die content ! Bless the Lord, O my soul
!

" You you mustnH die, nor think of it I've come to

shan't die ! !

buy you, and take you home," said George, with impetuous vehemence.
" O Mas'r George, ye're too late. I'he Lord's bought me, and is
—
going to take me home and I long to go. Heaven is better than
Kintuck."
" 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 poor fellow!" said Tom, solemnly. "I have been

call me
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 !

George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power with
which these broken sentences were uttered. He sat gazing in silence.
 "UNCLE tom's cabin. 365

Tom grasped his hand, and continued — " Ye mustn't now, tell

Chloe, poor soul how ye found me 'twould be so drefful to her.

! ;

Only tell her ye found me going into glory and that I couldn't stay for;

no one. And teU her the Lord stood by me everywhere and al'ays,
and made every thing hght and easy. And oh, the poor chil'en, and the
—
baby my old heai't's been most broke for 'em, time and agin'. Tell 'em
aU to follow me follow me — Give my love to mas'r, and dear good
!

missis, and everybody in the place Ye don't know! 'Pears like I loves
!

'email! I loves every cretur, every whar! it's nothing hut love! O
!"
—
Mas'r George what a thing it is to be a Christian
!

At this moment Legree sauntered up to the door of the shed, looked

in with a dogged air of affected carelessness, and tm-ned 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't —
oh, ye mustn't " said Tom, grasping his hand
!
!

" he's a poor mis'able critter. It's awful to think on't Oh, if he only !

could repent, the Lord would forgive him now but I'm 'feard he never ;

will."
" I hope he won't !" said George. " I never want to see him in
heaven."
" Hush, Mas'r George it worries me. Don't feel so.
! He an't
—
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
sudden 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 smile ;

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 deod,
;

—
only one thought possessed him that expressed by his simple old friend,
" WhaX 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
 —

566 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

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 wel-
come bury him where and when you like."
to
" 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 coun-
termand his orders, but stood whistling with an air of forced uncon-
cern. He sulkily followed them to where the 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 atrocious
affair this is not the time and place.
; But, sir, this innocent blood shall
have justice. I will proclaim this nlurder. I will go to the very first
magistrate, and expose you."
" Do !" 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 and, in ail southern courts, the testimony
;

of 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 flat upon his face and, as he ;

stood over him, blazing with wrath and defianee, he would have
formed no bad personification of his great namesake triumphing over
the dragon.
Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being knocked down.
If aman 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.
 ;

UNCLE tom's cabin. 367

" No, no bury it -with liim.

; It's all 1 can give you now, poor Tom,

and you shall have it."

They 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 yoimg mas'r would please buy us —
" said one.
" We'd serve him so faithful !" said the other.
" Hard times here, mas'r !" said the first. " Do, mas'r, buy us, please !"

" I can't! — I can't," said

!"
George, with difficulty, motioning them off
" it's impossible
The poor and walked off in silence.
fellows looked dejected,
" Witness, eternal God," said George, kneeling on the grave of his
poor friend, " Oh, witness that, from this hour, 1 will do what one mtm
can to drive out this curse of sla^'ery fi'om my land !"
There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of om* friend.
He needs none. His Lord knows where he lies, and wiU 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 tlie chief glory of God, but in self-denying,

suffering love. And blessed are the men whom he calls to fellowship
•with him, bearing their cross after him vrith patience. Of such it is
written, " Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."

CHAPTER XLII.

AN AUTHENTIC GHOST STORY.

For some remarkable reason, ghostly legends were uncommonly rife

about this time, among the servants on Legree's place.
It was whisperingly asserted that footsteps, in the dead of night, had
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.
868 UKCT.E TOM S CAETX.

Authorities were somewhat divided as to the outward form of the

owing to a custom quite prevalent among negroes and, for aught
spirit, —
—
we know, among whites too of invariably shutting the eyes, and cover-
ing 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 perspicaciousand therefore there were
;

abundance of fall-length portraits of the ghost, abundantly sworn and

testified to, which, as is often the case with portraits, agreed with each
other in no particular, except the common family pecuharity of the ghost
tribe — the wearing of a white sheet. The poor souls were not versed in
ancient history, and did not know that Shakspeare had authenticated
this costume, by telling how

" the sheeted dead

Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Kome."

