Citation
Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly

Material Information

Title:
Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly
Portion of title:
Life among the lowly
Creator:
Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 1811-1896
Morris, Charles ( Author of introduction )
Dominion Company ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
Chicago
Publisher:
Dominion Company
Publication Date:
Copyright Date:
1897
Language:
English
Edition:
Art Memorial edition
Physical Description:
615 p. : ill. (some col.), port. ; 22 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Christian life -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Plantation life -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Slavery -- Fiction -- United States ( lcsh )
Slavery -- Fiction ( lcsh )
African Americans -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Slaves -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Uncle Tom (Fictitious character) -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Fugitive slaves -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Family -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Cruelty -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children -- Death -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Master and servant -- Fiction ( lcsh )
Fiction -- Southern States ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1897
Genre:
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- Illinois -- Chicago

Notes

General Note:
Title page and verso printed in red and green.
Statement of Responsibility:
by Harriet Beecher Stowe ; to which is added how Henry Ward Beecher sold slaves in Plymouth church ; life of Harriet Beecher Stowe ; the story of the book ; and a key to the characters by Charles Morris.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
00812039 ( OCLC )
026974038 ( AlephBibNum )
ALH8550 ( NOTIS )

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mY UNCLE TOMS
ICABIN 44007

V7 \\ ORLIFE AMONG THE
WAIN LOWLY & & & & &
AHN. IBY eee ef eee]

/ 171) \: | MIMRRIET BEECTIER STOWE



ipleomD

tO WHICH IS ADDED

HOW HENRY WARD BEECHER SOLD
Mk, FtAswervnoum crore
\ .
Ml LIFE OF HARRIETT BEECHER STOWE |

: nies THE STORY OF THE BOOK © W W

= Mine 6 6 we © eee

A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS W W

By PROF. CHARLES MORRIS WwW WwW Ww
DdIdD?d

THE DOMINION COMPANY
328-334 Dearborn Street
CHICAGO, U. S. A.





Copyright 1897.
By JOHN E. POTTER
All rights reserved.

The special feature matter in this book is fully protected by Copyright, as well
as the illustrations, which have been made expressly for it from original
drawings. Anyone infringing in any form will be prosecuted,



Tees ee |

Ff



Publisher’s Introduction «1... . ep eee ee ee ee 15
How Henry Ward Beecher Sold Slaves in Plymouth Church . . 17
Life ‘of Harriett Beecher Stowe... 2... 1... ee ee eee 24
The Story of the Book... «1 we ee ee ee ee ew we 29
A Key to the Characters... .. SUR Mi onictit-tninta me Tele cmicl sects 37
DPrOLACOh cereus ete eacpecnecte stoma pecan stores au siiiecate mr soes iat ers aise sents ae 45
Emancipation Proclamation... 6... 1 ee ee ee eee 48
CHAPTER I.

In which the Reader is Introduced to a Man of Humanity ... 51
CHAPTER II.

The Mother ........ See) CHAPTER III.

The Husband and Father ...... 1... ewww eee - . 68
CHAPTER IV.

An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin ............6- 1
CHAPTER V.

Showing the Feelings of Living Property on Changing Owners . 91
CHAPTER VI.

ICCA saan, Baoromeo Sige sca: ono pers ins sees tee cre 103
CHAPTER VII.

sBhesMotheris Strugglesn<. serge sepe- ok satsencm caneon stacey 115

; CHAPTER VIII.,
“Three ofa Kind ......... Side cee tease ee 131



8 CONTENTS.

CHAPTER IX.
In which it Appears that a Senator is buta Man. ..... . . 150

CHAPTER X.
The Property is Carried Off ..... Serta ieee orc eme mr acer 171
CHAPTER XI.
In which Property gets into an Improper State of Mind. .... 182
CHAPTER XII.
Select Incident of Lawful Trade... - +. eee aneseecere ek Oty
CHAPTER XIII.
The Quaker Settlement .........-.546- reer eu inte teat 219
CHAPTER XIV
Evangeline. . 2. 2 2 ee ee ee et es RCteie mea ceo k
CHAPTER XV.
Of Tom’s New Master, and Various Other Matters. ...... 244
CHAPTER XVI. ~
Tom’s Mistress and Her Opinions ..... eeiereea Cian cea 264,
CHAPTER XVII.
The Freeman’s Defense... ... 2.2 + eee eee eee cod
CHAPTER XVIII.
Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions BaEStn een tieaee toca ear ane 304
CHAPTER XIX.
Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions, Continued ..... . 324
CHAPTER XX.
TODSY setae ene hate eeu os bok chr sehen oe esos ernomeirel tones 346
CHAPTER XXI.
een tuickentetsc csc crsci caster ete opto saree cere etoile eiaeomns ees 366
CHAPTER XXII.
‘The Grass Withereth—the Flower Fadeth”?. ........ 37)
CHAPTER XXIII.
Honriqueyrytaterteetaee eer estes er wenn Mile verses cael 38¢



i i

CONTENTS. 9
CHAPTER XXV.

The Little Evangelist... . . Py Ca he eamem teens oot eee OR
CHAPTER XXVI.
Moathetewien sa eae Sere ieee hate tas mont on Reser ee 40D
CHAPTER XXVII.

‘(This is the Last of Earth”... ......- rr
CHAPTER XXVIII.

JREUMION Mester ens sivenne sete to ee meso SEB ces ouh ie eom nes AOS
CHAPTER XXIX.

The Unprotected .. 2... ee ee ee ee ee es . » 451
CHAPTER XXX.

The Slave Warehouse... -. +--+ -seeeee oe es » 461
CHAPTER XXXI.

The Middle Passage... . 2. ee eee ee ee eee -. 473
CHAPTER XXXII
Dark Places ....-- Di sees Leraote er eee stash veer eks ead,
CHAPTER XXXIII
Cassy ..--.--- BRN eee sa ae ier Sameer erik ir okar ester . - 490
CHAPTER XXXIV.

The Quadroon’s Story ........-. re reg eerie eerie 500

CHAPTER XXXV. ‘
OM URNS -6 G4 6 099.610 0.6 cio 6 O15 ef testes ceo he -ler 513
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Emmeline and Cassy . - 6 6 ee ee ee et ee ee ee 521
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Tet Derbyseasirec ecu le semis ece stows Mig (elec eeee ren -Meoateasietion suet 528
CHAPTER XXXVIII
TR GVA CEOLV see isaac ate raaes hoes es mart ole keane ofenoaes 538
.CHAPTER XXXIX.
The Strataremetene ce err ss een oan aree fainter alten 549
CHAPTER XL.
Oy E San ge= Gp sod ee OG Bi dko Hn oO G60 0 0-060 06-070 564



10 CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XLI.

The Young Master ...-.- + +--+ +-es
CHAPTER XLII.

An Authentic Ghost Story... 6. 1 ee ee ee eee ee
CHAPTER XLIII.

REGUL tame carsmeichesine tiene sonch eae roa eae eo etait ota rots sae oun
CHAPTER XLIV

Theslii beratorescuceicuket cu oie racists og Ui ahem oe are es tomes) snouts

CHAPTER XLV.

Concluding Remarks ....+ ++ esses















1, Presentation page .. 1 + wee eee ere ern ere ne 1
2. Frontispiece page. - 6 1 eee we ew eee ee ew eee 4
3. Harriett Beecher Stowe... . . Siew enh oeeere cars ee diclecun send.
4. UncleTom ....... oerote tess ances were estes set Gomeioe sa
5. Eva... .. shite ete ef i obios netdeti( uber tow seer Leto csis ailments 4
6. Topsy. -- 2. eee SMUkoGen cay siesascels tsa leticn sti eterte ne
WeaWilizayes.ersasared ice se OM isd eee cet yeas oh er salen cme 4
8. George Harris ..... aaaetped Tecente rea ss Masi oat out ofec yom sttce race
OPPETAL OY Ftizc eos drou stajea oP opis remot eltela ware! seu rey opmenaiel “onvea uments 4
Oe err eG ee arr. eects chown =a ans einron Mc ester scene ours oe. 4
11. House in which Uncle Tom’s Cabin was written ...... 4
12. Illustrative title page (in colors) ........ saree oa hes O
13. Illustrative head-piece, Contents. ..........2..- 7
14. Illustrative tail-piece, Contents ...... «s«.2.2ee.., 10
15. Illustrative head-piece, INustrations. ......... » 11
16. Illustrative head-piece, Publisher’s Introduction ...... 15
17. Illustrative head-piece, How Henry Ward Beecher sold slaves
in Plymouth Church. ......... SEnOReh area ouen 17
18. Illustrative tail-piece.-. . 2... 6 ee ee ee te te 23
19. Illustrative head-piece, Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe . . . . 24
20. Illustrative head-piece, The Story of the Book ....... 29
Q1. Illustrative head-piece, A Key to the Characters ..... .37
22. Illustrative tail-piece ......... Saas wio wien on ouciea satel 44
23. Illustrative head-piece, Preface ..... oer eueece sere mnee es 45
24, Illustrative tail-piece. ....... SUeeisiroaemycu geen cette 47
25. Henry Ward Beecher selling slaves in Blymonth Charchs: - - 50
26. Illustrative head-piece, Uncle Tom’s Cabin ........51

27,
28.

Accompanying his singing with many comic evolutions . . .53
George stood like one transfixed... .. eg caren ee - . 65



12

29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35,
36.

37.
38.
39.
40.

41,
42,
43,
44,
45.
46.

47.
48.

49.
50.

51.

52.
53.
54,
55.

66.
57.

58.
59.

60.
61.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Parting of George and Eliza. .......0.20-e..02. 73
Aunt CHOC oom shou. cnuis rl odie Ben iern outs iemreiee somos emremm one ett
Uncle Tom’sCabin. ......... SetoiE Meek sate we eee sme Ol)
Cabin exterior... . - 1... 220e- Sueeved meee eo L
“Not that way, UncleTom.”..........0..000. 81
‘* Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow?” ...... saree
“Tm runnin’ away, UncleTom.” ........,... 99
They ducked and dodged hither and thither to be out of the

reach of hisriding whip. .........-..0., 105
The mettlesome creature threw his master sprawling. . . . 112
She vaulted sheer over the turbid current. ........ 127
Loker listened to him with gruff and surly attention . . . . 133

‘‘Fellow countrymen,’’ said Sam, elevating a turkey’s leg

withenergy ........... Sao e (oine Seas ae cme cue nes 147
Eliza lay inadeadlyswoon ........2..42..0.. 156
Eliza was hurried into the carriage . . ......... .156
Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer ..... sagen Moma 156
The Senator despairingly steps out . . . . 2... -... .168
He stood holding the candle aloft. ...... eee e » . 168
“Tsay, gal, you needn’t bea bitafeard.”......... 168
““Getin!’ said Haley toTom .............. 176
Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveler en-

Peete enkey eee teed sees inouecmicaes Be deste te sea 185
He sauntered up to the advertisement and read itover . . . 185
George stood with his head thrown back and a bitter smile

curling shisilipsser seers eve ket we cet ence eh toy seers eienge Pons 185
His fine figure, alert limbs and bright face raised an instant

COM PELIbLOM GE sss oar cmre ics cote: les a Meoces es es cstace tui ee smears 201
‘Oh, Albert ! Oh, my boy! You’s my last baby.”. . ... 201
He drove them before him to the jail... ......... 201

Haley pulled his mouth open, looked in and felt of his teeth. 201
The La Belle Riviere was floating gaily down the stream . . 201
With sobs and tears she bemoaned him as her husband . . . 211
The wild look of anguish and utter despair might have dis-
turbed one less practised ....-.....5e...04. 211
He awoke with asudden start and heard a splash in the water. 211
It was plain to see how old and firm the girlish heart had
grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow ....... 221
It was no dream—her husband was sobbing by her pillow . 228
He saw her strike the water and sink, and was after her ina
MOMENE: terre ee ete sesielce: couse) “outs Wsjis/ 6: em smeue: (el ome caS





62.
63.
64.
65.

66.
67.
68.
69.
70.
71.
72.
73.
74,
75.
76.
78.
79.
80.

81.
82.

83.
84.

85.
86.

87.
88.
89.

90.

ILLUSTRATIONS. 13

‘Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things?”’. . . . . 253
The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion . . . . 258

QO! Tom, you looksofunny!’ ....... 2-22 ees 273
A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the
top of adistant hill. .... Sette heer ee ie Rr ee 293
George fired . . 22 0 1 se et et ew ee tw wes 299
‘*Get up, Tom, I’m not worth crying over.’ .....- - 308
“QO! ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart be-
CWEED VOU sei ve sie se outot o) ecu ste omenio) cs sicomrem 320
His large blue eyes flashed and he gestured with an uncon-
scious eagerness... + ee ee Bree eee ae eset nome 329
She suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst into
tears and sobbed convulsively ...... 2+ ee eee 342
Miss Ophelia shows Topsy how tomakeabed ....... 353
Rosa, at that instant, came into theroom .........- 356
“Does you know you’s all sinners.” ......-+-+..-. 363
The sight that pleased him most was her sunny head looking
out the gate for his distant approach .........-. 373
‘‘Tom,’’ said Eva suddenly, stopping and pointing to the ;
lakesitheres tiss!mumecrsetn sy cutee riers omer ueent aeemer 376
Henrique struck him across the face with his riding whip . . 381
. “There come the children.’ . 2... 1. eee ee ee ee 389
‘¢S pects it’s my wicked heart,’’ said Topsy, demurely . . . 401
“Tt’s a beautiful bouquet,’ said Eva, looking atit. .. . . 408
‘‘T sent for you all, my dear friends,’’ said Eva, ‘‘ because I
IONON nhs wep ot go cob O Sad Bech OU. bod oad 413
“O! Tom, my boy, itiskillingme!” .......... 42
Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and
silence herser tre etter cunetienn ete eked ons Sean Resto oe 427
St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift. ......... 440
With smothered voices and heavy tread came several men
bringing abody .......-. See er ieee orto e447)
The slave warehouse .... 2-2 ee ee ee eevee 460
The auctioneer expatiates ealciiy in mingled French and
English and bids rise in rapid succession .-.--... 471
The care of the former owner had been left to go to utter decay. 483
“Dog !? she said ‘‘touch meif youdare!” ........ 495
The two gigantic negroes now laid hold of Tom with fiendish
exultation in their faces... . 2... 2. ee ee ene 498
Often, as she read, her voice faltered, and sometimes failed

heraltogether . 2... ee ee eee ere ree eee 504



14 ILLUSTRATIONS.
91. Legree and both the drivers were in astate of furious ‘in-
(Ween o o 5 Blo Goo bo GO OD oo 6 Oe ¢ 519
92. The scissors glittered as one long lock after another was de-
tached from herhead ..-. 1... 1 ee ee eee 531
93.. The husband and wife knelt down and lifted up their hearts
(IHeMGl wb 6 yer OMe Se oG-o eo HOO . . . 537
94. ‘There, you dog,’’ be said, ‘‘see if you feel so comfortable
aL bOTabh auscceg sen ere eee itera et cee rae oy meron tat weir 544
95. A wild gust of wind swept down, extinguishing the candle . 555
96. ‘If you do, I’ll kill you,”’ said Cassy, drawing a small glit-
tering stiletto... - . ee ee ee ee ee ee 560
97. With the glare of blazing torches and whoop and shout and
savage yell of man and beast... 2... ee eee 566
98. Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about . . 566
99. “ Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him, give it to
Lyne 22s ar airtgmes ee ot ser ot acerca aero a-ae 100. With one indignant blow knocked Legree flat upon his face. 578
101. It stood by his bed, a voice said three times, in a low fearful
whisper, ‘‘Come! Come! Come!” ....-.--.-. 583
102. Cassy and Emmeline disguised .. 2... 1 eee eee 587
103. Cassy fellinsensible on the floor ofthe cabin ...... 590
104. ‘‘Oh, George! Don’t you know me? I’m your sister
ARG Tin ye eer ee Pearce a eae der ee 593
105. ‘‘And now, my friends, look up and thank God for the
blessing of freedom . . 2 1 ee eee ete ee ee 604

106. The whipping post. © 6 6 6 ee ee ee ee ee ee 615







T is not our purpose to attempt to
inform the public how great and
famous a book ‘Uncle Tom’s
Cabin” really is. To do so would
be like ‘carrying coals to New-
castle.’ A book that has been —
read by ten million readers, in
every land and of every language,
which has brought tears to more

: eyes and laughter to more lips than

any other book ever written, and which has become a
classic wherever the English language is spoken, does
not need to be introduced to the reading public at this
late day. It is true that since it was written a new
generation has grown up and the state of affairs to
which it refers has long since passed away. But the
living interest of the book remains unchanged, and it
can be read to-day with as deep enjoyment of its thrill-
ing story, and as absorbing interest in its exciting sub-
ject, as in the days when all the world went wild over
the sorrows of Uncle Tom and wept at the death of the
saint-like Eva. ;

Itis aremarkable fact, even at this day, that there is no
well-illustrated or attractively-presented edition of this
extraordinary work. Such an edition has been long de-
manded by the reading public, but none has heretofore.
been made. It is to this earnest demand that the
present edition is due, the publishers having decided to
present this classic work of fiction in a form- worthy
‘of its well-earned reputation. In order that this might

; 15







16 PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION.

be adequately done, they have had employed for a long
time past a corps of the ablest modern artists, men who
have made special study of characters, scenes and inci-
dents in the South before the war, the result of their
labors being given in the magnificent series of brush
and pen drawings with which this edition is so lavishly
illustrated, the whole forming a grand panorama. of pic-
torial embellishment as instructive and pleasing as it is
faithful and artistic.

The illustrations are but one of the special features
of this handsome edition, which has been specially pre-
pared as an art and literary memorial of the author, in.
consequence of her recent death. It contains in addi»
tion a series of valuable accessory literary features which
add enormously to its value, and which can be found in
no other edition, having been specially written for this.
These include the thrilling story of “‘ How Henry Ward
Beecher Sold Slaves in Plymouth Church”; ‘A Life Sketch
of Harriet Beecher Stowe,’ giving the interesting
details of her career; the ‘‘ Story of the Book,” with a
full account of the dramatic incidents surrounding its
writing and of its phenomenal popularity; a ‘‘Key to the
Characters,’’ in which the pith of a whole volume of
evidence collected by the author is given in condensed
form; and other special features of much interest.

It must also be borne in mind that when ‘‘ Uncle
Tom’s Cabin’’ was originally published the modern
method of illustration was unknown, and only crude
and old-fashioned wood cuts were available. The new
generation to whom this edition is presented is ac-
customed to a different class of books and illustrations
than could be had forty years ago, and it is to their de-
veloped tastes that the publishers have here catered.
Though the immediate causes which originally called
forth this great work have passed away, the recent death
of the author makes this memorial edition timely and
welcome. Despite the change in the times, the lessons
of the book are still fresh and its interest abiding, and
this charming story cannot fail to prove attractive to the
millions of fresh readers who have since come upon the
stage of life. Tur PUBLISHERS.








t VAC How Henry WARD BEECHES
57 IN Soup SLAVES,
re S os BY By





Mou TH Crurc

N the morning of Sunday, June
1, 1856, an extraordinary scene
took place in Plymouth Church,
that famous -Brooklyn temple
of liberal religious thought
which was so long presided
over by Henry Ward Beecher,
the foremost pulpit orator in
America. The edifice was filled,
crowded, overflowing with peo-
ple, all intensely expectant,

while without were thousands more who had been

unable to obtain admittance, for word had gone abroad
that Plymouth pulpit would that morning be turned
into a slave mart, and that its admired pastor would
sell a beautiful slave girl to whoever wished to buy.
Surprising as this announcement appeared, the eyes
of the great audience told them that it was founded on

fact, for there on the pulpit by Mr. Beecher’s side stood a

young woman whose nearly white face still showed indi-

cations that negro blood ran in her veins; and beside her
stood the dignified orator, like a slave auctioneer. about
to sell that human article of traffic to the highest bidder.

No wonder the audience looked at this striking scene
with excited eyes. They knew, it is true, what it
meant, but that only made their interest the more
intense. They knew that Henry Ward Beecher was
one of the leading abolitionists of the land; that he had
written vigorously against slavery; that he had borne
arms in Cincinnati against a threatened attack upon the

17





18 HOW HENRY WARD BEECHER

free colored people; that he had preached abolitionism
at Indianapolis and turned his home there into one of
the stations of the ‘‘ Underground Railroad ;’’ that he
had fed and concealed fugitive slaves, and driven them
through midnight storms to the next station on the
“ Underground,’’? and that in Plymouth Church his
voice had been raised in vigorous tones against the
institution of human slavery. They knew that he had
taken this stand despite the fact that New York and
Brooklyn were full of Southern sympathizers, and in the
face of abuse and threats of violence and the fact that a
mob had once gathered in New York with the purpose
of tearing down the church in which he preached.