And upon this is a striking fact in pneumato-

therefore their all hitting
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 —disap-
pear 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 day-time 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 a man take what pains he may to hush it dovra, a
all, let
htmian soul an awful, ghostly, unquiet possession for a bad man to
is

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 pUed
over with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the forewarning trumpet
of doom !

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
;
 —

UXCLE Toil's CABIN. •

369

the catchings aud fastenings of the windows, and then swoie 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
di-eadful hanging over him. It was his mother's shroud, he thought ;

hut Cassy had it, holding it up, and showing it to him. He heard a
confused noise of screams and groauings and, with it all, he knew he
;

was asleep, and he struggled to .wake hunself. He was half awake.

He was sure something was coming into his room. He knew the
door was opening, hut he could not stir hand or foot. At last he
turned, with a start; the door teas opened, 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 nistle of its ghostly garments. It
stood still by his bed hand touched his a voice said, three times,
; a cold ;

in a low fearful whisper, " Come come come !" And, while he lay
! !

sweating with terror, he knew not when or how, the thing was 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 diinker than ever before. 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 the horrors of that sick room, when he raved and
screamed, and spoke of sights which almost stopped the blood of those
who heard him aud, at his dying bed, stood a stern, white, inexorable
;

figure, saying, " Come come come !"

! !

By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this vision appeared

to Legree, the house-door was found open in the morning, and some of
the negroes had seen two white figm-es gliding down the avenue towards
the high-road.
It was near sun-rise when Cassy and Emmeline paused, for a moment,
in a little knot of trees near the town.
Cassy was di-essed after the manner of the Creole Spanish ladies
wholly in black. A small black bonnet on her h,ead, covered by a veil
thick with embroideiy, 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 cnnnexion with the highest society,
life in

the language, movements, Cassy were all in agreement with

and air of
this idea and she had still enough remaining with her of a once
;

splendid wardrobe, and sets of jewels, to enable her to personate the

thing to advantage.
B b
370 • UNCLE Tom's cabin.

She stopped in the outsku-ts of the town, where she had noticed
trunks forsale, 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 ghostly 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
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
inquh-e too closely into those who are fair on the main point, of paying
well —a thing which Cassy had foreseen when she provided herself with
money.
In the edge of the evening, a boat was heai-d coming along, and
George Shelby handed Cassy aboard, with the politeness which comes
natui'ally 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 River and was waited on with obsequious devo-
;

tion by her attendant.

"N^Tien 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 po\^erful 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
 ;

UNCLE tom's cabin. 371

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 throw herself entirely on his generosity,
finally resolved to
and entrusted him with her whole history.
George was heartily disposed to sympathise 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 acquaintance
in which design she was seconded by the graces of her little girl, who
was about as pretty a plaything as ever diverted the weaiiness 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 life. George
discovered, to his surprise, that her former residence must have been in
his own vicinity and her inquh-ies showed a knowledge of people and
;

things in his region that was perfectly sm^prising to him.

" Do you know," said Madame de Thoux to him one day, " of any man
in your neighbom-hood of the name of Harris ?"
" There is an old feUow of that name lives not far fi-om my father's
place," said George. " We never had much intercourse with him,
though."
" He is a large slave-owner, I beUeve," said Madame de Thoux, with
a manner which seemed to betray more interest than she was exactly
willing to show.
" He is," said George, looking rather surprised at her manner.

—
" Did you ever know of his having perhaps you may have heard of

his having a mulatto boy, named George ?"

" Oh, certainly — —
George Harris I know him well he married a ;

servant of my mother's, but has escaped now to Canada."

« He has ?" said Madame de Thoux, quickly. " Thank God."
George looked a sui-prised inquiry, but said nothing.
Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst into tears.
" He is my brother !" she said.
' Madam !" said George, with a strong accent of surprise.
£b2
372 UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

" Yes," said Madame de Thoux, lifting h.er head proudly, and wiping
her tears, " Mr. Shelby, George Harris is brother my
!"

" 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. " 1 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.
" Yes, indeed! I am the one," said Madame de Thoux. " Tell me
what sort of a
—
" A very fine young man," said George, " notwithstanding the cm-se
of slavery that lay on him. He sustained a first-rate character, both for
intelligence and principle. I know, you see," he said, " because he
married in our family."
" What sort of a girl ?" said Madame de Thoux, eagerly.
" A treasure !" said George. " A beautiful, intelligent, amiable girL
Very 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 Orleans,
and brought her up as a present to mother. She was about eight or
nine years old, then. Father would never tell mother what he gave for
her but, the other day, in looking over Ms old papers, we came across
;

the bill of sale. He paid an extravagant sum for her, to be sure —

suppose, on account of her extraordinary beauty."
George sat with his back to Gassy, and did not see the absorbed ex-
pression of her countenance as he was giving these details.
At this point of 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 1 think that was the name on the bill of sale."
" O my God!" said Gassy, and fell insensible on the floor of the
cabin.
George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de Thoux.
Though them could conjecture what was the cause of Cassy's
neither of
fainting, still they made all the tumult which is proper in such cases
George up-setting a wash-pitcher, and breaking two tumblers, in the
warmth of liis humanity and various ladies in the cabin, hearing that
;

somebody had fainted, crowded the state-room door, and kept out all the
 tJNCLE iom's cabin. 373

air they possibly could, so that, on the whole, everything was done that
could be expected.
Poor Cassy ! when she recovered, turned her face to the wall, and
wept and sobbed like a child. Perhaps, mother, you can tell what she
was thinking of! Perhaps you cannot; but she felt as sure, in 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. —

CHAPTER XLIII.

RESULTS.

The rest of our tory is George Shelby, interested, as any

soon told.
other young man might by the romance of the incident, no less than
be,
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
knowledge 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.
George and EKza 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, anc
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 solicitations of the former to
accompany them to Montreal in their search — she bearing all the ex-
pense of the expedition.
374 UNCLE tom's cabin^.

The scene now changes to a small, neat tenement, in the outskirts of

Montreal; the time evening. A cheerful fii'e 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 was an open writing-desk, pens, paper, and over it a shelf of weU-
selected books.
This was George's study. The same zeal for self-improvement which
led him much-coveted arts of reading ^nd writing, amid
to steal the 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 Eliza, " 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 effort 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 witch !" says George, yielding, as, in such circum-
little •

stances, man alwaysmust.

" That's right," says Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf of bread. A
little older she looks ; her form a little fuller her hair more ma- ;

tronly than of yore but evidently contented and happy as woman

;

need be.
" Harry, my boy, how did you come on in that sum to-day ?" said
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
;

eye-lashes, and that fine, bold brow, that flushes with triumph, as he
answers, " I did it, every bit of it, myself, father ; and nohody helped
me."
" That's right," says his father " depend on yourself, my son. You
;

have a better chance than ever your 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 ;

good 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 affair was to develope it
self ; and, on the way up, all had very cautiously and prudently exhorted
each other not to let things out, except according to previous arrange-
ment.
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 month, so as to proceed to his introductory
speech in good order, when Madame de Thoux upset the whole plan
 " ;

UNCLE TOM"S CABIN. 375

by throwing her arms around George's neck, and letting all out at
once, by saying, " O George don't you know me ?
! 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 face 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, and
delivering the speech with which he had intended 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 satify any orator, ancient
or modern.
They knelt and the good man prayed for there are some
together, —
feelings so agitatedand tumultuous, that they can find rest only by being
—
poured into the 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 contains
truth stranger than fiction. How can it be otherwise, when a system
prevails which whirls famihes and scatters their members, as the wind
whirls and scatters the leaves of autumn ? These shores of refuge, like
the eternal shore, often unite again, in glad communion, hearts that for
long years have mourned each other as lost. And afiecting beyond ex-
pression is the earnestness with which every new ari'ival among them is
met, if, perchance, it may bring tidings of mother, sister, wife or child,
still lost view in the shadows of slavery.
to
Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of romance, when,
defying torture, and braving death itself, the fugitive voluntarily threads
his way back to the terrors and perils of that dark land, that he may
bring out his sister, or mother, or wife.
One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twice re-captured
and sufiering 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, is
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 com-
panionable only that Cassy, who keeps little Eliza on her lap, occa-
;
376 •UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

sionally squeezes the little thing in a manner that rather astonishes

her, and obstinately refuses to have her mouth stuffed with cake to
the extent the little —
one desires alleging, what the child rather won-
ders at, that she has got something better than cake, and doesn't
want it.