They knew all this, and therefore their feelings may
be imagined when word spread abroad that Mr. Beecher
was about to sella slave from the pulpit of Plymouth
Church. Of course, it may be taken for granted that
the audience guessed fairly well what this meant. They
knew that the famous pulpit orator could not stultify his
record; they knew that no human being could be sold
into slavery in New York State, and they must have
conjectured what was indeed the case, that the tremb-
ling girl by Mr. Beecher’s side was about to be sold
into FREEDOM, to be bought from her master and given
the sole possession of her own body and soul.

Appeals had often been made to him to aid in pur-
chasing the freedom of men and women who had been
seized as fugitive slaves. Two weeks before he had
been told that a young woman in Richmond, Va., had
been sold by her own father, a white man,—or monster,
—to a slave dealer for twelve hundred dollars, to be
sent South; ‘‘for what purpose,’”’ he told the audience,
‘‘you can imagine when you see her.’’ - Mr. Beecher, .
inspired with the idea that a slave sale in their own
midst would best teach the people of the Metropolis
what a thing of horror the slave traffic really was,
resolved to offer this woman for sale in his own church,
and procured the consent of the dealer on the woman’s
promise that she would return if not bought into free-
dom. That dealer, too, knew the honor of the man
with whom he had to deal.



SOLD SLAVES IN PLYMOUTH CHURCH. 19

The silence in the church was almost painful as the
beautiful young slave woman ascended the pulpit stairs
and stationed herself before the audience, while Mr.
Beecher’s expressive face told the sentiments that were
passing through his mind. With the facility of an
actor—and the great orator had much of the power of
the born actor—he assumed the look of an auctioneer
about to call for bids, while his voice took on the cold,
heartless tone of one used to dealing in human flesh and
blood.

“Took,” he said, ‘‘at this commodity—human as
yourselves, yet an article of traffic, before you for pur-
chase. Look at her regular features and thoughtful
brow, which have come to her from the white blood of
her father. She stands before you to be sold. Who
bids? Remember that you will have to pay an extra
price for that white blood, since it bespeaks intelligence.
Who bids?—Stand up, Sarah. Lookat her. Mark her
fine figure and handsome face. What will they bring?
I warrant her sound in wind and limb. Who bids for
this woman ?

‘‘Hold out your hands, Sarah. You.see they are
small and shapely. I await your bids. She is a Chris-
tian woman—a praying nigger, I mean—and that makes
her worth more, for she will be docile and obedient.
How much for this slave woman? Shall this woman,
this Christian like yourselves, this being made in the
image of God, be sent back to Richmond, and sold
farther South to meet the fate to which her own father
doomed her? If not, who bids? Her fate rests upon
your souls. Who bids?”’

It would be impossible to describe the impression
made by these words, as the clear voice of the speaker
sent them vibrating to the remotest corner of the
church. As he spoke the actor stood declared. He
was transformed into the auctioneer he simulated. His
mellow tones grew harsh and cold; his eyes seemed to
say that slave girl and audience were nought to him,
and that this was a mere matter of every-day business.
The excitement grew more intense as he continued,
after a moment’s pause:



20 HOW HENRY WARD BEECHER

“Come! She is to be sold, and a fine specimen she
is,as you can see. Look ather! Do you want her?
Pass the baskets and we shall see.’’

The order was timely, the audience were ripe for it.
They had been wrought up to an intense pitch of sympa-
thetic feeling. Pitying tears streamed from many eyes;
indignation burned in many faces; women grew hysteri-
cal; men could not restrain their feelings ; never had the
abomination of the slave trade been so vividly shown.
One man stepped forward and threw a bank-note on the
pulpit at Mr. Beecher’s feet.

“Well done!’’ he cried, ‘‘The first, who follows?’’

Hundreds were eager to follow. Money was heaped
into the baskets until they were overflowing. Others,
too excited to wait the slow coming of the baskets, flung
notes and coin on the pulpit. Not money only, but
jewelry, was freely offered. Women threw rings and
bracelets into the baskets. Men handed their watches
to the ushers. Above the din rang out the preacher’s
voice: ‘‘Shall this woman return to Richmond and
slavery, or shall she stay here and be free?’’

‘ decision.

‘‘How much then do you bid, men and women? In
Christ’s name, answer! ’’

‘Mr. Beecher,”? came a loud voice above the din,
“enough has been bid to more than buy the woman.
If not, there are gentlemen here who promise to make
up any deficiency, however large.”’

“Then, Sarah, you are free!’’ cried the orator, turning
to the late slave, whose wet eyes and trembling frame
showed that she shared fully the excitement of the
audience.

A shout, almost a cheer, broke from the half-frenzied
people, so loud that it almost shook the walls of the
church. The applause continued for many minutes,
cries of prayer and praise mingling with it. It was
silenced at length by the lifting of Mr. Beecher’s hand.

““God bless Plymouth Church!’’ he fervently ex-
claimed. ‘In the ancient days, when the Jews went
up to their solemn feasts, the very mountains around







SOLD SLAVES IN PLYMOUTH CHURCH. 21

Jerusalem rang with their shouts. I do not approve of
applause in the House of God; but for a good deed well
done, like that of to-day, it cannot be wrong to out-
wardly express our joy.’’

No deficiency needed to be made up in the collection.
Not only the twelve hundred dollars demanded by the
slave dealer were given, but enough more to enable the
freed woman to buy for herself a little home at Peekskill,
N.Y., where she made for herself a livelihood by raising
fowls and selling eggsand butter. It was indeed a good
deed well done, and Henry Ward Beecher had earned
the applause of all lovers of liberty and human brother-
hood.

_ This sale was a happy suggestion to Mr. Beecher. He
followed it up with others, and it is pleasant to be able
to state that not in a single instance did he fail to pro-
cure the freedom of the slave offered. The most inter-
esting of these took place in February, 1860, on the very
verge of the great civil war. It was this time a little
girl named Pinky, the daughter of a white father,—too
pretty for her own good, as her old grandmother wrote,
—who was about to be sold ‘‘down South.’’ ‘‘Can she
be set free?’? Mr. Beecher was asked. “ Bring her
North and I will try,’ he replied. ‘‘I will be respon-
sible for the child, and send her back if not lawfully
purchased.”’

The slave-owner, who did not care particularly from
whom the money came, so that he received it, readily ac-
cepted this offer, saying: ‘‘If Henry Ward Beecher has
given his word itis better than another man’sbond.”’ ‘It
is the only compliment I have ever received from a slave-
owner,’’ Mr. Beecher laughingly said, on hearing of this
tribute to his honor.

Pinky was brought North, and sold from Plymouth
pulpit as Sarah had been, amid excitement and enthus-
iasm as intense. . The beauty of the child doubled the
sympathy of the audience, the orator’s moving words
brought tears in showers from his hearers, and the price
demanded was more than contributed. Rose Terry, a
famous writer of that day, threw a valuable ring into
the basket, and this Mr. Beecher took out and placed on



22 HOW HENRY WARD BEECHER

the child’s finger, saying: ‘With this ring do I wed
thee to freedom.’’

Pinky was sent to school with the extra money raised,
under the new name of Rose Ward—adapted from Rose
Terry and Henry Ward Beecher. When she grew to
womanhood she became eager to be educated as a teacher,
that she might work as a missionary among her freed
people in the South. Mr. Beecher made another appeal
from his pulpit for this purpose, and raised enough to
send his protege to Lincoln University for a year, after
which she fulfilled her chosen mission of going South to
educate the liberated slaves. From time to time word
of the good work she was doing came North, to gladden
her benefactor’s heart.

The dramatic scenes here described may be closed by
the story of. another, in which Mr. Beecher played an
important part in the final work of the emancipation of
the slaves. President Lincoln was highly interested in“
the story of Pinky, which had been related to him by
Mr. Beecher, who was his earnest friend and frequent
adviser. He had made persistent appeals to Lincoln to
free the slaves, all of which were resisted on the plea
that this could not legally be done, except as a military
nécessity.

“Do you promise to do so if the military necessity ever
arises !’’ persisted the warm-hearted advocate of freedom.

“With all my heart I do,” declared the President.

At length the time came,in Mr. Beecher’s opinion.
He grew strongly agitated on reading of the Federal
~ victory at Antietam. Leaving home, he hurried to Ful--.
ton Ferry to go to Washington. But he was undecided.
Several times he crossed the ferry, back and forth. At
length it occurred to him to choose a swifter messenger
than the railroad train of that day. Hurrying to a tele-
graph office, he despatched the following message to
President Lincoln : 3

‘(Ts there not a military necessity now? Will you
keep your promise ?’’

In the hours that followed, the friend of the slaves was
deeply preoccupied with anxiety. He could not eat, he
eould not work. Questions asked him had to be twice





SOLD SLAVES IN PLYMOUTH CHURCH. 23

repeated before he heard them. His whole soul was
wrapped up in the expected reply to his message.

At length it came. The door bell rang.
was handed in. With eager haste he tore it open and
read these two words of deeply significant meaning:

“Yes! Linconn.”

In those words lay the promise of the emancipation
of a race for centuries held in bondage, and the lifting
of the United States to the honorable place among
nations which it had hitherto forfeited by maintaining
the institution of slavery. In the proclamation of free-
dom to the slave that followed Mr. Beecher’s life work
in this direction was ended, and Abraham Lincoln
placed himself on the highest pedestal of fame as one of
the leading benefactors of mankind,







N_ the early part of this century there was
no more distinguished preacher in this
country than Lyman Beecher, a Congre-
gational minister of New England; and
certainly none has left the world more
distinguished descendants. Of these it
will suffice to name here the famous
Henry Ward Beecher, and his no less
famous sister, Harriet Elizabeth Beecher,
the subject of this sketch, who was born
in Litchfield, Conn., June 14, 1811.

Even as a mere child, Harriet showed marked precocity

in an intellectual direction, committing to memory

enough poems and prose selections to serve her during
life for quotation, while when but twelve years old she

wrote an essay on the abstruse subject, ‘‘Can the Im-

mortality of the Soul be Proved by the Light of Na-

ture ?”

This precocity continued. In her school years she
wrote a drama, whose scene was laid in Rome in the
time of Nero, made a metrical translation from Ovid,
and occupied her mind with the study of Butler’s
‘‘ Analogy”? and Baxter’s ‘‘Saint’s Rest.” These last
serious studies indicated the nature of the influences
surrounding her. Religion filled the thoughts of the
circle in which she lived, and could not but strongly
affect her imaginative and ardent nature, and she was
still in girlhood when she entered her father’s study one
day and fell into his arms with the words: ‘ Father, I
have given myself to Jesus, and he has taken me.”’ “Is

24





LIFE OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 25

it so?’’ said the father, his eyes full of the light of joy.
“Then has a new flower blossomed in the Kingdom
this day.’’

In 1832 Dr. Lyman Beecher moved to Cincinnati,
having accepted the Presidency of Lane Theological
Seminary in that city. There his oldest daughter,
Catharine, founded a seminary for women, with Harriet
as her assistant. Though suffering much from ill-
health, the younger sister not only aided in the school,
but found time to write a school geography, and obtained
her first literary triumph by winning a prize of fifty
dollars with a story named ‘‘ Uncle Lot.’? Four years
after reaching Cincinnati she became the wife of Calvin
E. Stowe, a professor in the Lane Seminary, whose first
wife had some time before died. This important step in
her woman’s life took place January 6, 1836.

At Cincinnati Mrs. Stowe found herself in the midst
of the growing excitement attending the anti-slavery
agitation. This city, which looked upon a slave State
across the Ohio, early felt the stir of the rapidly increas-
ing sentiment. The Philanthropist, an anti-slavery paper,
had its office attacked by a mob, and Henry Ward
Beecher, editor at that time of a small daily paper on
which his sister assisted him, vigorously supported the
editor of the suppressed journal. Lane Seminary was
in peril from the mob, and the alert-minded authoress
daily came in contact with experiences of which she
was to make vital use in her after life. Her father and
friends were advocates of abolition, her brothers were
all anti-slavery men, and she had received and educated
in her own family the children of liberated slaves. One
of these waifs was seized to be sold as part of the assets
of a Kentucky estate. The child was ransomed, but
the incident deeply affected Mrs..Stowe’s mind. Some-
what later a negro girl from Kentucky became a servant
in her house. Her mistress had left her in Ohio, and
by the laws of that State she was free; but it was
learned that her former master had laid a plot to kid-
nap her, and Mr. Stowe and Henry Ward Beecher car-
ried the girl at midnight, in a covered wagon, to asecure
refuge twelve miles away.



26 «LIFE OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

These were but a few of the experiences that came to
the ardent-souled woman, and filled her mind with facts
which were to blossom into the living fiction of ‘‘ Uncle
Tom’s Cabin,’’ and through its pages to make a nation
of abolitionists. She left Cincinnati in 1849 for Bruns-
wick, Maine, where her husband had accepted a profes-
sorship in Bowdoin College. But she took with her a
memory full of painful scenes which she had seen or
had been in near contact with, and the letters which
followed her to her new home served to keep up the
indignation against the slave system which burned in
her soul. ’

The spark that kindled the train of her thoughts
came to her at length in a letter from her sister-in-law.
‘“‘Tf I could use a pen as you can,’’ said the letter, ‘‘I
would write something that would make this whole
nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is.’’

This letter came to her like an inspiration. Reading

it aloud to her family, when she came to the passage
just quoted, she exclaimed, with the face and gesture
of a prophetess: “I will write something. I will if I
live.”
' The story of how the book was written does not need
to be given here. It is told in the sketch which follows
this biography. It will suffice here to say that it was
written as all world-moving books are written ; it wrote
itself, the author’s mind being but the channel of the
inspiration that made the book. It was published
March 20, 1852, while Mrs. Stowe, exhausted with her
labor, was taking some weeks of needed rest with her
brother Henry at Brooklyn.

Meanwhile Professor Stowe accepted the Chair of
Sacred Literature in the Theological Seminary at Ando-
ver, Mass., and here an old stone building, which had
been a workshop and a gymnasium, was transformed
into a comfortable home, which the people of the place
named ‘‘ The Cabin.’’ Here the authoress proposed to
write a story of New England life, but the excitement
caused by ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin’? forced her into another
field of labor. From every quarter came demands that
she should sustain the statements made by ber in the



LIFE OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 27

book which was agitating the world, and she felt herself
forced into the composition of a voluminous ‘‘ Key to
Uncle Tom’s Cabin,”’ as long as the original work and
much more laborious.

Exhausted with this labor, in the ensuing summer
she and her husband, accompanied by her brother
Charles, crossed to Europe, the story of the journey
being afterwards given in a highly interesting work,
‘Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands.’? Sunny her
memories must have been, if adulation brings sunshine,
for the journey was made through admiring nations, the
noblest and the best of the people abroad eagerly greet-
ing and praising the most famous author of the day.
Numerous friends were made among the host of her
admirers, and her already large correspondence was in
consequence much increased.

During the years preceding the war Mrs. Stowe wrote
much in favor of anti-slavery, and from the new facts
which had come to her knowledge, produced a second
novel on this subject named ‘‘Dred.’’ This added to
the effect of ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ though. it failed to
gain the signal popularity of that noble work. The
profits of her works had placed the family in easy cir-
cumstances, and in 1856 they made another journey
abroad; but Mrs. Stowe had hardly returned when the
shadow of deep sorrow fell upon her in the death by
drowning of her son Henry, then pursuing a college
course at Dartmouth.

Her feeling was indicated in ‘‘The Mourning Veil,”
her first contribution to The Atlantic Monthly, then just
founded. Soon after she began “‘ The Minister’s Woo-
ing,’’ as a serial story for this magazine. It attracted
much favorable notice, and was followed in 1863 by
‘¢‘ Aones of Sorrento,’’ written from her experiences of
.@ winter spent in Italy, and by ‘The Pearl of Orr’s
Island.”’

During several succeeding years Mrs. Stowe ceased
novel writing, her pen being employed in producing a
series of didactic stories’ on subjects of social ethics.
Then came a series of Atlantic sketches, beginning
with ‘‘House and Home Papers,’ and ending with



28 LIFE OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

“The Chimney Corner.’’ But in 1869 appeared what
to many is the choicest of her works of fiction, ‘ Old
Town Folks,’’ a story of former life in rural New Eng-
land, full of the spirit of that locality, and racy with the
inimitable ‘‘Sam Lawson,’’ the perfect embodiment of
the ‘‘ Village Do-Nothing.’’ This character reappears
in ‘‘Old-Town Fireside Stories,’’ though less effectively.

Mrs. Stowe had purchased a plantation in Florida,
which became the winter home of the family for many
years. It was bought for the benefit of her son Fred-
erick, who had been a captain in the war and had left
the army suffering from the effects of wounds. Her
experiences here were put upon record in ‘‘ Palmetto
Leaves,’’ a series of letters from Florida. Her later
stories included ‘‘ My Wife and I” and ‘‘ We and Our
Neighbors,’’ published as serials in The Christian Union,
in which paper her brother Henry was largely interested ;
and in 1878 she produced another story of old-fashioned
New England life in ‘‘Poganue People.’’ But her
thoughts were now largely turned to religious subjects,
finding expression in short stories, poems and religious
- meditations, in which appeared a growing sense of the
mystery of the Divine.

Literature had now become a means of livelihood,
but it had grown into a wearying exertion, and she
sought to eke out her income by readings from her
works, then a common method with famous authors.
Her second reading was given in Tremont Temple, Bos-
ton, and proved a pronounced success, the whole audience
sharing the inspiration with which she delivered pas-
sages from ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”’

In 1886 her husband died, and after that Mrs. Stowe
began to lose her strong hold on life , dwelling in seclu-
sion in the quiet of herhome. Ten years afterward, on
July 1, 1896, she died in her home at Hartford, and was
buried ‘by her husband’s side in Andover Cemetery in
that city.





T is to the Fugitive Slave Law that we owe
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’’ This law, passed
in 1850, first brought the iniquity of sla-
very prominently before the people of the
North. It permitted slave-owners to fol-
low runaway slaves into the Northern
States, and commanded the people of -
those States to aid in their capture. But
the sympathies of a nation cannot be con-
trolled by law. The attempts to seize the
dark-skinned fugitives led to- riots and
rescues. In various places negroes were taken by force
from the officers and safely concealed. Several of the
States passed laws to protect the negroes, and many
persons organized to help the slaves secretly to Canada.
This method yecame known as the ‘‘ Underground Rail-
road,” and hunareas, yerhaps thousands, of trembling
fugitives owed their satesy to this peculiar system of
travel, with its secret stations and midnight journeys.
It was to this law, as above said. that we owe ‘‘ Uncle
Tom’s Cabin.” Mrs. Stowe lived :a ‘he midst of the
events described. Her residence in Cinciunati brought ,
- her into contact with the fugitives on the first stage in
their journey. Her own servants were threatened with
capture and had to fly for their liberty. She saw mach
and heard more of the evils of slavery, learned to know
the character of the slave and of his master, heard
many thrilling stories of slave life and of the adven-
tures and perils of fugitives, and her intense and imag-
29





60 , THE STORY OF THE BOOK.

inative soul was stirred to its depths. She determined
to show the world what the life of the slave really was,
to depict its happy side, as well as its dark and cruel
side, to paint alike the merciful and the merciless slave-
holder, to put on record, in short, the peculiar institu-
tion in all its Jights and shadows, and show the world
what she had seen for herself, and what had burnt itself
so deeply into her soul.

‘“Uncle Tom’s Cabin ’’ was in every sense a remark-
able book—a book written from the heart and appealing
to.the heart. It was felt to be fair and truthful, to show
the life of the slave in allits lights and shadows, and
there was that in it which took the world by storm.
People who took it up could not lay it down till they
had finished reading it. They laughed over ‘‘ Topsy,’’
they cried over ‘‘Eva’’ and “Uncle Tom,” but they
ended with tears in their eyes and indignation in their
hearts. No arguments nor denials could overcome its
influence. It set in train a silent revolution, and was
one of the great forces that led to the Civil War.

But we must return to the story of the book and tell
how it came to be written. We have spoken of Mrs.
Stowe’s experiences in Cincinnati. They followed her
after her removal to New England. The Fugitive Slave
Law had stirred up excited feeling throughout the
North. Even in Boston the colored people were in a
panic of terror, and many were fleeing to Canada. Let-
ters came to her, pitiful epistles, telling of the fear and
despair arising from the law. One of these letters con-
tained an earnest appeal to her, who was familiar with
the subject and a skilled writer,to use her pen in defence
of the slave.

“TJ will!’’ she cried, in an outburst of vital enthu-
siasm. ‘‘If I live, I will!”

It was no slight task to which she thus pledged herself.
She was not strong. She had around her a family of
six children, one of them an infant. Her husband had
but a small salary, and she was burdened with the cares
of her household. But the subject had taken hold of
her mind and would not let go. A book seemed beyond
her present ability, but a series of sketches, giving in



THE STORY OF THE BOOK. 381

fiction what she knew of slavery in fact, might do good
work in the cause which she had at heart, and show to
many honest souls the real character of that system
which they ignorantly upheld.

At this interval, a chance volume of an anti-slavery
magazine gave her the authentic story of how a slave
woman with her child had escaped to freedom across
the ice of the Ohio River. This was an event of dra-
matic interest, that was destined to prove one of the
most thrilling in the book. There came to her also the
story of a faithful slave who refused to escape from his
trusting master, though he was about to be sold ‘‘ down
river.’? In this she found the first suggestion of Uncle
Tom. The story of the book began, scene by scene, to
take shape in her imagination. We have her own state-
ment to the effect that ‘‘ the first part of the book ever
committed to writing was the death of Uncle Tom.”’
She was at the communion table at the little Brunswick
church when this scene, in all its pathetic completeness,
rose in her mind, possessing her so vividly and abso-
lutely that her weak frame shook.with deep emotion,
and she could scarcely keep back the tears which flooded
her eyes. Hurrying home, she put on paper the scene
which burned in her soul, and read it to her two young
sons. The pathetic tale threw them into convulsive weep-
ing, and one of them, through his tears, exclaimed : ‘Oh,
mamma, slavery is the most cursed thing in the world.”

That story was the key-note of the book. The other
incidents gathered round it. Scenes, conversations,
dramatic incidents took shape in her mind, and witha
vividness that gave them actual life. Her soul was
taken captive by the conception. ‘The book insisted
upon getting itself into being, and would take no
denial.’’

Mrs. Stowe did not yet know that she was writing a
book. In her view it was to be a story of moderate
length, and she wrote to the editor of The National Fra,
of Washington, saying that she was writing a tale that
would probably be long enough to run through several
numbers of his paper. The editor was her friend and
knew her powers, and he eagerly asked for the story.



39 THE STORY OF THE BOOK.

But instead of weeks, it ran on for months, the story
forcing its author to go on with it, so that nine months
passed before its limited but highly-interested audience
among the readers of the Era reached its final chapter.
Many of the anti-slavery people heard of and read it
with sympathy, but to the public at large it remained
almost unknown.

The work was produced under the pressure of cares
that would-have discouraged any less ardent writer,
yet in spite of all home distractions each weekly install-
ment was ready and sent off in time. The writing was
done by Mrs. Stowe, mostly in the mornings, on a little
writing desk in a corner of the dining-room of the
Brunswick cottage, amid countless interruptions spring-
ing from household demands and from the importunities
of her children, who would burst impetuously into the
room and interrupt her labors with their childish ques-
tions and wants. Her power of self-absorption was won-
derful. Itseems impossible that such a work could have
been produced under such circumstances. Yet the pen
kept on in its busy journey, the children were dismissed
with a smile and word, and the sorrows of Uncle Tom |
and the antics of Topsy alike came into being on the
written page in the midst of endless distractions. The
power of concentration displayed has rarely been
equalled. Inthe evening, what she had written during
the day was read to the assembled family, who followed
with the deepest interest the progress of the story.

In beginning this story, Mrs. Stowe did not dream of
any large profits likely to arise from it. Her hopes
were of the humblest. At all events, she certainly
never imagined that it would lift herself and her family
above the straitened circumstances in which they
had hitherto dwelt. From the editor of the Hra she
received three hundred dollars, and this she probably
looked upon as the end of her profits. It is true that,
while it was still being issued as a serial, Mr. J. P.
Jewett, a young publisher of Boston, offered to issue it
in book form. But he felt disposed to withdraw his
offer when the story unrolled to what he deemed weari-
some length. He wrote to the author that this would not



THE STORY OF THE BOOR. 33

do; the story was too long; it could not be issued asa
one-volume book; the subject was too unpopular for a
two-volume book to sell; the people would not read so
long a story on a theme for which they cared so little.

Mrs. Stowe replied that she had not made the story,
that it was its own author and she had not the power to
stop it in its course. Mr. Jewett still hesitated. A
critic, whom he asked to read it, sat up all night at its
perusal, and reported, ‘‘ The story has life in it; it will
sell.’ Mr. Jewett now offered to publish it on half
profits if Mr. Stowe would bear half the expense. The
professor replied that he had not the necessary money,
and in the end the publisher made up his mind to try
the venture, offering the usual ten per cent. royalty.

In this business arrangement Mrs. Stowe took no
part and felt no special interest. It was the effect of
the work in which she was interested, not its possible
profits. Her thoughts, her soul, had gone into it, as an
appeal to the world for the slave, and in deep discour-
agement she said ‘‘it seemed to her there was no hope;
- that nobody would hear, nobody would read, nobody
would pity.” Yet, she did all she could, writing letters :
and ordering copies of the book to be sent to anti-
slavery leaders abroad, such men as Prince Albert,
Macaulay, Dickens, Kingsley and others.

While she thus worked, the book came out. It seemed
asif the world had been eagerly waiting for it. Its suc-
cess was phenomenal from the start. By the day .of
issue,orders for three thousand copies had been received.
A few days passed and ten thousand copies were sold.
A new edition had to be printed with all speed, and
eight presses were kept running night and day in a vain
effort to keep up with the demand. Before a year had
elapsed the sales reached three hundred thousand copies.
Rarely has there been such a success. Everybody, high
and low, rich and poor, was reading the book and tak-
ing its lesson to heart. Public feeling was stirred to its
depths. It appealed to the sympathies of the whole
community, and carried before it a high wave of anti-
slavery sentiment throughout the land.

It was not alone its theme. People had heard much



384 IHE STORY OF THE BOOK.

of the evils of slavery. It was its power as a novel
that carried it with such rapidity through the land and
impressed its lesson on the hearts of the community.
At first it swept all before it. Praise was almost uni-
versal. But when the advocates of the slavery system
saw its effect, detraction began, and a fierce opposition
arose. The South and its sympathizers took up arms
against the book. Denunciations were uttered in pulpit
and issued in the press, and even the leading religious
paper of the land, a journal of New York, spoke of it
as ‘‘anti-Christian.”’

Mrs. Stowe was amazed. She had not dreamed of such
a sale, nor of such bitter denunciations. She had tried
to write mildly and justly, had painted some of the
slave-holders as men of noble character, had made evi-
dent the difficulty of their situation, and had laid the
lash of indignant feeling only on the slave-traders, the
public whippers, the overseers, those whom the South-
erners themselves despised, even while they had to
endure them as a necessity of the situation. But the
authoress did not fully understand what she had done.
She had dealt the whole system a deadly blow, and could
not reasonably hope it would be received with thankful-
ness.

In one respect, however, Mrs. Stowe was more than:
satisfied. The cash returns from the book exceeded her
wildest expectation. Four months after publication,
Mr. Stowe called on the publisher, telling him that he
hoped to receive enough to buy his wife a silk dress.
Mr. Jewett, in reply, handed him a check for ten thou-
sand dollars.

This was for the American sale. For the millions of
books sold abroad the authoress received nothing. The
story of the career of ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ in Eng-
land is interesting. The first copy reached London in
April, a gentleman having brought it with him as read-
ing matter on the steamer. He gave it to a friend,who
offered it for five pounds to an enterprising publisher.
It was declined with thanks. A second publisher also
declined it. The third, a Mr. Salisbury, read it the
night through, finding in it abundant matter for tears



THE STORY OF THE BOOK. 85

and laughter. Then, not sure but that he was growing
weak minded, he woke his wife and set her to reading
the book. Asit brought tears and laughter from her
also, he thought it might be safe to print.

It proved indeed a safe venture, though it moved
slowly till June was well gone. But during July the
demand reached a thousand a week, and before August
ended, a deluge of orders came in. Four hundred
people and seventeen printing machines, in addition to
hand-presses, were employed in preparing the book, of
which one hundred and fifty thousand copies were sold
in a marvellously brief time. A new publisher now
issued an edition, and the printing world, awakening to
the fact that anyone was at liberty to print the book,
issued edition after edition, till, before the year ended,
twelve were on the market, and before the end of 1853
forty different editions had been issued in London,
varying in price from the most sumptuous illustrated
edition at 15s. to the cheapest popular edition at 6d. It
is stated that, in all, more than a million and a half of
copies were circulated in Great Britain and her colonies.

This immense demand stimulated the publishers of
other nations, and translations began to appear on the
Continent. As the years went on, the book was trans-
lated into languages far removed from civilized Europe,
such as Arabic, Siamese and Chinese. In all, sixty-
eight translations, into twenty-three different languages,
are on record, namely: Arabic, Armenian, Chinese,
Danish, Dutch, Finnish, Flemish, French, German,
Hungarian, Dllyrian, Italian, Japanese, Polish, Portu-
guese, Modern Greek, Russian, Servian, Siamese, Span-
ish, Swedish, Wallachian, and Welsh. Truly, it proved
a work for the world, and, from China té America, all
nations wept over the sorrows of Uncle Tom and
_ laughed at the antics of Topsy and the shocked auster-
ity of Miss Ophelia.

In addition to the full editions, there were abridg-
ments, adapted to the use of children, and dramatiza-
tions, of which the first apppeared in the United States
in 1852, without the knowledge or consent of the
author, and made a most successful run in the leading



36 THE STORY OF THE BOOK.

cities, and afterward in those of Europe. Yet all this
vast popularity brought the author nothing but fame.
Her profits were restricted to the ten per cent. paid her
by Mr. Jewett, and from the great returns from the
drama not a penny came to her purse.

Fame came to her, if nothing more. In her European
journey, in 1853, all classes united to do her honor; her
presence called forth universal enthusiasm; while in
Scotland a penny offering was collected among the
people, and a thousand guineas presented to the author
during her visit to Edinburgh. In London a valuable
bracelet was presented her by the Duchess of Suther-
land, its oval links being made in imitation of slave
fetters, on several of which were inscribed the dates
of notable events in the history of the emancipation
of negro slaves. More significant of the general feel-
ing was an address from the women of England to
the women of America, in which they prayed for aid to
free the world from ‘“‘ our common crimes and common
dishonor.”? To this were appended no less than 562,-
848 signatures, of all classes, from the highest nobility
te the lowest kitchen maid. Twenty-six massive vol-
umes were formed from the signatures, each fourteen
inches high, nine wide and three thick, the whole
enclosed in an oak case. Certainly no author, before or
sinee, ever had such recognition of national sympathy.

Such is the story of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’’ briefly
told. Some critics have claimed that it is not a great
book, and that Mrs. Stowe was not a great woman.
That depends on what is called greatness.

Certainly, the book was written as all great books are
written. ‘The subject possessed the author and heated
her mind to the white heat of production. She saw and
felt her characters, lived in her seenes, and in the
mingled gloom and humor of her work, produced a
picture of the world as it is, inhabited by people that
traly live and breathe on her pages. It may not fully
respond to the canons of eriticism, but it is instinct with
genius, and the verdict of the world is surely of far
more weight than the decision of a narrow-visioned
anatomist of words and phrases.



&



NCLE TOM’S CABIN ” is in form
and purpose a work of fiction, It
was necessarily made go, for in no
other way could it have attracted.
the large measure of public atten-
tion desired and brought its les-
son fully before the minds of the
people. But in its underlying
purpose it is far more than a work
of fiction. Its novelistic form is
but a cloak to cover a body of
solid facts within. It is intended as a picture of actual
life, a realistic panorama of a state of society then exist~
ing, a photograph in life colors of the institution of
slavery, revealed in all its lights and shadows, its hor-
rors and alleviations, to a world that knew it not and
was not fully ready to accept the revelations concerning
it. As a result, the work was bitterly assailed, its
statements questioned, its pictures of Southern life
denied, its characters called perversions of the truth,
and Mrs. Stowe was forced to come to the defense of her
work in an extended supplementary volume entitled “A
Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” in which she sustained her
statements by abundant documentary evidence ; showed
that the leading incidents of her story were based on
actual facts, and proved that her characters were drawn
from real life, being pen pictures of people she had mes
or faithful reproductions of types of character and life
scenes of which she had read or been told. Her deserip-
at







38 A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS.

tion of the source of her characters is of interest, as a
proof of the care she took in making her work true to
life, and we here present it in brief epitome. The
remainder of her ‘‘Key” consists largely of docu-
mentary evidence of the treatment of and laws against
slaves, too voluminous to be here presented.

She tells us herself that ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin” is a
collection of real incidents, to a greater extent, perhaps,
than any other work of fiction ever written; made up
of actual facts, words and expressions, her share of the
work being merely to put these facts artistically together
in a frame of fiction, changing names, dates and scenes,
but keeping true throughout to the living details of the
state of society about which she wrote. It is a kaleido-
scope of slavery, its parts rearranged, but all present
and allevident. In reviewing the characters introduced
we shall commence with him who gives his name to the
work, Uncle Tom.

Uncle Tom. Critics of Mrs. Stowe’s work have spoken
of Uncle Tom as an improbable, almost an impossible,
character; yet she assures us that her picture of this
black-skinned Christian hero has been most abundantly
confirmed. Many persons said to her, after reading the
book, ‘‘ I knew an Uncle Tom in such a Southern State,’’
and the stories told her of these characters would have
made asmall volume. One of them was a negro slave in
New Orleans of such remarkable honesty that his master
trusted him to the most complete extent. He would
give him a handful of bills without looking at them to
purchase supplies for the family, quite confident that he
would receive the proper change, saying to those who
thought this action imprudent, that he had sufficient
proofs of his servant’s conscientiousness to freely trust
him with all he owned. His brother, who was visiting
him, was so struck with the man’s evident and deep
piety that he said, ‘‘ I hope you will never do anything
to deprive this man of his religious privileges, for I
think a judgment will come upon you if you do.’ The
slaveholder replied that he was not quite foolish enough
to do that, since he knew that the man’s value was due
to his religion.



A KEY T0 THE CHARACTERS. 39

Another of the Uncle Tom stamp was Josiah Henson,
in his later years a well-known colored clergyman of
Canada, but who in early life had been a slave, embit-
tered against his master by cruel treatment of his father
and brought up in a state of heathenism. He was con-
verted at a camp meeting, became an ardent and con-
scientious Christian, and gradually, though he could not
read a, word of the Bible, developed into a negro preacher
of great force and impressiveness. He became so val- ©
uable to his master that he was made overseer of the
whole estate, which he managed with unusual skill and
prudence. Subsequently, the master’s affairs becoming
inyolved, he proposed to remove all his negroes from his
Maryland estate to Kentucky, and left the performance
of this entirely to Henson, who was to take the slaves
alone, without other attendant, over the long interven-
ing distance, on his simple promise to do so faithfully.
Henson’s honor was sorely tried. On his way he passed
through a part of Ohio, and was told that he and his
fellows were now free, if they chose to claim their free-
dom, which he was strongly urged to do. But he had
given his promise, and no inducement could make him
violate his Christian principle, while his influence over
his followers was so great that they all willingly went
with himto Kentucky. These two examples must suf-
fice out of the numerous instances of Christian conscien-
tiousness that might be adduced.

George Harris. The incidents of the life of this char-
acter are again far from exceptional, Mrs. Stowe giving
a number of parallel cases of which she had personal
knowledge. Ohe of the persons spoken of, Lewis Clark
by name, was a handsome quadroon, chosen as her ser-
vant by a married daughter of the family, whose ungov-
ernable temper and violence had already reduced one
servant to a state of idiocy. Her outbreaks of wrath
were now visited upon him, and only flight saved him
from being reduced to the state of his predecessor. As
for the tale which George Harris gives of the sale of his
mother and her children, Josiah Henson, whom we
have already mentioned, has published a parallel one.
His master having died, all the slaves of the plantation



40 A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS.

were sold to the highest bidder, his brothers and sisters
being bid off separately, while the mother stood by in
an agony of grief at the coming separation from her
children. Then the mother was sold, the purchaser
being a Mr. R., of Montgomery County, Maryland.
Finally, Josiah, a mere child, was offered for sale, when
the distracted mother pushed through the crowd to her
purchaser, fell at his feet and clung to his knees, entreat-
ing him in heart-breaking tones to buy her baby as well
as herself, and spare her_at least one of her little ones.
The man thus appealed to not only refused her request,
but was brutal enough to accompany his refusal with
such violent blows.and kicks that the poor mother was
forced to creep out of his reach, her sobs of grief being
mingled with groans of pain. This incident would be
almost past belief but that it is attested by one of such
known probity as Henson.

As regards the advertisement for the recapture of
George Harris, ‘‘ dead or alive,’’ which has been called
in question, it was an incident of common occurrence,
such advertisements being frequent in the newspapers of
the time described. We could give a considerable list
of them if necessary, but one must suffice.

The Wilmington (N.C.) Advertiser, of July 18, 18388,
contains two such advertisements, of which we quote
the following:

RAY AWAY, my negro man RICHARD. A reward of $25 will be paid for his

\ apprehension, dead or alive. Se ncnry proof will only be required of his
being Killed. He has with him, in all Probab lity, his wife Eliza, who ran away
from Col. Thompson, now a resident of Alabama, about the time he commenced
his journey to that State. fs

DURANT H. RHODES.
, Eliza. The story of Eliza is founded on a well-
authenticated fact. Mrs. Stowe saw at a church in
Kentucky a beautiful quadroon girl, whom she was told
was a slave, and was further told that her master had
refused to sell her. ‘‘A Southern gentleman,’’ her
informant said, ‘‘not long ago offered her master a
thousand dollars for her; but he told him that she was
too good to be his wife, and he certainly should not have
her for a mistress.’’ y
This girl became the Eliza of the work, the incidents



A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS. 41

of her story being of a character that could have abund-
ant corroboration. As for her crossing the Ohio on the
ice, which has been disputed, such a circumstance
actually happened. Mrs. Stowe had read of such an
occurrence, and its truth was confirmed by a Presby-
terian clergyman whom she met, and who said: ‘I
understand that they dispute that fact about the
woman’s crossing the river. Now I know all about
that, for I got the story from the very man that helped
her up the bank. I know it is true, for she is now liv-
ing inCanada.’’ The plot formed by Haley, Marks and
Loker to kidnap Eliza from Ohio has been stated to
caricature the way in which justice was administered in
that State; but in this instance Mrs. Stowe only para-
phrased an incident in the life of a servant in her own
family, who was saved from being delivered up by a
venal magistrate only by a midnight flitting, aided by
Professor Stowe and Henry Ward Beecher.

Topsy. We have only one more slave character to
speak of, the inimitable Topsy, whose impish pranks
. mmake much of the humor of the book, but who truth-
fully represents, in her ignorance and impishness, num-
bers of children in slave households. Devoid of prin-
ciple, quick, active and subtle in mind, penetrating as
by instinct the degradation of their condition, feeling
their black skin to be an outward sign of inferiority,
they were urged on by a kind of inner desperation to .
demonstrate their utter sinfulness of thought and action.
‘Nothing but a nigger,’? was to poor Topsy the brand
of hopeless worthlessness, and Miss Ophelia’s effort to
bring up such a child as a Christian, had to contend
with the absence of every suitable inducement in the
mind of the genuine Topsy.

Miss Ophelia. Miss Ophelia was the very last person
to control such a child as Topsy, whose small but keen
intelligence saw through her sham Christianity, tainted
as it was with a prejudice against the black skin of her
would-be neophyte. Miss Ophelia is one of a numerous
class who imagine that they can reform the world with-
out reforming themselves, who are hedged in by a thick
crust of prejudices and narrow views of life and its



42 A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS.

luties. Honest and well-intentioned they are, no
doubt, but deeply self-ignorant, and unaware that the
narrowness which is hidden from themselves is patent
to all whom they meet. ‘The love sentiment of genuine
Christianity is wanting, and without it Miss Ophelia
could not hope to find anything but rebellion in her
pupil.

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby. Mrs. Stowe, while painting in
lurid colors the dark side of slave-life, was anxious to
paint its bright side as well, and has done so in the
Shelbys, of whom there must have been abundant ex-
amples in the era of slavery. Had all been like them,
the institution of slavery would have been much less of an
evil, and the agitation for its removal would have found
far fewer advocates. With this class, easy indulgence
and good-natured forbearance were combined with just
discipline and carefully-imparted religious instruction,
and the plantation became a patriarchal establishment,
where happiness and order reigned. The one over-
shadowing evil was the always present danger of death
or misfortune to these well-meaning slave-owners, fol-
lowed by sale into possibly far less favorable conditions.