And, indeed, in two or three days, such a change has passed over
Cassy 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 own 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
afiection. Eliza's steady, consistent piety, regulated by the constant
reading of the sacred word, made her a proper guide for the sliattered
and wearied mind of her mother. Cassy 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 particu-
larly of her affairs. The death of her husband had left her an ample
fortime, 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 alwiiys been my heai-t'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 Emmeline
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 unintermitted zeal, obtained a very thorough edu-
cation.
Political troubles in France at last led the family again to seek an
asylum in this country.
George's feeling and views, as an educated man, may be best expresssd
in a letter to one of his friends.
" I feel somewhat at a loss as to my future course. True, as you
have said me, I might mingle in the circles of the whites in this
to
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 tell
you the have no wish to.
truth, I
" 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 heai't-broken

;
 ;

UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 377

mother, I was a child ; and, though I never saw her after the cruel sale
that separated us till know she always loved me dearly.
she died, yet I
Iknow it by my own heart. "Wlien I think of all she suffered, of my
own early suflferings, of the distresses and struggles of my heroic wife,
of my sister, sold in the New Orleans slave-market though I hope to —
have no unchristian sentiments, yet I may be excused for saying, 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 cannot rise above its fountain. The
race that formed the character of the Haytiens was a worn-out, effemi-
r^ate one and, of course, the subject race will be centuries in rising to
;

anything.
" Where, then, shall I look ? On the shores of Afi'ica I see a republic
—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 colonisation ist, 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. Doubtless
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 He not have overruled their de-
signs, 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 gi-eat 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,
 ;

378 TJNOLE TOM S CABIN.

growing with the rapidity of tropical vegetation, shall he 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 form part of
;

a nation, which shall have a voice in the councils of 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 vsdll —
if their serfdom, and all unjust and oppressive
social inequalities, are done away and if they, as France 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 it cannot be that free, enlightened America
;

will not 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
enslaved.
" But you will tell me our race have equal rights to mingle in the
American republic as the Irishman, the German, the Swede. Granted,
they have. "We ought to be free to meet and mingle to rise by our —
individual worth, without any consideration of caste or colour; and they
who deny us this right are false to their own professed principles of
human equality. We ought, in particular, to be allowed here. We have
mo7-e 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 peculiarities yet
to be unfolded in the light of civilisation and Christianity, 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
mission 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 brother-

hood.
" I trust that the development of Africa is to be essentially a Chris-
tian one. dominant and commanding race, they are, at least,
If not a
an affectionate, magnanimous, and forgiving one. Having been called
in the furnace of injustice and 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.
 UNCLE tom's cabin. 379

" Id 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—-mj 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 wiU make thee an eternal excellence,
;

a joy of many generations

!'

" 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

the 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 word 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
;

be disappointed.
Whenever 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 Harkis,"

George, with his wife, children, sister and mother, embarked for
Afi'ica, 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.
Miss Ophelia took Topsy home to Vermont with her, much to the
surprise of that gi'ave deliberative body whom a New Englander recog-
nises under the term " Our folks." " Our folks," at first, thought it
an odd and unnecessary addition to their well-trained domestic estabUsh-
ment but, so thoroughly efiicient was Miss Ophelia in her conscientious
;

endeavour to do her duty by her Sieve, 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, baptized, and became a
member of the Christian Church in the place and showed so much ;

and zeal, and desire to do good in the world, that

intelligence, activity
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 aad restless in

her developments, is now employed, in a safer and wholesomer manner,
in teaching the children of her own country.
 380 TJNCLE TOM S CABIN,

P.S. — It will be a satisfaction to some mother also to state, that

some inquiries wMch were set on foot by
de Thoux have Madame
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 LIBERATOR.