St. Clare. In St. Clare, we meet with another type of
those calculated to make the slave system a patriarchate.
Mrs. Stowe tells us that she drew his character with
enthusiasm and hope. At heart an abolitionist, con-
vinced of the utter wrong and injustice of slavery, for-
tune had made him a slave-holder, and forced him to
feel his weakness as such. He was one at heart with
John Randolph, Patrick Henry, and other Southerners
of Revolutionary times. From Patrick Henry, we may
quote. After expressing his abhorrence of the whole sys-
tem, he continues: ‘‘ Would anyone believe that I am
master of slaves of my own purchase? I am drawn
along by the general inconvenience of living here with-
cut them. I will not, I cannot justify it. :

I know not when to stop. I would say many things on
the subject, a serious view of which gives a gloomy
prospect to future times.’’

John Randolph said in Congress: ‘I envy neither
the heart nor the hand of that man who rises here to



‘A KEY T0 THE CHARACTERS. 43

defend slavery on principle; ’”’ and his will contains the
following words: ‘‘I give to my slaves their freedom,
to which my conscience tells me they are justly en-
titled.”’? These were the St. Clairs of an earlier date.

Marie St. Clare. In Marie St. Clare, we come to
another type of people, an example of a class of women
who may be found everywhere, but whose besetting
weakness becomes a terror when they are entrusted
with uncontrolled authority. In the North the Marie
St. Clares are always in domestic hot water. Their
servants cannot be trusted to do anything right. They
ought to be glad to have the worst rooms in the house
at the lowest possible wages, and should possess the
whole series of Christian virtues on a scant weekly pit-
tance, the lack of perfection and gratitude to their bene-
factor being shamefully selfish and unprincipled. The
Marie St. Clare of the South, under the slave regime,
became a household tyrant. The least disrespect or
failure in obedience to orders led to condign punish-
ment. She had no hesitation to sever her servants
from their nearest kindred, there being only one person
in her household to be considered—herself ; and she had
as little hesitation in visiting them with disgraceful and
violent punishments, such as have often been described
by eye-witnesses, as inflicted by the public whipper in
the calaboose at New Orleans.

Legree. But the Shelbys and St. Clares represent but
one side of slave-life. Even Marie St. Clare, with her
utter selfishness, is an estimable character as compared
with Legree, the type of the soulless slave-holder, of
whom the South held far too large a number, and whom
Mrs. Stowe depicts in the darkest colors, but no darker
than the truth demands. The Legree of the book is
ugly, coarse and profane. These qualities were not the
only ones found in bad masters. There were men of
some degree of culture and refinement whose cold-
blooded selfishness led them to almost the brutal con-
duct of a Legree. There were men who worked their
plantations on the principle of getting all that was pos-
‘gible out of their negroes in a few years, and then
exchanging them for others, and of this type Legree



44 A REY TO THE CHARACTERS.

was simply an extreme representative. To these the
horrors of the slave system were principally due, and to
them we may largely ascribe the development of the
final class to be considered.

Haley. Haley, the negro-trader, is given, in ‘‘ Uncle

Tom’s Cabin,” as the representative of a large class,
including, in addition,the negro-catcher, the kidnapper,
the whipper, and the other auxiliaries of the institution.
These men were the dregs of the white society of the
South, despised by those who employed them, necessary
but abhorrent elements of a system which could not
well be sustained without such brutal and soulless acces-
sories. Of course, the Haleys, the Tom Lokers, and
that genus, form but one species out of a large class.
There were all varieties of negro-traders, downward
from those who conducted the business by wholesale,
who were gentlemanly and courteous, and who deplored
the necessity of the institution of which they availed
themselves. From these, down to the Haleys, there
were many grades, but the highest rank of dealers
could not avoid, from the exigencies of the situation,
occasional acts of inhumanity.
’ With these few pages, describing the source of the
characters of the work, we shall leave the reader to the
perusal of the book itself, satisfied that its inherent
truthfulness cannot but impress itself on his mind.




















ral
WH 1

; ) : vr .
PRETAC
Pettit thd th ie

dite ss Mey
: AN hin hy hiya fy

be




1G
Hs



fue

ay,
a sifi



title indicates, lie among a

race hitherto ignored by the

associations of polite and re-

fined society ; an exotic race,
whose ancestors, born
beneath a tropic sun,
brought with them, and
perpetuated to their de-
scendants, a character
so essentially unlike the
hard and dominant An-
glo-Saxon race, as for many years to have won from it
only misunderstanding and contempt.

But another and better day is dawning ; every influence
of literature, of poetry and of art, in our times, is becom-
ing more and more in unison with the great master chord
of Christianity, ‘good will to man.”

The poet, the painter, and the artist, now seek out
and embellish the common and gentler humanities of life,
and, under the allurements of fiction, breathe a human-
izing and subduing influence, favorable to the develop-
ment of the great principles of Christian brotherhood.

The hand of benevolence is everywhere stretched out,
searching into abuses, righting wrongs, alleviating dis-
tresses, and bringing to the knowledge and sympathies
of the world the lowly, the oppressed, and the forgotten.

In this general movement, unhappy Africa at last is
remembered ; Africa, who began the race of civilization
and human progress in the dim, gray dawn of early time,
45



46 PREFACE.

but who, for centuries, has lain bound and bleeding at
the foot of civilized and Christianized humanity, implor-
ing compassion in vain.

But the heart of the dominant race, who have been
her conquerors, her hard masters, has at length been
turned toward 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!

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 toward those individuals who, often
without any fault of their own, are involved in the trials
and 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 evils of slavery from sketches like these, is not the
half that could be told, of the unspeakable whole.

In the northern states these representations may, per-
haps be thought caricatures; in the southern states are
witnesses who know their fidelity. What personal
knowledge the author has had, of the truth of incidents
such as here are related, will appear in its time.

It is a comfort to hope, as so many of the world’s sor-
rows and wrongs have, from age to age, been lived down,
so a time shall come when sketches similar to these shall
be valuable only as memorials of what has long ceased
to be.

When an enlightened and Christianized community
shall have, on the shores of Africa, laws, language, and
literature, drawn from among us, may then the scenes
of the house of bondage be to them like the remembrance
of Egypt to the Israelite—a motive of thankfulness to
Him who hath redeemed them!

For, while politicians contend, and men are swerved



PREFACE. 47

this way and that by conflicting tides of interest and
passion, the great cause of human liberty is in the hands
of One, of whom it is said:

“He shall not fail nor be discouraged
’Till He have set judgment in the earth.”

“He shall deliver the needy when he crieth,
The poor, and him that hath no helper.”

“He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence,
And precious shall their blood be in His sight.’




he Hi i) |
Oe

YW,



: Lael giyt
tet il

-~ LD





8 CPCS OSSSOSOGS

WN the first day of January, in the year of our
| Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-
three, all persons held as slaves in any State:
or designated part of a State, the people
whereof. shall be then in rebellion againsi
the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and
forever free; and the executive government of the
United States, including the military and naval au-
thority thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom
of such persons, or any of them, in any efforts they may
make for their actual freedom.

The Executive will, on the first day of January afore-
said, designate the States and parts of States, if any, in
which the people thereof, respectively, shall then be in
rebellion against the United States; and the fact that
any State, or the people thereof, shall on that day be in
good faith represented in the Congress of the United
States, by members chosen thereto at elections wherein
a majority of the qualified voters of such State shall
have participated, shall, in the absence of strong coun-
tervailing testimony, be deemed conducive evidence:
that such State, and the people thereof, are not then in
rebellion against the United States.

And by virtue of the power and for the purpose afore:
said, I do order and declare that all persons held as
slaves within such designated States and parts of States
are, and henceforward shall be free.

And upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of
justice, warranted by the Constitution, upon military
necessity, I invoke the considerate judgment of man-
kind and the gracious favor of Almighty God.

A. Lincoin.




48











Henry Ward Beecher selling slaves in Plymouth Church.





CHAPTER I.

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

Latz in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two
gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-
furnished dining parlor, in the town of P »1n Kentucky.
There were no servants present, and the gentlemen, with
chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some
subject with great earnestness.

For convenience sake, we have said, hitherto, two gentle- ’
men. One of the parties, however, when critically ex-
amined, did not seem, strictly speaking, to come under the
species. He was a short, thick-set man, with coarse, com-
monplace features, and that swaggering air of pretension
which marks alow man who is trying to elbow his way
upward in the world. He was much over-dressed, in a
gaudy vest of many colors, a blue neckerchief, bedropped
gayly 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. watchchain, with a
bundle of seals, of portentous size and a great variety of
colors, attached to it—which, in the ardor of conversation,
he was in the habit of flourishing and jingling with evi-
dent satisfaction. His conversation was in free and easy
defiance of Murray’s Grammar, and was garnished at con-
venient intervals with various profane expressions, which
not even the desire to be graphic in our account shall in-
duce us to transcribe. ;

His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a
gentleman ; and the arrangements of the house, and the





52 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 should arrange the matter,’
Mr. Shelby.

“‘T can’t make trade that way—I positively can’t, Mr.
Shelby,” said the other, holding up a glass of wine between
his eye and the light. :

‘‘Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon
fellow; he is certainly worth that sum anywhere—steady, .
honest and capable, manages my whole farm like a
clock.”

«You mean honest, as niggers go,” said Haley, helping
himself to a glass of brandy.

“© 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 flourish of his hand, ‘‘ but Zdo,
I had a fellow, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans—
7b was as good as a meetin’, now, really, to hear that critter
pray; and he was quite gentle and quiet like. He fetched
me a good sum, too, for I bought him cheap of a man that
was “bliged to sell out; so I realized six hundred on him.
Yes, I consider religion a valeyable thing inanigger, 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 Cincin-
nati alone, to do business for me, and bring home five hun-
dred dollars. ‘Tom,’ saysI 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. Iam sorry 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
conscience.”

“Well, I’ve got just as much conscience as any man in
business can afford to keep—just a little, you know, to

? gaid



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ae
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1c evo

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Accompany:



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 5d

swear by, as *t were,” said the 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—a
leetle too hard.” ‘The trader sighed contemplatively, and
poured out some more brandy.

‘Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?” said, Mr.
Shelby, after an uneasy interval of silence.

«Well, haven’t you a boy or gal that you could throw
in with Tom ?”

“¢ 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, be-
tween four and five years of age, entered the room. There
was something in his appearance remarkably beautiful and
engaging. His black hair, fine as floss silk, hung in
glossy curls about his round, dimpled face, while a pair of -

‘Targe dark eyes, full-of fire and softness, looked out from
beneath the rich, long lashes, as he peered curiously into
the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet and yellow plaid,
carefully made and neatly fitted, set off to advantage the
dark and rich style of his beauty ; and a certain comic air
of assurance, blended with bashfulness, showed that he had
been not unused to being petted and noticed by his master.

“‘ Hulloa, Jim Crow!” said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and
snapping a bunch of raisins toward him, ‘‘pick that up,
now !”

The child scampered, with all his little strength, after
the prize, while his master laughed.

“‘©CGome 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 the
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 ap-



56 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

pearance 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 commenced ton-
ing a psalm tune through his nose, with imperturbable
gravity.

“Hurrah! bravo! what a young ’un!” said Haley;
“‘that chap’s a case, I’ll promise. ‘Tell you what,” said
he, suddenly clapping his hand on Mr. Shelby’s shoulder,
“fling in that chap, and I’ll settle the business—I will.
Come, now, if that ain’t doing the thing up about the
rightest!”

At this moment the door was pushed gently open, and
a young quadroon woman, apparently about twenty-five,
entered the room.

There needed only a glance from the child to her, to
identify her 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 admiration. Her dress was of the neatest
possible fit, and set off to advantage her finely molded
shape; a delicately formed hand and a trim foot and ankle
were items of appearance that did not escape the quick eye
of the trader, well used to run up at a glance the points of
a fine female article.

‘Well, Eliza?” said her master, as she stopped and
looked hesitatingly at him.

“‘T was looking for Harry, please, sir;” and the boy
bounded toward her, showing his spoils, which he had
gathered in the skirt of his robe.

“Well, take him away, then,” said Mr. Shelby;
and hastily she withdrew, carrying the child on her
arm.

‘By Jupiter,” said the trader, turning to him in ad-
miration, ‘‘there’s an article, now! You might make
your fortune on that ar gal in Orleans, any day. I’ve seen



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 57

over a thousand, in my day, paid down for gals not a bit
handsomer.”

“T don’t want to make my fortune on her,” said Mr.
Shelby, dryly; 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
ad slapping his hand familiarly on Shelby’s shoulder, he
added :

«© Come, how will you trade about the gal? what shall I
say for her—what’ll you take?”

“Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold,” said Shelby.
“‘*My wife would not part with her for her weight in

old.”
a “‘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, J reckon.”

“T tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of; I say no,
and I mean no,” said Shelby, decidedly.

“Well, you'll let me have the boy, though,” said the
trader; ‘‘ you must own I’ve comedown pretty handsomely
for him.”

“‘ What on earth can you want with the child?” said
Shelby.

“Why, I’ve got a friend that’s going into this yer
branch of the business—wants to buy up -handsome boys
to raise for the market. Fancy articles entirely—sell for
waiters, and so on, to rich “uns, that can pay for hand-
some ’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, ?m a humane man, and I
hate to take the boy from his mother, sir.”

“QO, you do? La! yes—something of that ar natur. I
understand, perfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on
with women, sometimes. I al’ays hates these yer screach-
in’, screamin’ times. ‘They are mighty onpleasant; but, as
I manages business, 1 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



58 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

~home. Your wife might get her some ear-rings, or a new
gown, or some such truck, to make up with her.”
‘©T’m afraid not.”
“« Lor’ bless ye, yes! These critters ain’t like white folks,
you know; they gets over things, only manage right.
Now, they say,” said Haley, assuming a candid and confi-
dential air, ‘‘that this kind o’ trade is hardening to the
feelings; but I never found it so. Fact is, I never could
do things up the way some fellers manage the business.
T’ve seen *em as would pull a woman’s child out of her
arms, and set him up to sell, and she screechin’ like mad
all the time; very bad policy—damages the article—
makes “em quite unfit for service sometimes. I knew a
real handsome gal once, in Orleans, as was entirely ruined
by this sort o’ handling. The fellow that was trading for
her didn’t want her baby; and she was one of your real
high sort, when her blood wasup. JI tell you, she squeezed
up her child in her arms, and talked, and went on real
awful. Jt 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 manage-
ment-—there’s where “tis. It’s always best to do the
humane thing, sir; that’s been my experience.” And the
trader leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms, with
an air of virtuous decision, apparently considering him-
self a second Wilberforce. ;
The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply,
for while Mr. Shelby was thoughtfully peeling 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’ him-
self; but I say it jest because it’s the truth. I believe I’m
reckoned to bring in about the finest droves of niggers
that is brought in—at least, I’ve been told so; if I have
once, I reckon I have a hundred times—all in good case—
fat and likely, and I lose as few as any man in the busi-
“ness. And I lays it all tomy management, sir; and
humanity, sir, I may say, is.the great pillar of my manage-
ment.”

Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said,
«* Indeed!”



UNCLE VOM’S CABIN. 59

“Now, I’ve been laughed at for my notions, sir, and
T’ve been talked to. They ain’t pop’lar, and they ain’t
common; but I stuck to ’em, sir; ve stuck to ’em, and
realized well on ’em; yes, sir, they have paid their pas-
sage, 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 in company. Perhaps you laugh, too, dear
reader; but you know humanity comes out in a variety of
strange forms nowadays, and there is no end to the odd
things that humane people will say and do.

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

“Tt’s strange now, but I never could beat this into peo-
ple’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 ’t was, you see,
for a better hearted feller never broke bread; ’*t was
his system, sir. I used to talk to Tom. ‘Why Tom,’ I
used to say, ‘when your gals takes on and cry, what’s the
use 0’ crackin on ’em over the head, and knockin’ on ’em
round? It’s ridiculous,’ says I ‘and don’t do no sort 0’
good. Why, I don’t see no harm in their cryin,’ says I;
‘it’s natur,’ says I, ‘and if natur can’t blow off one way,
it will another. Besides Tom,’ says I ‘it jest spiles your
gals; they get sickly, and down in the mouth; and some-
times they gets ugly—particular yallow gals 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 all your jawin’ and crackin’; and
it pays better,’ says I, ‘depend on ’t.? But Tom couldn’t
get the hang on ’t; and he spiled so many for me, that I
had to break off with him, though he was a good-hearted
fellow, and as fair a business hand as is goin’.”

« And do you find your ways of managing do the busi-
ness better than Tom’s?” said Mr. Shelby.

«Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any-
ways can, I takes a leetle care about the onpleasant parts
like selling young uns and that—get the gals out of the
way—out of sight, out of mind, you know—and when it’s
clean done, and can’t be helped, they naturally gets used
toit. ’Taint, you know, as if it was white folks, that’s
brought up in the way of ‘ spectin’ to keep their children



60 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

and wives, and all that. Niggers, you know, that’s fetched
up properly, ha’n’t no kind of *spectations of no kind; so
all these things comes easier.”

“‘T’m afraid mine are not properly brought up, then,”
said Mr. Sheiby.

“‘S’pose not; you Kentucky folks spile your niggers.
You mean well by ’em, but ’tan’t no real kindness, arter all.
Now, a nigger you see, what’s got to be hacked and tumbled
round the world, and sold to ‘om 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
Iventure 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. very man, you
know, Mr. Shelby, naturally 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 slight shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a dis-
agreeable nature.

“‘ Well,” said Haley, after they had both silently picked
their nuts for a season, ‘‘ what do you say?”

“Tl 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 neigborhood be kuown. It
will get out among my boys, and it will not be a particu-
larly 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
Vl tell you, ’'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 my answer,” said Mr. Shelby, and the
trader bowed himself out of the apartment.

“I'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the
steps,” said he to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed,
“‘ with hisimpudent assurance; but he knows how much he
has me at advantage. If anybody had ever said to me
that I should sell Tom down south to one of those rascally
traders, I should have said, ‘Is thy servant a dog, that he



UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 61

‘should do this thing?? And now it must come, for ought

Isee. And Hliza’s child, too! I know that I shall have
some fuss with wife about that; and, for that matter,
about Tom, too. So much for being in debt—heigho!
The fellow sees his advantage, and means to push it.”

Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to
be seen in the State of Kentucky. ‘The general preva-
lence of agricultural pursuits of a quiet and gradual nature,
not requiring those periodic seasons of hurry and pressure
that are called for in the business of more southern dis-
tricts, makes the task of the negro a more healthful 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 nat-
ure when the prospect ofsudden and rapid gain is weighed
in the balance, with no heavier counterpoise than the in-
terests of the helpless and unprotected.

Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the
good-humored indulgence of some masters and mistresses,
and the affectionate loyalty of some slaves, might be
tempted to dream the off-fabled poetic legend of a
patriarchal institution, and all that; but over and above
the scene there broods a portentous shadow—the shadow
of Jaw. So long as the law considers all these human
beings, with beating hearts and lir'ng affections, only as so
many things belonging to a master—so long as the failure,
or misfortune, or imprudence, or death of the kindest
owner, may cause them any day to exchange a life of
kind protection and indulgence for one of hopeless misery
and toil—so long it is impossible to make anything
beautiful or desirable in the best regulated administration
of slavery.

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 any-
thing 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 information is the key to
the preceeding conversation.

Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the
door, Eliza had caught enough of the conversation to



62 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 that the little fellow looked up into her face in ase
tonishment. !

‘¢ Eliza, girl, what ails you to-day?” said her mistress,
when Eliza had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked -down the
work-stand, and finally was abstractedly offering her mis-
tress a long night-gown in place of the silk dress
she had ordered her to bring from the wardrobe.

Eliza started. ‘O, missis! ” she said, raising her eyes;
then, bursting into tears, she sat down in a chair, and be-
gan sobbing.

“Why, Hliza my child! what ails you?” said her mis-
tress.

“ talking with master in the parlor! I heard him.”

“Well, silly child, 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 mas-
ter 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 ap, in that pretty
braid you learned the other day, and don’t go listening at
doors any more.”

«Well, but, missis, you never would give your consent
—to—to——

‘‘Nonsense child! to be sure, I shouldn’t. What do
you talk so for? I would as soon have one of my own
children sold. But, really, Eliza, you are getting al-
together 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,”



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 63

Reassured by her mistress’ confident tone, Eliza pro-
ceeded nimbly and adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her
own fears, as she proceeded.

Mrs. Shelby was a woman of a high class, both intellect-
ually and morally. To that natural magnanimity and gen-
erosity of mind which one often marks as characteristic of
the women of Kentucky, she added high moral and re-
ligious sensibility and principle, carried out with great
energy and ability into practical results. Her husband,
who made no professions to any particular religious char-
acter, nevertheless reverenced and respected the consis-
tency of her’s, 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 qualities 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 contemplated—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 in-
credulity with which she had met Hliza’s suspicions, 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 II.
THE MOTHER.

EizA had been brought up by her mistress, from girl-
hood, as a petted and indulged favorite.
The traveler in the south must often have remarked



64 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 ap-
pearance prepossessing and agreeable. liza, 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 young mulatto man, who
was a slave on a neighboring estate, and bore the name of
George Harris.

This young man had been hired out by his master to
work in a bagging factory, where his adroitness and in-
genuity caused him to. be considered the first handin 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 favorite in the factory.
Nevertheless, as this young man was in the eye of the law
not a man, but a thing, all these superior qualifications
were subject to the control of a vulgar, narrow-minded,
tyrannical master. This same gentleman, having heard of
the fame of George’s invention took a ride over to the

_ factory, to see what this intelligent chattel had been about.
He was received with great enthusiasm by the em-
pioyer, who corgratulated him on possessing so valuable a
slave.

He was waited upon over the factory, shown the machin-
ery 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 consciousness of in-
feriority. What business had his slave to be marching
round the country, inventing machines, and holding up
his head among gentlemen? He’d snon puta stop to it.
He’d take him back, and put hin. to hoeing and digging,
and ‘‘see if he’d step about so smart.” Accordingly, the

*A machine of this description was really the invention of a
young colored man in Kentucky,






































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yA TOME ie

George stood like one transfixed.





66 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

manufacturer and all hands concerned were astounded
when he suddenly demanded George’s wages, and .an-
nounced his intention of taking him home.

“But, Mr. Harris,” remonstrated the manufacturer,
‘isn’t this rather sudden?”

‘* What if it is? isn’t the man mine? ”

«We would be willing, sir, to increase the rate of com-
pensation.”

‘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 busi-
ness.”

“* Dare say he may be; never was much adapted to any-
- thing that I set him about, I'll be bound.”

«But only think of his inventing this machine,’
posed one of tlre workmen, rather unluckily.

<©O, yes !—a machine for saving work, is it? He'd in-
vent that P’ll be bound; let a nigger alone for that, any
time. They are all labor-saving machines themselves,
every one of “em. No, he shall tramp !”

George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doom
thus suddenly 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 throngh his veins. He
breathed short, and his large dark eyes flashed like live
coals ; and he might have broken out into some dangerous
ebullition, had not the kindly manufacturer touchea him
on the arm, and said, in a low tone:

“Give way, George ; go with him forthe 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
disrespeotful 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.

? inter-



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 67

During that period—being much trusted and favored by
his employer—he had free liberty to come and go at dis-
cretion. The marriage was highly approved of by Mrs.
Shelby, who with a little womanly complacency in match-
making, felt pleased to unite her handsome favorite with
one of her own class who seemed in every way suited to
her ; and so they were married in her mistress’ great parlor,
and her mistress herself adorned the bride’s beautiful hair
with’ orange-blossoms, and threw over it the bridal veil,
which certainly could scarce have rested on a fairer head ;
and there was no lack of white gloves, and cake and wine
—of admiring guests to praise the bride’s beauty, and her
mistress’ indulgence and liberality. For a year or two
Eliza saw her husband frequently, and there was nothing
to interrupt their happiness, except the loss of two infant
children, to whom she was passionately attached, and
whom she mourned with a grief so intense as to call for
gentle remonstrance from her mistress, who sought, with
maternal anxiety to direct her naturally passionate feelings
within the bounds of reason and religion.

After the birth of little Harry, however, she had
gradually beeome tranquilized and settled; and every
bleeding tie and throbbing nerve, ouce more entwined
with that little life, seemed to become sound and health-
ful, and Eliza 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 after George had been taken away, when, as
he hoped, the heat of the occasion had passed away, and
tried every possible inducement to lead him ‘to restore him
to his former employment.

“You needn’t trouble yourself to talk any longer,” said
he, doggedly ; <‘I know my own business, sir.”

“‘T did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I only
thought that you might think it for your interest to let
your man to us on the terms proposed.”

“O, I understand the matter well enough. I saw your
winking and whispering, the day I took him out of the
factory; but you don’t come it over me that way. It’s a
a free country, sir; the man’s mine, and I do what I please
with him—that’s it!”

And so fell George’s last hope; nothing before him but a



68 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

life of toil and drudgery, rendered more bitter by every lit-
tle smarting vexation and indignity which tyrannical in-
genuity could devise.

A very humane jurist once said, The worst use you can
put a man to isto hang him. No; there is another use
that a man can be put to that.is worse!

CHAPTER III.
THE HUSBAND AND FATHER.

Mrs. SHELBY had gone on her visit, and Eliza stood
in the veranda, rather dejectedly looking after the re-
treating carriage, when a hand was laid on her shoulder.
She turned round, and a bright smile lighted up her fine
eyes.

“‘George, is it you? How you frightened me! Well; I
am so glad you’s come! Missis is gone to spend the after-
noon; so come into my little room, and we’ll have the time
all to ourselves.”

Saying this, she drew him into a neat little apartment
opening on the veranda, where she generally sat at her
sewing, within call of her mistress.

‘¢ How glad I am—why don’t you smile? And lonk at
Harry—how he grows.” The boy stood shyly regarding
his father through his curls, holding close to the skirts of
his mother’s dress. ‘‘Isn’t he beautiful?” said Eliza,
lifting his long curls and kissing him.

“‘T wish he’d never been born!” said George, bitterly.
«TI 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,” said he, fondly; ‘it’s too bad. O, how
I wish you never had seen me—you might have been
happy!”

“George! George! how can you talkso? 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,



UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 69

“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!”

“©O, George, how can you!”

«‘- Yes, Eliza, it’s all misery, misery, misery! My life
is bitter as wormwood; the very life is burning out of me.
I’m a poor, miserable, forlorn drudge; I shall only
drag you down with me, that’s all. What’s the use of
our trying todo anything, trying to know anything, try-
ing to be anything? What’s the use of living? I wish I
was dead!”

“°Q, 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 a

“* Patient!” said he, interrupting her; ‘‘hav’n’t I been
patient? Did I saya word when he came and took me
away, for no earthly reason, from the place where every-
body was kind to me? I’d paid him truly every cent of my
earnings—and they all say I worked well.”

“‘ Well, it 7s 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’ma better man than he is. I know
more about business than he does; [ama better manager
than he is; I can read better than he can; I can write a
better hand—and I’ve learned it all myself, and no thanks
to him—I’ve learned it in spite of him; and now what
right has he to make a dray-horse of me? to take me from
things I can do, and do better than he can, and put me to
work that any horse can do? He tries to doit; he says
he’ll bring me down and humble me, and he puts me
to just the hardest, meanest and dirtiest work, on pur-

ose!”
“°O, 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 care-
ful—do, do—for my sake—for Harry’s! ”

“*T have been careful, and I have been patient, but it’s
growing worse and worse; flesh and blood can’t bear it any
longer; every chance he can get to insult and torment me,
he takes, i thought I could do my work well, and keep





70 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

on quiet, and have some time to read and learn out of work
hours; but the more he sees I can do, the more he loads on.
He says that though I don’t say anything, he sees Pve got
the devil in me, and he means to bring it out; and one of
these days it will come out in a way that he won’t like, or
I’m mistaken! ”

“©O dear! what shall we do?” said Eliza, mournfully.

“Tt was only yesterday,” said George, ‘‘as I was busy
loading stones into a cart, that young Mas’r Tom stood
there, slashing his whip so near the horse that the creature
was frightened. I asked him to stop, as pleasant as 1 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 ina rage,
and said he’d teach me who was my master; and he tied me
to a tree, and cut switches for young master, and told him
that he might whip me till he was tired; and he did do it!
If I don’t make him remember it, some time!” and the
brow of the young man grew dark, and his eyes burned
with an expression that made his young wife tremble.
“«Who made this man my master? That’s what I want to
know!” he said.

“Well,” said Eliza, mournfully, ‘I always thought that
T must obey my master and mistress, or 1 could’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, in-
dulged you, and taught you, so that you have a good edu-
cation; 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
allmy keeping a hundred times over. I won’t bear it.
No, 1 won't!” he said, clinching 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 cf 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 meas if he understood



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 71

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 afford to have every nigger
keeping his dog, and ordered me to tie a stone to his neck
and throw him in the pond.”

<©O, George, you didn’t do it!”

“Do it? not 1! 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 my-
self. I don’t care. Mas’r will find out that ’m one that
whipping won’t tame. My day will come yet, if he don’t
look out.”

‘“ What are you going to do? O, George, don’t do any-
thing wicked; if you only trust in God, and try to doright,
he’ll deliver you.”

“¢T ain’t a Christian like you, Eliza; my heart’s full of
bitterness; I can’t trust in God. Why does he let things
be so?”

“°O, 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 someharder. I wish I could be
good; but my heart burns, and can’t be reconciled, any-
how. You couldn’t, in my place—you can’t now, if I
tell you all ’'ve got to say. Youdon’t know the whole yet.”

‘“ What can be coming now?”

“Well, lately mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to
let me marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and
ail his tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads
up above him, and that Vve 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; bnt yes-
terday he told me that 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 min-
ister, as much as if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza,
simply.



72 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is
no law in this country for that; I can’t hold you for my
wife, if he chooses to part us, That’s why I wish I’d
~ never seen you—why I wish I’d never been born; it would
have been better for us both—it would have been better for
this poor child if he had never been born. All this may
happen to him yet!”

“°O, but master is so kind!”

«*Yes, but who knows? he may die—and then he may
be sold to nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he
is handsome, and smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza,
that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good
and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him
worth too much for you to keep!”

The words smote heavily on Hliza’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 veranda, where
the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and
where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr.
Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her
husband her fears, but checked herself.

“*No, no—he has enough to bear, poor fellow!” she
thought. “No, I won’t tell him; besides, it ain’t true;
missis never deceives us.”

“‘So, Hliza, my girl,” said the husband, mournfully,
“bear up, now; and good-bye, for ’m going.”

“Going, George! Going where?”

*«* To Canada,” said he, straightening himself up; ‘‘ and
when I’m there, I’ll buy you; that’s all the hope that’s
left us; You have a kind master, that won’t refuse to
ech you. I'll buy you and the boy—God helping me,

will!”

“°O, dreadful? if you should be taken?”

“‘T won’t be taken, Eliza; V’ll. die first! Ill be free, or
Pll 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!”

<*O, George, for my sake, do be careful! Don’t do any-
thing 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.





The parting of George and Eliza.



“









UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 75

«Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas’r took it into
his head to send me right by here, with a note to Mr.
Symmes, that lives a mile past. I believe he expected I
should come here to tell you what Ihave. _It would please
him, if he thought it would aggravate ‘Shelby’s folk’s,’
as he calls’em. I’m going home quite resigned, you un-
derstand, 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
will hear you.”

“©, 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 weeping—such parting as those may make whose
hope to meet again isas the spider’s web—and the husband
and wife 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 desig.
nates his master’s dwelling. In front it had a neat gar
den-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 largip
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 brilliant
annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four o’clocks, found
an indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendors,
and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe’s heart.

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the
house is over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its pre-
paration as head cook, has left to inferior officers in the
kitchen the business of clearing away and washing dishes,
and come out into her own snug territories, to “ get
her ole man’s supper;” therefore, doubt not that it is her



76 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

you see by the fire, presiding with anxious interest over
certain frizzling items in a stew pan, and anon with grave
consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from
whence steam forth indubftable intimations of ‘‘something
good.” A round, black, shining face is her’s, 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 con-
tentment 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 neighborhood, 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 achicken or turkey or duck in the barn-
yard but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and
seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end; and

certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing,
stuffing and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to in-
spire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake
in all its varities of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other
species too numerous to mention, was a sublime mystery
to all less practised compounders; and she would shake her
fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would
narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her
compeers had made to attain to her elevation.

The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of
dinners and suppers “in style,” awoke all the energies of
her soul; and no sight was more welcome to her than a
pile of traveling trunks launched on the veranda, for then
she foresaw “resh efforts and fresh triumphs.

Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the
bake-pan; in which congenial operation we shall leave her
till we finish our picture of the cottage.

In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a
snowy spread; and by the side of it was a piece of carpet-
ing, of some considerable size. On this piece of carpeting
Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the up-
per walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and
the whole corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished
consideration, and made so far as possible, sacred from the
marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks. In
fact, that corner was the drawing-room of the establish-







Aunt Chloe.







UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 79

ment. Inthe other corner was a bed of much humbler
pretensions, and evidently designed for wse. The wall
over the fire-place was adorned with some very brilliant
scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington,
drawn and colored in a manner which would certainly
have astonished that hero, if ever he had happened to meet
with its like.

On arough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-
headed boys, with glistening black eyes and fat shining
cheeks, were busy in superintending the first walking op-
erations 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 something decidedly clever.

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out
in front of the fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying
cups and saucers ofa decidedly brilliant pattern, with other
symptoms of an approaching meal. At this table was
seated Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelby’s best hand who, as he is to
be the hero of our story, we must photograph for our
readers. He was a large, broad-chested, powerfully-made
man, of a full glossy black, and a face whose truly African
features were characterized by an expression of grave and
steady good sense, united with much kindliness and
benevolence. ‘There was something about his whole air
self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a confiding
and humble simplicity.

He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate
lying before him, on which he was carefully and slowly
endeavoring 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 qg, you sce.”

“‘La sakes, now, does it ?” said Uncle Tom, looking with
a respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flour-
ishingly scrawled g’s and g’s innumerable for his edification;
and then, taking the pencil in his big heavy fingers, he
patiently re-commenced.

“How easy white folks al’us does things!” said Aunt
Chloe, pausing while she was greasing a griddle with a



80 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

scrap of bacon on her fork, and regarding young Master
George with pride. ‘‘The way he can write, now! and
real, too! and then to come out here evenings and read
his lessons to us—it’s mighty interestin’ !”

“But, Aunt Chloe, Pm getting mighty hungry,” said
George. ‘‘Isn’t that cake in the skillet almost done ?”

«© Mose done, Mas’r George,” said Aunt Chloe, lifting
the lid and peeping in—“ browning beantiful—a real lovely
brown. Ah! let me alone for dat. Misses let Sally try to
make some cake, t’other day, jes to darn her, she said. °*O,
go way, missis,’ says I ; ‘it really hurts my feelin’s now, to
see good vittles spiled dat ar way! Cake ris all to one side
—no shape at all; no more than my shoe—go way !”

And with this final expression of contempt for Sally’s
greenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-
kettle, and disclosed 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 entertain-
ment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about. earnestly in
the supper department.

“Here you, Mose and Pete ! get out de way, you niggers !
Get away, Polly, honey—mammy’ll give her baby somefin,
by and by. Now, Mas’r George, you jest take off dem
books, and set down now with my ole 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 too well for that,
‘Aunt Chloe.”

“‘So you did—so you did, honey,” said Aunt Chloe,
heaping the smoking batter-cakes on his plate; ‘you
know’d your old aunty’d keep the best for you. 0, 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 ac-
tivity of the griddle department had somewhat subsided ;
and, with that, the youngster flourished a large knife over
the article in question.

‘*La bless you, Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, with
earnestness, catching his arm, ‘‘ you wouldn’t be for cuttin’
it wid dat ar great heavy knife! Smash all down—spile





The cabin exterior. Uncle Tom’s cabin interior. “Not that way,Uncle Tom.”







UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 88

all de pretty rise of it. Here, I’ve got a thin old knife, I
keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light
asafeather! Now eat away—you won’t get anything to
beat dat ar.”

““Tom Lincon says,” said George, speaking with his
mouth full, ‘‘ that their Jinny isa better cook than you.”

“Dem Lincons ain’t much count, no way!” said Aunt
Chloe, contemptuonsly; ‘‘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 Lincon, now,
alongside Mas’r Shelby! Good Lor! and Missis Lincon—
can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis—so
kinder splendid, yer know! O, go way! don’t tell me
nothin’ of dem 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 cook.”

“So I did,” said Aunt Chloe—‘‘I may say dat. Good,
~ plain,-common cookin’, Jinny 711 do; make a good pone 0”
bread—bile her taters far—her corn cakes isn’t, extra,
not extra now, Jinny’s corn cakes isn’t, but then they’s far
—but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she
do? Why, she makes pies—sartin she does; but what
kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as
melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a puff? Now, I
went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married,
and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin’ pies. Jinny
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 likedemar. Why, dey
wan’t no ’count ’t all.”

“IT 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. don’t know.
Lor, the family ain’t nothing! She can’t be spected to
know! “I'a’nt no fault o’ hern. Ah, Mas’r George, you
doesn’t know half your privileges in yer family and bring-
in’ up!” Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes
with emotion.

“‘T’m sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and



84 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

pudding privileges,” said George. ‘Ask Tom Lincon if
{don’t crow over him, every time I meet him.”

Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a
hearty guffaw of laughter, at this witticism of young
master’s, laughing till the tears rolled down her black, shin-
ing cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully slap-
ping 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 day; and, be-
tween each of these sanguinary predictions, going off intoa
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 a some of Aunt Chloe’s pies; they’re the right sort,’
says I.”

‘<¢Pity, now, Tom couldn’t,” 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, someo’ 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 privileges, ’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 J made when we guv de dinner to
General Knox? I and missis, we come pretty near quar-
relling about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies
sometimes, I don’t know; but, sometimes, when a body has
de heaviest kind o’ ’sponsibility on ’em, as ye may say,
and is all kinder ‘seris’ and taken up, dey takes dat ar
time to be hangin’ round and kinder interferin’?! Now,
missis, she wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 85

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 lilies when de dew’s on ’em; and look at my
great black stumpin hands. Now, don’t ye think dat
de Lord must have meant me to make de pie crust, and
you to stay in de parlor? 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, saysshe, ‘ Well Aunt Chloe, I
think you are about in the right on ’t,’ says she; and she
went off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over the
head for bein’ so sarcy; but dar’s whar ’tis—I can’t de
nothin’ with ladies in de kitchen !”

“Well, you made out well with that dinner—I remem-
ber everybody said so,” said George.

“Didn’t 1? And wan’t I behind de dinin’-room door
dat bery day? and didn’t I see de gineral 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 knows what’s
what, now, as well as I do—de gineral. Ye see, there’s
pints in all pies, Mas’r George; but tain’t everybody knows
what they is, or orter be. But the gineral he knows; I
know 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 conld not eat another morsel and, there-
fore, he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads and
glistening eyes which were regarding their operations
hungrily from the opposite corner.

1 ** Here, you Mose, Pete,” he said, breaking ‘off liberal
bits, and throwing it at them; ‘‘ you want some, don’t you?
Come, Aunt Chloe, bake them some cakes.”

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the
chimney-corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly
pile of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and began alter-
nately filling its mouth and her own, and distributing to



86 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

Mose and Pete, who seemed rather to prefer eating their’s
as they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling
each other, and occasionally pulling the baby’s toes.

“0, go long, will ye?” said the mother, giving now and
then a kick, in a kind of general way, under the table,
when the movement became too obstreperous. ‘‘ Can’t ye be
decent when white folks comesto see ye? Stop dat ar,
now, will ye? Better mind yerselves, or I’ll take ye down
a button-hole 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 indis-
tinctness seemed to produce very little impression on the
young sinners addressed.

- Ta, now!” said Uncle Tom, “ they are so full of tickle
all the while, they can’t behave theirselves.”

Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with
hands and faces well plastered with molasses, began a
vigorous kissing of the baby.

“Get along wid ye!” said the mother, pushing’away their
woolly heads. ‘‘Ye’ll all stick together, and never get
clar, if ye do dat fashion. Gclong to de springand wash
yerselves!” she said, seconding her exhortations by a slap,
which resounded very formidably, but which seemed only
to knock ont so much more laugh from the young ones,
as they tumbled precipitately over each other out of doors,
where they fairly screamed with merriment.

«Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns?” said
Aunt Chloe, rather complacently, as, producing an old
towel, kept for such emergencies, she poured a little water
out of the cracked tea-pot onit, and began rubbing off the
molasses from the baby’s face and hands; and, having pol-
ished her till she shone, she set her down in Tom’s lap,
while she busied herself in clearing away supper. The
baby employed the intervals in pulling Tom’s nose,
scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his
woolly hair, which last operation seemed to anord her
special content. ;

<‘ Ain’t she a peart young un?” said Tom, holding her
from him to take a full-length view; then, getting up, he
set her on his broad shoulder, and began capering and
dancing with her, while Master George snapped at her
with his pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and Pete, now re-
turned again, roaredafter her like bears, till Aunt Chloe



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 87

declared that they “fairly took her head off ” with their
noise. As, according to her own statement, this surgical
operation wasa matter of daily occurrence in the cabin,
the declaration no whit abated the merriment, till every
one had roared and tumbled and danced themselves down
to a state of composure.

*‘ Well, now, I hopes you’re 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 goin’ to have the meetin’.”

“°O, 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 Master George, decisively, giving a push to the rude
machine.

Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed
highly delighted to push the thing under, saying, as she
did so, ‘* Well, mebbe ’t will do *em some good.”

The house now resolved itself into a committee of the
whole, to consider the accommodations and arrangements
for the meeting.

‘* What we’s to do for cheers, now, J declar I don’t
know,” said Aunt 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 encour-
agement to hope that a way would be discovered at pres-
ent.

«©Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest
cheer, last week,” suggested Mose.

«You golong! Tl boun’ you pulled *em out; some 0’
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 it, then,” said Mose, “and den
he’d begin, ‘Come saints and sinners, hear me tell,’ and
den down he’d go,” and 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 shamed?”



88 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Master 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.

“‘ Well, ole 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 readin’ *bout’ in de good book—dey never fails,” said
Mose, aside to Pete.

“‘7’m sure one on ’em caved in last week,” said Pete,
*‘and let ’em all down in de middle cf de singin’; dat ar
was failin’, warnt it?”

During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty
casks had been rolled into the cabin, and being secured
from rolling, by stones on each side, boards were laid
across them, which arrangement, together with the turn-
ing down of certain tubs and pails, and the disposing of
the rickety chairs, at last completed the preparations.

** Mas’r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know
he’ll stay to read for us,” said Aunt Chloe; ‘’pears like
76 will be so much more interestin’.”

George very readily consented, for your boy is always
ready for anything that makes him of importance.

The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from
the old gray-headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl
and lad of fifteen.
various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally got her new
red headkerchief, and how ‘‘ Missis was a going to give
Lizzy that spotted muslin gown, when she’d got her new
berage made up;” and how Mas’r Shelby was thinking of
buying a new sorrel colt, that was going to prove an addi-
tion to the gloriesof the place. A few of the worshipers
belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to
attend, and who brought in various choice scraps of infor-
mation, 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 a while the singing commenced, to the evident de-
light of all present. Not even all the disadvantage of
nasal intonation could prevent the effect of the naturally
fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited. ‘The words
were sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung
in the churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more
indefinite character, picked up at camp-meetings.



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. j 89

The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was
sung with great energy and unction:

“* Die on the field of battle,
Die on the field of battle,
Glory in my soul.”

Another special favorite had oft repeated the words—

“0, 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 imagin-
ative, 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 intermingled 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, chil’en! Well, I’m mighty glad to hear ye all
and see ye all once more, ’cause I don’t know when I’ll be
gone to glory; but I’ve done got ready, chil’en ; pears like
I'd got my little bundle all tied up, and my bonnet on,
jest a waitin’ for the stage to come along and take me
home ; sometimes, in the night, I think I hear the wheels
a rattlin’, and I’m lookin’ out all the time ; now, you jest
be ready too, for I tell ye all, chil’en,” she said, striking
her staff hard on the floor, “dat ar glory is a mighty
thing! It’s a mighty thing, chil’en—you don’no nothing
about it—it’s wonderful.” And the old creature sat
down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while
the whole circle struck up:

“OQ, Canaan, bright Canaan,
I’m bound for the land of Canaan.”

Master George, by request, read the last chapters of Reve-
lation, often interrupted by such exclamations as ‘‘ The
sakes now!’ ‘Only hear that!” “Jest think on’t!’’
“Ts all that a comin’ sure enough ?”

George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in relig-



90 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

ious things by his mother, finding himself an object of
general admiration, threw in expositions of his own, from
time to time, with a commendable seriousness 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 “’t was reely
*mazin’ !”

Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters,
in the neighborhood. Having, naturally, an organization
in which the morale was strongly predominant, together
with a greater breadth and cultivation of mind than
obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with
great respect, as a sort of minister among them ; and the
simple, hearty sincere style of his exhortations might. have
edified even better educated persons. But it was 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 to have wrought itself into his being, as
to have become a part of himself, and to drop from his
lips unconsciously ; in the language of a pious old negro,
he ‘prayed right up.” And go much did his prayer
always work on the devotional feelings of his audiences,
that there seemed often a danger that it would be lost alto-
gether 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 otherwise 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 bills,
‘which, as they were counted, he pushed over to the trader,
who counted them likewise.

“All fair,” said the trader; “‘ and now for signing these

er.”

: Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale toward him,
and signed them, like a man that hurries over some dis-
agreeable 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



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 91

handed to Mr. Shelby, who took it with a gesture of sup-
pressed eagerness.
«Wal, now, the thing’s done!” said the trader, getting

Pe Tt's done!” said Mr. Shelby, ina musing tone; and,
fetching a long breath, he repeated, ‘‘ Jf’s done.”

“* Yer don’t seem to feel much pleased with it,” pears to
me,” said the trader.

“Haley,” said Mr. Shelby, ‘I hope you’ll remember
that you promised, on your honor, you would’nt 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. Howsomever, P!l do the very best I can in
gettin’ Tom a good berth; as to my treatin’ on him bad,
you needn’t be a grain afeared. If there’s anything
that I thank the Lord for, it is that I am never no ways
cruel.”

After the expositions which the trader had previously
given of his humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel
particularly reassured by these declarations; but, as they
were the best comfort the case admitted of, he allowed
the trader to depart in silence, and betook himself to a
solitary cigar.

>

CHAPTER V.

SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON CHANG-
ING OWNERS.

Mr. anp Mrs. SHELBY had retired to their apartment
for the night. He was lounging in a 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 hag-
gard eyes, she had excused her attendance that night, and
ordered her to bed. ‘The employment, naturally enough,
suggested her conversation with the girl in the morning;
and, turning to her husband, she said carelessly:

























































































Eekwan

“Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow ?”



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 93

“ « By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow thai
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.

“Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business
here, pray?”

“© Well, he’s a man that I transacted some business with
last time I was at Natchez,” said Mr. Shelby.

«And he presumed on it to make Hmmesle quite at home,
and call and dine here, ay ?”

‘¢Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him,”
said Shelby.

“Ts he a negro-trader!’ said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a
certain embarrassment in her husband’s manner,

“Why, my dear, what put that into your head?” said
Shelby, looking up.

“‘ Nothing—only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a
great worry, crying and taking on, and said you were talk-
ing 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
ap On not perceiving that he was holding it bottom up-
ward,

«It will have to come out,” said he, mentally; ‘‘ as well
now as ever.”

“‘T told Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brush-
ing her hair, <‘ that she was a little fool for her pains, and
that you never had anything to do with that sort of per-
sons. Ofcourse, 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; but the fact is that my business lies so that
, cannot get on without. Ishall have to sell some of my

hands.”

“‘To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you can-
not be serious.”

“Tm Bonn to say that Iam,” said Mr. Shelby. ‘I’ve
agreed to sell ‘'om.”

‘‘What! oar Tom? that good, faithful creature! been
your faithful servant from a boy! O, Mr. Shelby! and.
you have promised him his freedom, too—you and I have



94 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can believe
anything now-—lI can believe ow that you could sell little
Harry, poor Eliza’s only child!” said Mrs. Shelby, in a
tone between grief and indignation.

‘Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed
to sell Tom and Harry both; and I don’t know why I am
to be rated, as if I were a monster, for doing what every
one does every day,”

“But why, of all others, choose these!’ said Mrs.
Shelby.‘ Why sell them, of all on the place, if you must
sell at all?”

“ Because they will bring the highest sum of any, that’s
why. I could choose another, if you say so. ‘The fellow
made me a high bid on Eliza, if that would suit you any
better,” said Mr. Shelby.

“The wretch!” said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.

‘‘ Well, I didn’t listen to it a moment—out of regard to
your feelings I wouldn’t—so give me some credit.”

“¢ My dear,” said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, “ for-
give me. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely
unprepared for this; but surely you will allow me to inter-
cede for these poor creatures. Tom is a noble-hearted,
faithful fellow, if he is black. Ido believe, Mr. Shelby,
that if he were put to it, he would lay down his life for
you.”

“‘T know it—I dare say; but what’s the use of all this?
I can’t help myself.”

«‘ Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I’m willing to
bear my part of the inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have
tried—tried most faithfully, as a Christian woman should
—to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent creat-
ures. 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 acknowledgment that we
care for no tie, no duty, no relation, however sacred, com-
pared with money? I have talked with Eliza about her
boy—her duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch



UNCLE '0M'S CABIN. 95

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 believe me when she sees us turn round and sell
her child—sell him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body and
soul!”
~ “Pm sorry you feel so about it, Emily—indeed I am,”
said Mr. Shelby; ‘‘ and I respect your feelings, too, though
I don’t pretend to share them to their full extent; but I
tell you now, solemnly, it’s of no use—I can’t help myself.
I didn’t mean to tell you this, Emily; but, in plain
words, there is no choice between selling these two and
selling everything. Hither 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 be-
fore 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 givethemup. Haley fancied
the child; he agreed to settle the matter that way, and no
other. J was in his power, and had to do it. Ifyou
feel so to have them sold, would it be any better to have
all sold?”

Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning
to her toilet, she rested her face in her hands, and gave a
sort of groan.

«This is God’s curse on slavery—a bitter, bitter, most
accursed thing—a‘curse to the master and a curse to the
slave! I was a fool to think I could- make anything good
out of such a deadly evil. It isa sin to hold a slave under
laws like ours—I always felt it was—I always thought so
when I was a girl—I thought so still more after I joined
the church; but I thought I could gild it over—I thought
by kindness, and care, and instruction, I could make
the condition of mine better than freedom—fool that I
was!”

““Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist,

uite.”
ep “* Abolitionist! if they knew all I know about slavery
they might talk! We don’t need them to tell us; you know
T never thought that slavery was right—never felt willing
to own slaves.”



96 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

«Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious
men,” said Mr. Shelby. ‘‘ You remember Mr. B——’s
sermon, the other Sunday?”

“‘T don’t want to hearsuch sermons; I never wish to
hear Mr. B in our church again. Ministers can’t
help the evil, perhaps—can’t cure it, any more than we
can—but defend it! it always went against my common
sense. And I think you didn’t think much of that ser-
mon, either.”

‘“ Well,” said Shelby, ‘*I must say these ministers some-
times carry matters further than we poor sinners would ex-
actly 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.”

«©O yes, yes!” said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstract-
edly fingering her gold watch—‘‘T haven’t any jewelry of
any amount,” she added thoughtfully; ‘but would not |
‘this watch dosomething? 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.”

“‘T’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 off. If you knew
the man as I do, you’d think that we had had a narrow
escape.”

“‘Ts he so hard, then?”

“‘ Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather—
aman alive to nothing but trade and profit—cool and un-
hesitating, 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 this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and
Eliza’s child?”

““ 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



‘





UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 97

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 drive
somewhere, and carry Hliza off. Let the thing be done
when she is out of sight.”

“‘No, no,” said Mrs. Shelby; ‘I'll be in no sense accom-
plice orhelp in this cruel business. T’ll go and see poor
old Tom; God help him, 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! What have we done, that this cruel necessity should
come on us?”

There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. and
Mrs. Shelby little suspected.

Communicating with their apartment was a large closet,
opening by a door into the outer passage. When Mrs.
Shelby had dismissed Eliza for the night, her feverish and
excited mind had suggested 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.

When 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 soff-and timid creature she had been hitherto. She
moved cautiously along the entry, paused one moment at
her mistress’ door, and raised her hands in mute appeal to
Heaven, and then turned and glided into her own room.
It was a quiet, neat apartment, on the same floor with her
mistress. There was the pleasant sunny window, where
she had often sat singing at her sewing; there a little case
of books, and various little fancy articles, ranged by them,
the gifts of Christmas holidays; there was her simple ward-
robe 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 curls falling negligently around his unconscious face,
his rosy. mouth half open, his little fat hands thrown out
over the bed-clothes, and a smile spread like a 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



98 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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:

‘*Q, missis! dear missis! don’t think me ungrateful—
don’t think hard of me, anyway—I heard all you and mas-
ter said to-night. Iam going to try to save my boy—you
will not blame me! God bless and reward you for all your
kindness!” s

_ 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 handkerchief tirmly round her waist; and,
so fond is a mother’s remembrance, that, even in the ter-
rors of that hour, she did not forget to put in the little
package one or two of his favorite toys, reserving a gayl
painted parrot to amuse him, when she should be called
on to awaken him. It was some trouble to arouse the
little sleeper; but, after some effort, he sat up, and was
playing with his bird, while bis mother was putting on her
bonnet and shawl.

«‘ Where are you going, mother?” said he, as she drew
near the bed, with his 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 be very still; and, opening a door in
her room which led into the outer veranda, she glided
noiselessly out. :

It was asparkling, frosty, star-light night and the mother
wrapped the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet
with vague terror, he clung round her neck.

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end
_ of the porch, rose, with a low growl, as she came near.
She gently spoke his name, and the animal, an old petand





Uncle Tom.”?

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HOW HENRY WARD BEECHER SOLD
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Ml LIFE OF HARRIETT BEECHER STOWE |

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By PROF. CHARLES MORRIS WwW WwW Ww
DdIdD?d

THE DOMINION COMPANY
328-334 Dearborn Street
CHICAGO, U. S. A.


Copyright 1897.
By JOHN E. POTTER
All rights reserved.

The special feature matter in this book is fully protected by Copyright, as well
as the illustrations, which have been made expressly for it from original
drawings. Anyone infringing in any form will be prosecuted,
Tees ee |

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Publisher’s Introduction «1... . ep eee ee ee ee 15
How Henry Ward Beecher Sold Slaves in Plymouth Church . . 17
Life ‘of Harriett Beecher Stowe... 2... 1... ee ee eee 24
The Story of the Book... «1 we ee ee ee ee ew we 29
A Key to the Characters... .. SUR Mi onictit-tninta me Tele cmicl sects 37
DPrOLACOh cereus ete eacpecnecte stoma pecan stores au siiiecate mr soes iat ers aise sents ae 45
Emancipation Proclamation... 6... 1 ee ee ee eee 48
CHAPTER I.

In which the Reader is Introduced to a Man of Humanity ... 51
CHAPTER II.

The Mother ........ See) CHAPTER III.

The Husband and Father ...... 1... ewww eee - . 68
CHAPTER IV.

An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin ............6- 1
CHAPTER V.

Showing the Feelings of Living Property on Changing Owners . 91
CHAPTER VI.

ICCA saan, Baoromeo Sige sca: ono pers ins sees tee cre 103
CHAPTER VII.

sBhesMotheris Strugglesn<. serge sepe- ok satsencm caneon stacey 115

; CHAPTER VIII.,
“Three ofa Kind ......... Side cee tease ee 131
8 CONTENTS.

CHAPTER IX.
In which it Appears that a Senator is buta Man. ..... . . 150

CHAPTER X.
The Property is Carried Off ..... Serta ieee orc eme mr acer 171
CHAPTER XI.
In which Property gets into an Improper State of Mind. .... 182
CHAPTER XII.
Select Incident of Lawful Trade... - +. eee aneseecere ek Oty
CHAPTER XIII.
The Quaker Settlement .........-.546- reer eu inte teat 219
CHAPTER XIV
Evangeline. . 2. 2 2 ee ee ee et es RCteie mea ceo k
CHAPTER XV.
Of Tom’s New Master, and Various Other Matters. ...... 244
CHAPTER XVI. ~
Tom’s Mistress and Her Opinions ..... eeiereea Cian cea 264,
CHAPTER XVII.
The Freeman’s Defense... ... 2.2 + eee eee eee cod
CHAPTER XVIII.
Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions BaEStn een tieaee toca ear ane 304
CHAPTER XIX.
Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions, Continued ..... . 324
CHAPTER XX.
TODSY setae ene hate eeu os bok chr sehen oe esos ernomeirel tones 346
CHAPTER XXI.
een tuickentetsc csc crsci caster ete opto saree cere etoile eiaeomns ees 366
CHAPTER XXII.
‘The Grass Withereth—the Flower Fadeth”?. ........ 37)
CHAPTER XXIII.
Honriqueyrytaterteetaee eer estes er wenn Mile verses cael 38¢
i i

CONTENTS. 9
CHAPTER XXV.

The Little Evangelist... . . Py Ca he eamem teens oot eee OR
CHAPTER XXVI.
Moathetewien sa eae Sere ieee hate tas mont on Reser ee 40D
CHAPTER XXVII.

‘(This is the Last of Earth”... ......- rr
CHAPTER XXVIII.

JREUMION Mester ens sivenne sete to ee meso SEB ces ouh ie eom nes AOS
CHAPTER XXIX.

The Unprotected .. 2... ee ee ee ee ee es . » 451
CHAPTER XXX.

The Slave Warehouse... -. +--+ -seeeee oe es » 461
CHAPTER XXXI.

The Middle Passage... . 2. ee eee ee ee eee -. 473
CHAPTER XXXII
Dark Places ....-- Di sees Leraote er eee stash veer eks ead,
CHAPTER XXXIII
Cassy ..--.--- BRN eee sa ae ier Sameer erik ir okar ester . - 490
CHAPTER XXXIV.

The Quadroon’s Story ........-. re reg eerie eerie 500

CHAPTER XXXV. ‘
OM URNS -6 G4 6 099.610 0.6 cio 6 O15 ef testes ceo he -ler 513
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Emmeline and Cassy . - 6 6 ee ee ee et ee ee ee 521
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Tet Derbyseasirec ecu le semis ece stows Mig (elec eeee ren -Meoateasietion suet 528
CHAPTER XXXVIII
TR GVA CEOLV see isaac ate raaes hoes es mart ole keane ofenoaes 538
.CHAPTER XXXIX.
The Strataremetene ce err ss een oan aree fainter alten 549
CHAPTER XL.
Oy E San ge= Gp sod ee OG Bi dko Hn oO G60 0 0-060 06-070 564
10 CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XLI.

The Young Master ...-.- + +--+ +-es
CHAPTER XLII.

An Authentic Ghost Story... 6. 1 ee ee ee eee ee
CHAPTER XLIII.

REGUL tame carsmeichesine tiene sonch eae roa eae eo etait ota rots sae oun
CHAPTER XLIV

Theslii beratorescuceicuket cu oie racists og Ui ahem oe are es tomes) snouts

CHAPTER XLV.

Concluding Remarks ....+ ++ esses












1, Presentation page .. 1 + wee eee ere ern ere ne 1
2. Frontispiece page. - 6 1 eee we ew eee ee ew eee 4
3. Harriett Beecher Stowe... . . Siew enh oeeere cars ee diclecun send.
4. UncleTom ....... oerote tess ances were estes set Gomeioe sa
5. Eva... .. shite ete ef i obios netdeti( uber tow seer Leto csis ailments 4
6. Topsy. -- 2. eee SMUkoGen cay siesascels tsa leticn sti eterte ne
WeaWilizayes.ersasared ice se OM isd eee cet yeas oh er salen cme 4
8. George Harris ..... aaaetped Tecente rea ss Masi oat out ofec yom sttce race
OPPETAL OY Ftizc eos drou stajea oP opis remot eltela ware! seu rey opmenaiel “onvea uments 4
Oe err eG ee arr. eects chown =a ans einron Mc ester scene ours oe. 4
11. House in which Uncle Tom’s Cabin was written ...... 4
12. Illustrative title page (in colors) ........ saree oa hes O
13. Illustrative head-piece, Contents. ..........2..- 7
14. Illustrative tail-piece, Contents ...... «s«.2.2ee.., 10
15. Illustrative head-piece, INustrations. ......... » 11
16. Illustrative head-piece, Publisher’s Introduction ...... 15
17. Illustrative head-piece, How Henry Ward Beecher sold slaves
in Plymouth Church. ......... SEnOReh area ouen 17
18. Illustrative tail-piece.-. . 2... 6 ee ee ee te te 23
19. Illustrative head-piece, Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe . . . . 24
20. Illustrative head-piece, The Story of the Book ....... 29
Q1. Illustrative head-piece, A Key to the Characters ..... .37
22. Illustrative tail-piece ......... Saas wio wien on ouciea satel 44
23. Illustrative head-piece, Preface ..... oer eueece sere mnee es 45
24, Illustrative tail-piece. ....... SUeeisiroaemycu geen cette 47
25. Henry Ward Beecher selling slaves in Blymonth Charchs: - - 50
26. Illustrative head-piece, Uncle Tom’s Cabin ........51

27,
28.