George 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
arrangements cur 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 punctUliousness, around the arrangements of
the table, merely as an excuse for talking a little to her mistress.
" Laws, now won't it look natural to him ?" she said. " Thar
! —
sot 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
!

hest tea-pot —
de little new one Mas'r George got for missis, Christmas ?
I'll have it out And missis has heard from Mas'r George ?" she said,
!

inquiringly.
" Yes, Chloe ; 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

fidgetting with the tea-cups.

" No, he didn't. He did not speak of anything, Chloe. He said he
wciild tell all when he got home."
 "

UNCLE tom's cabin. 381

" Jes like Mas'r George ; he's allers so fierce for tellin' everything
hisself. I allers minded dat ar in Mas'r George. Don't see for my part,
howwhite people gen'ally can har to hev to write things much as they
do —writin' 's such slow, oneasy kind o' work."
Mrs. Shelby smiled.
" 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, Polly 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 him the mornin
a bakin'. Jist sich as I gin
he was took off. Lord bless us how I felt dat ar morning !
!

Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy weight on her heart, at this
allusion. She had felt uneasy ever since she received her son's letter,
lest something shoidd 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 perfectioner
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
do without me no longer.' There's jist what I telled
missis, she can't
him. Berry nice man, dat 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
;

humour 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.
! —
Remember 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 aU my
iortune to have brought him with me, but he's gone to a better country."
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.
 " " —

382 UNCLE tom's cabin.

Jist as I knew 'twould be —sold and murdered on dem ar' old planta-
tions!"
Chloe turned, and was walking proudly out of the room. Mrs-
Shelby followed her softly, and took one of her hands, drew her down
into a chair, and sat down by her.
" My poor, good Chloe !" said she.
Chloe leaned her head on her mistress' shoulder, and sobbed out, "
missis 'sense me, my heart's broke dat's all
! — !

" I know it is," said Mrs. Shelby, as her tears fell fast " and I ;

cannot heal but Jesus can. He healeth the broken-hearted, and

it,

bindeth up their 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 simple
pathos, repeated the triumphant scene of her husband's death, and his
last messages of love.

About a month after this, one morning, all the servants of the Shelby
estate were convened together in the great hall that ran through the
house, to hear a few words from their young master.
To the surprise of all, he appeared among them with a bundle of
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
send 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 had 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 silence,
" there'll be no need for you to leave me. The place wants as many
hands to work it "We need the same about the house
as it did before.
that we But you are now free men and free women. I shall
did before.
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 I give you as free men and women. I expect you
to be good and wilhng to learn and I trust in God that I shall be
;

faithful and willing to teach. And now, my friends, look up, and thank
God for the blessings of freedom." «
 AUNT CHLOE HEARING OF UNCLE TOM'S DEATH.
" Mrs. Shelby took one of her hands, drew her down into a chair, and sat down
by her. Aunt Chloe leaned her head on her mistress's shoulder, and sobbed out,
'
! —
Oh, missiis 'scuse nie, my hcart'.s broke dat's all
!
'
—
" Page 382.
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 — — —

UNCLE TOM's cabin. 383

An aged, patriai'chal negro, who had grown grey and blind on the
estate, now rose, and, lifting his trembling hand, said, " Let us give
thanks unto the Lord !" As all kneeled bj one consent, a more touch-
ing and hearty Te Deum never ascended to heaven, though borne on the
peal of an organ, beU, and cannon, than came from that honest old
heart.
On rising, another struck up a Methodist hymn, of which the bui-den
was

" The year of Jubilee is come

Keturn ye ransomed sinners home."

" One thing more," said George, as he stopped the congratulations of

the throng. " You all remember our good old Uncle Tom ?"
George here gave a short narration of the scene of his death, and of
on the place, and added
his loving farewell to all
" It was on his grave, my friends that I resolved, before God, that I
would never own another slave whUe it was possible to fi-ee 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 owe it to that good old soul, and
pay it back in kindness to his wife and children. Think of yom* freedom,
every time you see Uncle Tom's Cabin and let it be a memorial to
;

put you all in mind to follow in his steps, and be as honest, and faithful,
and Christian as he was."

CHAPTER XLV.

CONCLUDING REMARKS.