Accompanying his singing with many comic evolutions . . .53
George stood like one transfixed... .. eg caren ee - . 65
12

29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35,
36.

37.
38.
39.
40.

41,
42,
43,
44,
45.
46.

47.
48.

49.
50.

51.

52.
53.
54,
55.

66.
57.

58.
59.

60.
61.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Parting of George and Eliza. .......0.20-e..02. 73
Aunt CHOC oom shou. cnuis rl odie Ben iern outs iemreiee somos emremm one ett
Uncle Tom’sCabin. ......... SetoiE Meek sate we eee sme Ol)
Cabin exterior... . - 1... 220e- Sueeved meee eo L
“Not that way, UncleTom.”..........0..000. 81
‘* Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow?” ...... saree
“Tm runnin’ away, UncleTom.” ........,... 99
They ducked and dodged hither and thither to be out of the

reach of hisriding whip. .........-..0., 105
The mettlesome creature threw his master sprawling. . . . 112
She vaulted sheer over the turbid current. ........ 127
Loker listened to him with gruff and surly attention . . . . 133

‘‘Fellow countrymen,’’ said Sam, elevating a turkey’s leg

withenergy ........... Sao e (oine Seas ae cme cue nes 147
Eliza lay inadeadlyswoon ........2..42..0.. 156
Eliza was hurried into the carriage . . ......... .156
Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer ..... sagen Moma 156
The Senator despairingly steps out . . . . 2... -... .168
He stood holding the candle aloft. ...... eee e » . 168
“Tsay, gal, you needn’t bea bitafeard.”......... 168
““Getin!’ said Haley toTom .............. 176
Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveler en-

Peete enkey eee teed sees inouecmicaes Be deste te sea 185
He sauntered up to the advertisement and read itover . . . 185
George stood with his head thrown back and a bitter smile

curling shisilipsser seers eve ket we cet ence eh toy seers eienge Pons 185
His fine figure, alert limbs and bright face raised an instant

COM PELIbLOM GE sss oar cmre ics cote: les a Meoces es es cstace tui ee smears 201
‘Oh, Albert ! Oh, my boy! You’s my last baby.”. . ... 201
He drove them before him to the jail... ......... 201

Haley pulled his mouth open, looked in and felt of his teeth. 201
The La Belle Riviere was floating gaily down the stream . . 201
With sobs and tears she bemoaned him as her husband . . . 211
The wild look of anguish and utter despair might have dis-
turbed one less practised ....-.....5e...04. 211
He awoke with asudden start and heard a splash in the water. 211
It was plain to see how old and firm the girlish heart had
grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow ....... 221
It was no dream—her husband was sobbing by her pillow . 228
He saw her strike the water and sink, and was after her ina
MOMENE: terre ee ete sesielce: couse) “outs Wsjis/ 6: em smeue: (el ome caS


62.
63.
64.
65.

66.
67.
68.
69.
70.
71.
72.
73.
74,
75.
76.
78.
79.
80.

81.
82.

83.
84.

85.
86.

87.
88.
89.

90.

ILLUSTRATIONS. 13

‘Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things?”’. . . . . 253
The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion . . . . 258

QO! Tom, you looksofunny!’ ....... 2-22 ees 273
A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the
top of adistant hill. .... Sette heer ee ie Rr ee 293
George fired . . 22 0 1 se et et ew ee tw wes 299
‘*Get up, Tom, I’m not worth crying over.’ .....- - 308
“QO! ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart be-
CWEED VOU sei ve sie se outot o) ecu ste omenio) cs sicomrem 320
His large blue eyes flashed and he gestured with an uncon-
scious eagerness... + ee ee Bree eee ae eset nome 329
She suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst into
tears and sobbed convulsively ...... 2+ ee eee 342
Miss Ophelia shows Topsy how tomakeabed ....... 353
Rosa, at that instant, came into theroom .........- 356
“Does you know you’s all sinners.” ......-+-+..-. 363
The sight that pleased him most was her sunny head looking
out the gate for his distant approach .........-. 373
‘‘Tom,’’ said Eva suddenly, stopping and pointing to the ;
lakesitheres tiss!mumecrsetn sy cutee riers omer ueent aeemer 376
Henrique struck him across the face with his riding whip . . 381
. “There come the children.’ . 2... 1. eee ee ee ee 389
‘¢S pects it’s my wicked heart,’’ said Topsy, demurely . . . 401
“Tt’s a beautiful bouquet,’ said Eva, looking atit. .. . . 408
‘‘T sent for you all, my dear friends,’’ said Eva, ‘‘ because I
IONON nhs wep ot go cob O Sad Bech OU. bod oad 413
“O! Tom, my boy, itiskillingme!” .......... 42
Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and
silence herser tre etter cunetienn ete eked ons Sean Resto oe 427
St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift. ......... 440
With smothered voices and heavy tread came several men
bringing abody .......-. See er ieee orto e447)
The slave warehouse .... 2-2 ee ee ee eevee 460
The auctioneer expatiates ealciiy in mingled French and
English and bids rise in rapid succession .-.--... 471
The care of the former owner had been left to go to utter decay. 483
“Dog !? she said ‘‘touch meif youdare!” ........ 495
The two gigantic negroes now laid hold of Tom with fiendish
exultation in their faces... . 2... 2. ee ee ene 498
Often, as she read, her voice faltered, and sometimes failed

heraltogether . 2... ee ee eee ere ree eee 504
14 ILLUSTRATIONS.
91. Legree and both the drivers were in astate of furious ‘in-
(Ween o o 5 Blo Goo bo GO OD oo 6 Oe ¢ 519
92. The scissors glittered as one long lock after another was de-
tached from herhead ..-. 1... 1 ee ee eee 531
93.. The husband and wife knelt down and lifted up their hearts
(IHeMGl wb 6 yer OMe Se oG-o eo HOO . . . 537
94. ‘There, you dog,’’ be said, ‘‘see if you feel so comfortable
aL bOTabh auscceg sen ere eee itera et cee rae oy meron tat weir 544
95. A wild gust of wind swept down, extinguishing the candle . 555
96. ‘If you do, I’ll kill you,”’ said Cassy, drawing a small glit-
tering stiletto... - . ee ee ee ee ee ee 560
97. With the glare of blazing torches and whoop and shout and
savage yell of man and beast... 2... ee eee 566
98. Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about . . 566
99. “ Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him, give it to
Lyne 22s ar airtgmes ee ot ser ot acerca aero a-ae 100. With one indignant blow knocked Legree flat upon his face. 578
101. It stood by his bed, a voice said three times, in a low fearful
whisper, ‘‘Come! Come! Come!” ....-.--.-. 583
102. Cassy and Emmeline disguised .. 2... 1 eee eee 587
103. Cassy fellinsensible on the floor ofthe cabin ...... 590
104. ‘‘Oh, George! Don’t you know me? I’m your sister
ARG Tin ye eer ee Pearce a eae der ee 593
105. ‘‘And now, my friends, look up and thank God for the
blessing of freedom . . 2 1 ee eee ete ee ee 604

106. The whipping post. © 6 6 6 ee ee ee ee ee ee 615




T is not our purpose to attempt to
inform the public how great and
famous a book ‘Uncle Tom’s
Cabin” really is. To do so would
be like ‘carrying coals to New-
castle.’ A book that has been —
read by ten million readers, in
every land and of every language,
which has brought tears to more

: eyes and laughter to more lips than

any other book ever written, and which has become a
classic wherever the English language is spoken, does
not need to be introduced to the reading public at this
late day. It is true that since it was written a new
generation has grown up and the state of affairs to
which it refers has long since passed away. But the
living interest of the book remains unchanged, and it
can be read to-day with as deep enjoyment of its thrill-
ing story, and as absorbing interest in its exciting sub-
ject, as in the days when all the world went wild over
the sorrows of Uncle Tom and wept at the death of the
saint-like Eva. ;

Itis aremarkable fact, even at this day, that there is no
well-illustrated or attractively-presented edition of this
extraordinary work. Such an edition has been long de-
manded by the reading public, but none has heretofore.
been made. It is to this earnest demand that the
present edition is due, the publishers having decided to
present this classic work of fiction in a form- worthy
‘of its well-earned reputation. In order that this might

; 15




16 PUBLISHER'S INTRODUCTION.

be adequately done, they have had employed for a long
time past a corps of the ablest modern artists, men who
have made special study of characters, scenes and inci-
dents in the South before the war, the result of their
labors being given in the magnificent series of brush
and pen drawings with which this edition is so lavishly
illustrated, the whole forming a grand panorama. of pic-
torial embellishment as instructive and pleasing as it is
faithful and artistic.

The illustrations are but one of the special features
of this handsome edition, which has been specially pre-
pared as an art and literary memorial of the author, in.
consequence of her recent death. It contains in addi»
tion a series of valuable accessory literary features which
add enormously to its value, and which can be found in
no other edition, having been specially written for this.
These include the thrilling story of “‘ How Henry Ward
Beecher Sold Slaves in Plymouth Church”; ‘A Life Sketch
of Harriet Beecher Stowe,’ giving the interesting
details of her career; the ‘‘ Story of the Book,” with a
full account of the dramatic incidents surrounding its
writing and of its phenomenal popularity; a ‘‘Key to the
Characters,’’ in which the pith of a whole volume of
evidence collected by the author is given in condensed
form; and other special features of much interest.

It must also be borne in mind that when ‘‘ Uncle
Tom’s Cabin’’ was originally published the modern
method of illustration was unknown, and only crude
and old-fashioned wood cuts were available. The new
generation to whom this edition is presented is ac-
customed to a different class of books and illustrations
than could be had forty years ago, and it is to their de-
veloped tastes that the publishers have here catered.
Though the immediate causes which originally called
forth this great work have passed away, the recent death
of the author makes this memorial edition timely and
welcome. Despite the change in the times, the lessons
of the book are still fresh and its interest abiding, and
this charming story cannot fail to prove attractive to the
millions of fresh readers who have since come upon the
stage of life. Tur PUBLISHERS.





t VAC How Henry WARD BEECHES
57 IN Soup SLAVES,
re S os BY By





Mou TH Crurc

N the morning of Sunday, June
1, 1856, an extraordinary scene
took place in Plymouth Church,
that famous -Brooklyn temple
of liberal religious thought
which was so long presided
over by Henry Ward Beecher,
the foremost pulpit orator in
America. The edifice was filled,
crowded, overflowing with peo-
ple, all intensely expectant,

while without were thousands more who had been

unable to obtain admittance, for word had gone abroad
that Plymouth pulpit would that morning be turned
into a slave mart, and that its admired pastor would
sell a beautiful slave girl to whoever wished to buy.
Surprising as this announcement appeared, the eyes
of the great audience told them that it was founded on

fact, for there on the pulpit by Mr. Beecher’s side stood a

young woman whose nearly white face still showed indi-

cations that negro blood ran in her veins; and beside her
stood the dignified orator, like a slave auctioneer. about
to sell that human article of traffic to the highest bidder.

No wonder the audience looked at this striking scene
with excited eyes. They knew, it is true, what it
meant, but that only made their interest the more
intense. They knew that Henry Ward Beecher was
one of the leading abolitionists of the land; that he had
written vigorously against slavery; that he had borne
arms in Cincinnati against a threatened attack upon the

17


18 HOW HENRY WARD BEECHER

free colored people; that he had preached abolitionism
at Indianapolis and turned his home there into one of
the stations of the ‘‘ Underground Railroad ;’’ that he
had fed and concealed fugitive slaves, and driven them
through midnight storms to the next station on the
“ Underground,’’? and that in Plymouth Church his
voice had been raised in vigorous tones against the
institution of human slavery. They knew that he had
taken this stand despite the fact that New York and
Brooklyn were full of Southern sympathizers, and in the
face of abuse and threats of violence and the fact that a
mob had once gathered in New York with the purpose
of tearing down the church in which he preached.

They knew all this, and therefore their feelings may
be imagined when word spread abroad that Mr. Beecher
was about to sella slave from the pulpit of Plymouth
Church. Of course, it may be taken for granted that
the audience guessed fairly well what this meant. They
knew that the famous pulpit orator could not stultify his
record; they knew that no human being could be sold
into slavery in New York State, and they must have
conjectured what was indeed the case, that the tremb-
ling girl by Mr. Beecher’s side was about to be sold
into FREEDOM, to be bought from her master and given
the sole possession of her own body and soul.

Appeals had often been made to him to aid in pur-
chasing the freedom of men and women who had been
seized as fugitive slaves. Two weeks before he had
been told that a young woman in Richmond, Va., had
been sold by her own father, a white man,—or monster,
—to a slave dealer for twelve hundred dollars, to be
sent South; ‘‘for what purpose,’”’ he told the audience,
‘‘you can imagine when you see her.’’ - Mr. Beecher, .
inspired with the idea that a slave sale in their own
midst would best teach the people of the Metropolis
what a thing of horror the slave traffic really was,
resolved to offer this woman for sale in his own church,
and procured the consent of the dealer on the woman’s
promise that she would return if not bought into free-
dom. That dealer, too, knew the honor of the man
with whom he had to deal.
SOLD SLAVES IN PLYMOUTH CHURCH. 19

The silence in the church was almost painful as the
beautiful young slave woman ascended the pulpit stairs
and stationed herself before the audience, while Mr.
Beecher’s expressive face told the sentiments that were
passing through his mind. With the facility of an
actor—and the great orator had much of the power of
the born actor—he assumed the look of an auctioneer
about to call for bids, while his voice took on the cold,
heartless tone of one used to dealing in human flesh and
blood.

“Took,” he said, ‘‘at this commodity—human as
yourselves, yet an article of traffic, before you for pur-
chase. Look at her regular features and thoughtful
brow, which have come to her from the white blood of
her father. She stands before you to be sold. Who
bids? Remember that you will have to pay an extra
price for that white blood, since it bespeaks intelligence.
Who bids?—Stand up, Sarah. Lookat her. Mark her
fine figure and handsome face. What will they bring?
I warrant her sound in wind and limb. Who bids for
this woman ?

‘‘Hold out your hands, Sarah. You.see they are
small and shapely. I await your bids. She is a Chris-
tian woman—a praying nigger, I mean—and that makes
her worth more, for she will be docile and obedient.
How much for this slave woman? Shall this woman,
this Christian like yourselves, this being made in the
image of God, be sent back to Richmond, and sold
farther South to meet the fate to which her own father
doomed her? If not, who bids? Her fate rests upon
your souls. Who bids?”’

It would be impossible to describe the impression
made by these words, as the clear voice of the speaker
sent them vibrating to the remotest corner of the
church. As he spoke the actor stood declared. He
was transformed into the auctioneer he simulated. His
mellow tones grew harsh and cold; his eyes seemed to
say that slave girl and audience were nought to him,
and that this was a mere matter of every-day business.
The excitement grew more intense as he continued,
after a moment’s pause:
20 HOW HENRY WARD BEECHER

“Come! She is to be sold, and a fine specimen she
is,as you can see. Look ather! Do you want her?
Pass the baskets and we shall see.’’

The order was timely, the audience were ripe for it.
They had been wrought up to an intense pitch of sympa-
thetic feeling. Pitying tears streamed from many eyes;
indignation burned in many faces; women grew hysteri-
cal; men could not restrain their feelings ; never had the
abomination of the slave trade been so vividly shown.
One man stepped forward and threw a bank-note on the
pulpit at Mr. Beecher’s feet.

“Well done!’’ he cried, ‘‘The first, who follows?’’

Hundreds were eager to follow. Money was heaped
into the baskets until they were overflowing. Others,
too excited to wait the slow coming of the baskets, flung
notes and coin on the pulpit. Not money only, but
jewelry, was freely offered. Women threw rings and
bracelets into the baskets. Men handed their watches
to the ushers. Above the din rang out the preacher’s
voice: ‘‘Shall this woman return to Richmond and
slavery, or shall she stay here and be free?’’

‘ decision.

‘‘How much then do you bid, men and women? In
Christ’s name, answer! ’’

‘Mr. Beecher,”? came a loud voice above the din,
“enough has been bid to more than buy the woman.
If not, there are gentlemen here who promise to make
up any deficiency, however large.”’

“Then, Sarah, you are free!’’ cried the orator, turning
to the late slave, whose wet eyes and trembling frame
showed that she shared fully the excitement of the
audience.

A shout, almost a cheer, broke from the half-frenzied
people, so loud that it almost shook the walls of the
church. The applause continued for many minutes,
cries of prayer and praise mingling with it. It was
silenced at length by the lifting of Mr. Beecher’s hand.

““God bless Plymouth Church!’’ he fervently ex-
claimed. ‘In the ancient days, when the Jews went
up to their solemn feasts, the very mountains around




SOLD SLAVES IN PLYMOUTH CHURCH. 21

Jerusalem rang with their shouts. I do not approve of
applause in the House of God; but for a good deed well
done, like that of to-day, it cannot be wrong to out-
wardly express our joy.’’

No deficiency needed to be made up in the collection.
Not only the twelve hundred dollars demanded by the
slave dealer were given, but enough more to enable the
freed woman to buy for herself a little home at Peekskill,
N.Y., where she made for herself a livelihood by raising
fowls and selling eggsand butter. It was indeed a good
deed well done, and Henry Ward Beecher had earned
the applause of all lovers of liberty and human brother-
hood.

_ This sale was a happy suggestion to Mr. Beecher. He
followed it up with others, and it is pleasant to be able
to state that not in a single instance did he fail to pro-
cure the freedom of the slave offered. The most inter-
esting of these took place in February, 1860, on the very
verge of the great civil war. It was this time a little
girl named Pinky, the daughter of a white father,—too
pretty for her own good, as her old grandmother wrote,
—who was about to be sold ‘‘down South.’’ ‘‘Can she
be set free?’? Mr. Beecher was asked. “ Bring her
North and I will try,’ he replied. ‘‘I will be respon-
sible for the child, and send her back if not lawfully
purchased.”’

The slave-owner, who did not care particularly from
whom the money came, so that he received it, readily ac-
cepted this offer, saying: ‘‘If Henry Ward Beecher has
given his word itis better than another man’sbond.”’ ‘It
is the only compliment I have ever received from a slave-
owner,’’ Mr. Beecher laughingly said, on hearing of this
tribute to his honor.

Pinky was brought North, and sold from Plymouth
pulpit as Sarah had been, amid excitement and enthus-
iasm as intense. . The beauty of the child doubled the
sympathy of the audience, the orator’s moving words
brought tears in showers from his hearers, and the price
demanded was more than contributed. Rose Terry, a
famous writer of that day, threw a valuable ring into
the basket, and this Mr. Beecher took out and placed on
22 HOW HENRY WARD BEECHER

the child’s finger, saying: ‘With this ring do I wed
thee to freedom.’’

Pinky was sent to school with the extra money raised,
under the new name of Rose Ward—adapted from Rose
Terry and Henry Ward Beecher. When she grew to
womanhood she became eager to be educated as a teacher,
that she might work as a missionary among her freed
people in the South. Mr. Beecher made another appeal
from his pulpit for this purpose, and raised enough to
send his protege to Lincoln University for a year, after
which she fulfilled her chosen mission of going South to
educate the liberated slaves. From time to time word
of the good work she was doing came North, to gladden
her benefactor’s heart.

The dramatic scenes here described may be closed by
the story of. another, in which Mr. Beecher played an
important part in the final work of the emancipation of
the slaves. President Lincoln was highly interested in“
the story of Pinky, which had been related to him by
Mr. Beecher, who was his earnest friend and frequent
adviser. He had made persistent appeals to Lincoln to
free the slaves, all of which were resisted on the plea
that this could not legally be done, except as a military
nécessity.

“Do you promise to do so if the military necessity ever
arises !’’ persisted the warm-hearted advocate of freedom.

“With all my heart I do,” declared the President.

At length the time came,in Mr. Beecher’s opinion.
He grew strongly agitated on reading of the Federal
~ victory at Antietam. Leaving home, he hurried to Ful--.
ton Ferry to go to Washington. But he was undecided.
Several times he crossed the ferry, back and forth. At
length it occurred to him to choose a swifter messenger
than the railroad train of that day. Hurrying to a tele-
graph office, he despatched the following message to
President Lincoln : 3

‘(Ts there not a military necessity now? Will you
keep your promise ?’’