The writer has often been inquired of, by correspondents from different
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 naiTative are to a very gi-eat
extent authentic, occurring, many of them, cither under her own obser-
vation or that of her personal She or her friends have observed
fi-iends.

characters the counterpart of almost all that are here introduced and ;

many of the sayings are word for word as heard herself, or reported
to her.
 :

384 UK CLE TOM's CABIW.

The personal appeai-ance of Eliza, and the character ascribed to her, are
sketches drawn from life. The incorruptible fideUty, piety and honesty
of Uncle Tom, had more than one development to her personal loiow-
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 liver on the ice is a well-known fact. The
story of " old Prue," (Chapter XIX.) was an incident that fell under the
personal observation of a brother of the writer, then collecting-clerk to
a large mercantile house in New Orleans. From the same source was
derived the character of the planter Legree. Of him her brother thus
wrote, speaking of visiting his plantation on a collecting tour :
" He
actually made me which was like a blacksmith's hammer
feel of his fist,
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 remem-
bered that in all southern states it is a principle of jurisprudence, that no
person of coloured lineage can testify in a suit against a white, and it
wiU 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 manhood 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 eases may now and then
occur, but they are no sample of general practice." If the laws of New
England were so arranged that a master could now 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,
" Ihese cases are rare, and no samples of general practice ?" This
injustice is an inherent one in the slave system, it cannot exist with-
out it. '

The public and shameless sale of beautiful mulatto and quadi'oon girls
has acquired a notoriety from the incidents following the capture of the
Pearl. 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 1848, to
escape from the District of Columbia in the schooner Fearl, and whose
officers I assisted in defending, there were several young and healthy
gir]/!!, who had those peculiar attractions of form and feature which con-
noisseurs prize so highly. Elizabeth Russell was one of them. She
Immediately fell into the slave-trader's fangs, and was doomed for New
Orleans market. The hearts of those that saw her were touched with
 vncL'E tom's cabin. 385

pity for her fate. They hundred dollars to redeem her

offered eighteen ;

and some there were who offered would not have much left
to give that
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. AVhen 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 love of God to spare his victims. He bantered
her, telling what fine dresses and fine furniture they would have. '
Yes,'
she said, '
that may but what will become of
do very well in this life,

them in the next ?' They too w^ere 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 Gassy 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
gentleman was in Cincinnati, with a favourite servant, who had been his
personal attendant from a boy. The young man took advantage of this
opportunity to secure hisown 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 him. He
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 immediat|ly 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 youi
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 characterise individuals at the South.
c c
 ;

386 TTNCIiE TOM S CABIN.

Such instances save us from utter despair of our kind. But, she asks
any person who knows the world, are such characters common any-
where ?
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 she
heard, with perfect surprise and consternation, Chi-istian and humane
people actually recommending the remanding escaped fugitives into
slavery, as a duty binding on 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 faii-ly, 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 rufifian, tlie brutal and debased ? And cannot the ruffian, the
brutal and debased, by slave law, own just as many slaves as the best and
purest ? Are the honourable, the just, the high-minded and compassion-
ate, 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 slavery. 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 accursed traffic has driven to the miu-der of their
 ;

UNCLE XOM S CABIN. 387

children, and themselves to seek in death a shelter from woes more

di'eaded 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, apologised for, and passed over in silence ? Farmers of
Massachusetts, 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
! ;

eyes, which you jiever can forget by those last cries that wrung your
;

heart when you could neither help nor save by the desolation of that
;

empty cradle, that silent nursery, I beseech you, pity those mothers that
are constantly made childless by the American slave-trade And say, !

mothers of America, is this a thing to be defended, sympathised with,

passed over in silence ?

Do you 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 fi'ee 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 the mothers of the free states had all felt as they 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 something
more to do than denounce their brethren at the South; they have to
look to the evil among themselves.
• c c 2
38J UNCLE TOM S CABIN.

But what can an individual do ? Of that every individual can judge.

There one thing that every individual can do, they can see to it that
is

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. See, then, to your sympathies in this matter Are they
!

in harmony with the sympathies of Christ ? or are they swayed and per-
verted by the sophistries of worldly policy ? .

Christian men and women of the North still further, you have
!

another power you asm pray ! Do you believe in prayer ? or has it be-
;

come an indistinct apostolic tradition ? You pray for the heathen abroad,
pray also for the heathen at home. And pray for those distressed Ckris-
tians whose whole chance of religious improvement is an accident of
—
trade and sale from whom any adherence to the morals of Christianity
is, ill 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 knowledge,
and, in many cases, infirm in moral constitution, from a system 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.
What do you owe to these poor unfortunates, O Christians ? Does not
every American Christian owe to the African race some effort at repa-
ration for the wrongs that the American nation has brought upon them ?
Shall the doors of churches and school-houses be shut upon them ?
Shall states arise and shake them out ? Shall the Church of Christ
hear in sUence the taunt that is thrown at them, and shrink away
from the helpless hand that they stretch out, and, by her silence encou-
rage the cruelty that would chase them from our borders ? If it must
be so, it will be a mournful spectacle. If it must be so, the country will
have reason to tremble, when it remembers that the fate of nations is in
the hands of One who is very pitiful,one of tender compassion.
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 up Liberia with an ignorant, inexperienced, half-barbarised race,
fill

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
j
 UNCLE xom's cabin. 389

of Christian republican society and schools, until they have attained to

Fomewhat of a moral and intellectual maturity, and then assist them in
their passage to 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 always seen ex-
amples of men, formerly slaves, who have rapidty acquired property,
reputation,. and education. Talent has been developed, which, considering
tlie cu'cumstances, 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 degi-ee that, considering the influence under which they
were born, is sui'prising.
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, had 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 regard to the capa-
;

bilities of the race, are encom-aging in the highest degree.

The first desire of the emancipated slaves, generally, is iox echication.

There is nothing that they are not willing to give or do to have their
childi'en 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.
" B . Furniture maker ; twenty years in this city ; worth ten
thousand dollars, all his own eai-nings ; 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
)llars ; about forty years old ; free six years ;
paid eighteen hundred
dollars for his family ; member of the Baptist church ;received a legacy
from his master, Avhicli he has taken good care of, and increased.
 ! ;

390 UNCLE TOM's CABI5f.

" G . Full black ; coal dealer about thirt} years old worth
;
;

eighteen thousand dollars ;

paid for himself twice, being once defrauded
to the amount of sixteen hundred dollars made ; all his money by his own
efforts —much of while a slave, hiring his time of his master, and doing
it

business for himself; a fine, gentlemanly fellow.

" W Three-fourths black barber and waiter from Kentucky
. ; ;

nineteen years fi ee ;
paid for self and family over three thousand doUars ;

worth twenty thousand dollars, all his own earnings ; deacon in the
ISaptist church.
" G. D . Three-fourths black; white- washer ; from Kentucky;
nine years free paid fifteen hundred dollars for self and family
; ; re-
cently died, aged sixty worth six thousand dollars."
;

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 woman, 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 masters. 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 be 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 nave 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
^^hite. Nor are these instances confined to the state of Ohio. In all
states of the Union we see men, but yesterday 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, Douglass 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 convulsed.
A mighty influence is abroad, surging and heaving the world, as with an
earthquake. And is America safe ? Every nation that carries in its
 UNCLE XOM, S CABIN. 391

besom great and unredi-essed injustice, has in it the elements of this last
convalsion.
For -nhat is this mighty influence thus rousing in all nations and
languages those groanings that cannot be uttered for man's freedom and
equality ?

O Church of Christ, read the signs of the times ! Is not this power
the spirit of Him whose kingdom is yec to come, and whose will is to be
done on earth as it is in heaven ?

But who may abide the day of his appearing ? " For that day shall
burn as an oven and he shall appear as a swift witness against those
:

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 somighty
an injustice ? Christians! every time that you pray that the kingdom
of Christ may come, can you forget that prophecy associates, in dread
fellowship, the day of vengeance with the year of his redeemed ?
A day of grace is Both ^orth and South have been
yet held out to us.
guilty before God
and the Christian Church has a heavy account to
;

answer. Not by combining together to protect injustice and cruelty,

and 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 injus-
tice and cruelty shall bring on nations the wrath of Almij^lity God.

THi; E^'D.
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