In the hours that followed, the friend of the slaves was
deeply preoccupied with anxiety. He could not eat, he
eould not work. Questions asked him had to be twice


SOLD SLAVES IN PLYMOUTH CHURCH. 23

repeated before he heard them. His whole soul was
wrapped up in the expected reply to his message.

At length it came. The door bell rang.
was handed in. With eager haste he tore it open and
read these two words of deeply significant meaning:

“Yes! Linconn.”

In those words lay the promise of the emancipation
of a race for centuries held in bondage, and the lifting
of the United States to the honorable place among
nations which it had hitherto forfeited by maintaining
the institution of slavery. In the proclamation of free-
dom to the slave that followed Mr. Beecher’s life work
in this direction was ended, and Abraham Lincoln
placed himself on the highest pedestal of fame as one of
the leading benefactors of mankind,




N_ the early part of this century there was
no more distinguished preacher in this
country than Lyman Beecher, a Congre-
gational minister of New England; and
certainly none has left the world more
distinguished descendants. Of these it
will suffice to name here the famous
Henry Ward Beecher, and his no less
famous sister, Harriet Elizabeth Beecher,
the subject of this sketch, who was born
in Litchfield, Conn., June 14, 1811.

Even as a mere child, Harriet showed marked precocity

in an intellectual direction, committing to memory

enough poems and prose selections to serve her during
life for quotation, while when but twelve years old she

wrote an essay on the abstruse subject, ‘‘Can the Im-

mortality of the Soul be Proved by the Light of Na-

ture ?”

This precocity continued. In her school years she
wrote a drama, whose scene was laid in Rome in the
time of Nero, made a metrical translation from Ovid,
and occupied her mind with the study of Butler’s
‘‘ Analogy”? and Baxter’s ‘‘Saint’s Rest.” These last
serious studies indicated the nature of the influences
surrounding her. Religion filled the thoughts of the
circle in which she lived, and could not but strongly
affect her imaginative and ardent nature, and she was
still in girlhood when she entered her father’s study one
day and fell into his arms with the words: ‘ Father, I
have given myself to Jesus, and he has taken me.”’ “Is

24


LIFE OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 25

it so?’’ said the father, his eyes full of the light of joy.
“Then has a new flower blossomed in the Kingdom
this day.’’

In 1832 Dr. Lyman Beecher moved to Cincinnati,
having accepted the Presidency of Lane Theological
Seminary in that city. There his oldest daughter,
Catharine, founded a seminary for women, with Harriet
as her assistant. Though suffering much from ill-
health, the younger sister not only aided in the school,
but found time to write a school geography, and obtained
her first literary triumph by winning a prize of fifty
dollars with a story named ‘‘ Uncle Lot.’? Four years
after reaching Cincinnati she became the wife of Calvin
E. Stowe, a professor in the Lane Seminary, whose first
wife had some time before died. This important step in
her woman’s life took place January 6, 1836.

At Cincinnati Mrs. Stowe found herself in the midst
of the growing excitement attending the anti-slavery
agitation. This city, which looked upon a slave State
across the Ohio, early felt the stir of the rapidly increas-
ing sentiment. The Philanthropist, an anti-slavery paper,
had its office attacked by a mob, and Henry Ward
Beecher, editor at that time of a small daily paper on
which his sister assisted him, vigorously supported the
editor of the suppressed journal. Lane Seminary was
in peril from the mob, and the alert-minded authoress
daily came in contact with experiences of which she
was to make vital use in her after life. Her father and
friends were advocates of abolition, her brothers were
all anti-slavery men, and she had received and educated
in her own family the children of liberated slaves. One
of these waifs was seized to be sold as part of the assets
of a Kentucky estate. The child was ransomed, but
the incident deeply affected Mrs..Stowe’s mind. Some-
what later a negro girl from Kentucky became a servant
in her house. Her mistress had left her in Ohio, and
by the laws of that State she was free; but it was
learned that her former master had laid a plot to kid-
nap her, and Mr. Stowe and Henry Ward Beecher car-
ried the girl at midnight, in a covered wagon, to asecure
refuge twelve miles away.
26 «LIFE OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

These were but a few of the experiences that came to
the ardent-souled woman, and filled her mind with facts
which were to blossom into the living fiction of ‘‘ Uncle
Tom’s Cabin,’’ and through its pages to make a nation
of abolitionists. She left Cincinnati in 1849 for Bruns-
wick, Maine, where her husband had accepted a profes-
sorship in Bowdoin College. But she took with her a
memory full of painful scenes which she had seen or
had been in near contact with, and the letters which
followed her to her new home served to keep up the
indignation against the slave system which burned in
her soul. ’

The spark that kindled the train of her thoughts
came to her at length in a letter from her sister-in-law.
‘“‘Tf I could use a pen as you can,’’ said the letter, ‘‘I
would write something that would make this whole
nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is.’’

This letter came to her like an inspiration. Reading

it aloud to her family, when she came to the passage
just quoted, she exclaimed, with the face and gesture
of a prophetess: “I will write something. I will if I
live.”
' The story of how the book was written does not need
to be given here. It is told in the sketch which follows
this biography. It will suffice here to say that it was
written as all world-moving books are written ; it wrote
itself, the author’s mind being but the channel of the
inspiration that made the book. It was published
March 20, 1852, while Mrs. Stowe, exhausted with her
labor, was taking some weeks of needed rest with her
brother Henry at Brooklyn.

Meanwhile Professor Stowe accepted the Chair of
Sacred Literature in the Theological Seminary at Ando-
ver, Mass., and here an old stone building, which had
been a workshop and a gymnasium, was transformed
into a comfortable home, which the people of the place
named ‘‘ The Cabin.’’ Here the authoress proposed to
write a story of New England life, but the excitement
caused by ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin’? forced her into another
field of labor. From every quarter came demands that
she should sustain the statements made by ber in the
LIFE OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 27

book which was agitating the world, and she felt herself
forced into the composition of a voluminous ‘‘ Key to
Uncle Tom’s Cabin,”’ as long as the original work and
much more laborious.

Exhausted with this labor, in the ensuing summer
she and her husband, accompanied by her brother
Charles, crossed to Europe, the story of the journey
being afterwards given in a highly interesting work,
‘Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands.’? Sunny her
memories must have been, if adulation brings sunshine,
for the journey was made through admiring nations, the
noblest and the best of the people abroad eagerly greet-
ing and praising the most famous author of the day.
Numerous friends were made among the host of her
admirers, and her already large correspondence was in
consequence much increased.

During the years preceding the war Mrs. Stowe wrote
much in favor of anti-slavery, and from the new facts
which had come to her knowledge, produced a second
novel on this subject named ‘‘Dred.’’ This added to
the effect of ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ though. it failed to
gain the signal popularity of that noble work. The
profits of her works had placed the family in easy cir-
cumstances, and in 1856 they made another journey
abroad; but Mrs. Stowe had hardly returned when the
shadow of deep sorrow fell upon her in the death by
drowning of her son Henry, then pursuing a college
course at Dartmouth.

Her feeling was indicated in ‘‘The Mourning Veil,”
her first contribution to The Atlantic Monthly, then just
founded. Soon after she began “‘ The Minister’s Woo-
ing,’’ as a serial story for this magazine. It attracted
much favorable notice, and was followed in 1863 by
‘¢‘ Aones of Sorrento,’’ written from her experiences of
.@ winter spent in Italy, and by ‘The Pearl of Orr’s
Island.”’

During several succeeding years Mrs. Stowe ceased
novel writing, her pen being employed in producing a
series of didactic stories’ on subjects of social ethics.
Then came a series of Atlantic sketches, beginning
with ‘‘House and Home Papers,’ and ending with
28 LIFE OF HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

“The Chimney Corner.’’ But in 1869 appeared what
to many is the choicest of her works of fiction, ‘ Old
Town Folks,’’ a story of former life in rural New Eng-
land, full of the spirit of that locality, and racy with the
inimitable ‘‘Sam Lawson,’’ the perfect embodiment of
the ‘‘ Village Do-Nothing.’’ This character reappears
in ‘‘Old-Town Fireside Stories,’’ though less effectively.

Mrs. Stowe had purchased a plantation in Florida,
which became the winter home of the family for many
years. It was bought for the benefit of her son Fred-
erick, who had been a captain in the war and had left
the army suffering from the effects of wounds. Her
experiences here were put upon record in ‘‘ Palmetto
Leaves,’’ a series of letters from Florida. Her later
stories included ‘‘ My Wife and I” and ‘‘ We and Our
Neighbors,’’ published as serials in The Christian Union,
in which paper her brother Henry was largely interested ;
and in 1878 she produced another story of old-fashioned
New England life in ‘‘Poganue People.’’ But her
thoughts were now largely turned to religious subjects,
finding expression in short stories, poems and religious
- meditations, in which appeared a growing sense of the
mystery of the Divine.

Literature had now become a means of livelihood,
but it had grown into a wearying exertion, and she
sought to eke out her income by readings from her
works, then a common method with famous authors.
Her second reading was given in Tremont Temple, Bos-
ton, and proved a pronounced success, the whole audience
sharing the inspiration with which she delivered pas-
sages from ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”’

In 1886 her husband died, and after that Mrs. Stowe
began to lose her strong hold on life , dwelling in seclu-
sion in the quiet of herhome. Ten years afterward, on
July 1, 1896, she died in her home at Hartford, and was
buried ‘by her husband’s side in Andover Cemetery in
that city.


T is to the Fugitive Slave Law that we owe
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’’ This law, passed
in 1850, first brought the iniquity of sla-
very prominently before the people of the
North. It permitted slave-owners to fol-
low runaway slaves into the Northern
States, and commanded the people of -
those States to aid in their capture. But
the sympathies of a nation cannot be con-
trolled by law. The attempts to seize the
dark-skinned fugitives led to- riots and
rescues. In various places negroes were taken by force
from the officers and safely concealed. Several of the
States passed laws to protect the negroes, and many
persons organized to help the slaves secretly to Canada.
This method yecame known as the ‘‘ Underground Rail-
road,” and hunareas, yerhaps thousands, of trembling
fugitives owed their satesy to this peculiar system of
travel, with its secret stations and midnight journeys.
It was to this law, as above said. that we owe ‘‘ Uncle
Tom’s Cabin.” Mrs. Stowe lived :a ‘he midst of the
events described. Her residence in Cinciunati brought ,
- her into contact with the fugitives on the first stage in
their journey. Her own servants were threatened with
capture and had to fly for their liberty. She saw mach
and heard more of the evils of slavery, learned to know
the character of the slave and of his master, heard
many thrilling stories of slave life and of the adven-
tures and perils of fugitives, and her intense and imag-
29


60 , THE STORY OF THE BOOK.

inative soul was stirred to its depths. She determined
to show the world what the life of the slave really was,
to depict its happy side, as well as its dark and cruel
side, to paint alike the merciful and the merciless slave-
holder, to put on record, in short, the peculiar institu-
tion in all its Jights and shadows, and show the world
what she had seen for herself, and what had burnt itself
so deeply into her soul.

‘“Uncle Tom’s Cabin ’’ was in every sense a remark-
able book—a book written from the heart and appealing
to.the heart. It was felt to be fair and truthful, to show
the life of the slave in allits lights and shadows, and
there was that in it which took the world by storm.
People who took it up could not lay it down till they
had finished reading it. They laughed over ‘‘ Topsy,’’
they cried over ‘‘Eva’’ and “Uncle Tom,” but they
ended with tears in their eyes and indignation in their
hearts. No arguments nor denials could overcome its
influence. It set in train a silent revolution, and was
one of the great forces that led to the Civil War.

But we must return to the story of the book and tell
how it came to be written. We have spoken of Mrs.
Stowe’s experiences in Cincinnati. They followed her
after her removal to New England. The Fugitive Slave
Law had stirred up excited feeling throughout the
North. Even in Boston the colored people were in a
panic of terror, and many were fleeing to Canada. Let-
ters came to her, pitiful epistles, telling of the fear and
despair arising from the law. One of these letters con-
tained an earnest appeal to her, who was familiar with
the subject and a skilled writer,to use her pen in defence
of the slave.

“TJ will!’’ she cried, in an outburst of vital enthu-
siasm. ‘‘If I live, I will!”

It was no slight task to which she thus pledged herself.
She was not strong. She had around her a family of
six children, one of them an infant. Her husband had
but a small salary, and she was burdened with the cares
of her household. But the subject had taken hold of
her mind and would not let go. A book seemed beyond
her present ability, but a series of sketches, giving in
THE STORY OF THE BOOK. 381

fiction what she knew of slavery in fact, might do good
work in the cause which she had at heart, and show to
many honest souls the real character of that system
which they ignorantly upheld.

At this interval, a chance volume of an anti-slavery
magazine gave her the authentic story of how a slave
woman with her child had escaped to freedom across
the ice of the Ohio River. This was an event of dra-
matic interest, that was destined to prove one of the
most thrilling in the book. There came to her also the
story of a faithful slave who refused to escape from his
trusting master, though he was about to be sold ‘‘ down
river.’? In this she found the first suggestion of Uncle
Tom. The story of the book began, scene by scene, to
take shape in her imagination. We have her own state-
ment to the effect that ‘‘ the first part of the book ever
committed to writing was the death of Uncle Tom.”’
She was at the communion table at the little Brunswick
church when this scene, in all its pathetic completeness,
rose in her mind, possessing her so vividly and abso-
lutely that her weak frame shook.with deep emotion,
and she could scarcely keep back the tears which flooded
her eyes. Hurrying home, she put on paper the scene
which burned in her soul, and read it to her two young
sons. The pathetic tale threw them into convulsive weep-
ing, and one of them, through his tears, exclaimed : ‘Oh,
mamma, slavery is the most cursed thing in the world.”

That story was the key-note of the book. The other
incidents gathered round it. Scenes, conversations,
dramatic incidents took shape in her mind, and witha
vividness that gave them actual life. Her soul was
taken captive by the conception. ‘The book insisted
upon getting itself into being, and would take no
denial.’’

Mrs. Stowe did not yet know that she was writing a
book. In her view it was to be a story of moderate
length, and she wrote to the editor of The National Fra,
of Washington, saying that she was writing a tale that
would probably be long enough to run through several
numbers of his paper. The editor was her friend and
knew her powers, and he eagerly asked for the story.
39 THE STORY OF THE BOOK.

But instead of weeks, it ran on for months, the story
forcing its author to go on with it, so that nine months
passed before its limited but highly-interested audience
among the readers of the Era reached its final chapter.
Many of the anti-slavery people heard of and read it
with sympathy, but to the public at large it remained
almost unknown.

The work was produced under the pressure of cares
that would-have discouraged any less ardent writer,
yet in spite of all home distractions each weekly install-
ment was ready and sent off in time. The writing was
done by Mrs. Stowe, mostly in the mornings, on a little
writing desk in a corner of the dining-room of the
Brunswick cottage, amid countless interruptions spring-
ing from household demands and from the importunities
of her children, who would burst impetuously into the
room and interrupt her labors with their childish ques-
tions and wants. Her power of self-absorption was won-
derful. Itseems impossible that such a work could have
been produced under such circumstances. Yet the pen
kept on in its busy journey, the children were dismissed
with a smile and word, and the sorrows of Uncle Tom |
and the antics of Topsy alike came into being on the
written page in the midst of endless distractions. The
power of concentration displayed has rarely been
equalled. Inthe evening, what she had written during
the day was read to the assembled family, who followed
with the deepest interest the progress of the story.

In beginning this story, Mrs. Stowe did not dream of
any large profits likely to arise from it. Her hopes
were of the humblest. At all events, she certainly
never imagined that it would lift herself and her family
above the straitened circumstances in which they
had hitherto dwelt. From the editor of the Hra she
received three hundred dollars, and this she probably
looked upon as the end of her profits. It is true that,
while it was still being issued as a serial, Mr. J. P.
Jewett, a young publisher of Boston, offered to issue it
in book form. But he felt disposed to withdraw his
offer when the story unrolled to what he deemed weari-
some length. He wrote to the author that this would not
THE STORY OF THE BOOR. 33

do; the story was too long; it could not be issued asa
one-volume book; the subject was too unpopular for a
two-volume book to sell; the people would not read so
long a story on a theme for which they cared so little.

Mrs. Stowe replied that she had not made the story,
that it was its own author and she had not the power to
stop it in its course. Mr. Jewett still hesitated. A
critic, whom he asked to read it, sat up all night at its
perusal, and reported, ‘‘ The story has life in it; it will
sell.’ Mr. Jewett now offered to publish it on half
profits if Mr. Stowe would bear half the expense. The
professor replied that he had not the necessary money,
and in the end the publisher made up his mind to try
the venture, offering the usual ten per cent. royalty.

In this business arrangement Mrs. Stowe took no
part and felt no special interest. It was the effect of
the work in which she was interested, not its possible
profits. Her thoughts, her soul, had gone into it, as an
appeal to the world for the slave, and in deep discour-
agement she said ‘‘it seemed to her there was no hope;
- that nobody would hear, nobody would read, nobody
would pity.” Yet, she did all she could, writing letters :
and ordering copies of the book to be sent to anti-
slavery leaders abroad, such men as Prince Albert,
Macaulay, Dickens, Kingsley and others.

While she thus worked, the book came out. It seemed
asif the world had been eagerly waiting for it. Its suc-
cess was phenomenal from the start. By the day .of
issue,orders for three thousand copies had been received.
A few days passed and ten thousand copies were sold.
A new edition had to be printed with all speed, and
eight presses were kept running night and day in a vain
effort to keep up with the demand. Before a year had
elapsed the sales reached three hundred thousand copies.
Rarely has there been such a success. Everybody, high
and low, rich and poor, was reading the book and tak-
ing its lesson to heart. Public feeling was stirred to its
depths. It appealed to the sympathies of the whole
community, and carried before it a high wave of anti-
slavery sentiment throughout the land.

It was not alone its theme. People had heard much
384 IHE STORY OF THE BOOK.

of the evils of slavery. It was its power as a novel
that carried it with such rapidity through the land and
impressed its lesson on the hearts of the community.
At first it swept all before it. Praise was almost uni-
versal. But when the advocates of the slavery system
saw its effect, detraction began, and a fierce opposition
arose. The South and its sympathizers took up arms
against the book. Denunciations were uttered in pulpit
and issued in the press, and even the leading religious
paper of the land, a journal of New York, spoke of it
as ‘‘anti-Christian.”’

Mrs. Stowe was amazed. She had not dreamed of such
a sale, nor of such bitter denunciations. She had tried
to write mildly and justly, had painted some of the
slave-holders as men of noble character, had made evi-
dent the difficulty of their situation, and had laid the
lash of indignant feeling only on the slave-traders, the
public whippers, the overseers, those whom the South-
erners themselves despised, even while they had to
endure them as a necessity of the situation. But the
authoress did not fully understand what she had done.
She had dealt the whole system a deadly blow, and could
not reasonably hope it would be received with thankful-
ness.

In one respect, however, Mrs. Stowe was more than:
satisfied. The cash returns from the book exceeded her
wildest expectation. Four months after publication,
Mr. Stowe called on the publisher, telling him that he
hoped to receive enough to buy his wife a silk dress.
Mr. Jewett, in reply, handed him a check for ten thou-
sand dollars.

This was for the American sale. For the millions of
books sold abroad the authoress received nothing. The
story of the career of ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ in Eng-
land is interesting. The first copy reached London in
April, a gentleman having brought it with him as read-
ing matter on the steamer. He gave it to a friend,who
offered it for five pounds to an enterprising publisher.
It was declined with thanks. A second publisher also
declined it. The third, a Mr. Salisbury, read it the
night through, finding in it abundant matter for tears
THE STORY OF THE BOOK. 85

and laughter. Then, not sure but that he was growing
weak minded, he woke his wife and set her to reading
the book. Asit brought tears and laughter from her
also, he thought it might be safe to print.

It proved indeed a safe venture, though it moved
slowly till June was well gone. But during July the
demand reached a thousand a week, and before August
ended, a deluge of orders came in. Four hundred
people and seventeen printing machines, in addition to
hand-presses, were employed in preparing the book, of
which one hundred and fifty thousand copies were sold
in a marvellously brief time. A new publisher now
issued an edition, and the printing world, awakening to
the fact that anyone was at liberty to print the book,
issued edition after edition, till, before the year ended,
twelve were on the market, and before the end of 1853
forty different editions had been issued in London,
varying in price from the most sumptuous illustrated
edition at 15s. to the cheapest popular edition at 6d. It
is stated that, in all, more than a million and a half of
copies were circulated in Great Britain and her colonies.

This immense demand stimulated the publishers of
other nations, and translations began to appear on the
Continent. As the years went on, the book was trans-
lated into languages far removed from civilized Europe,
such as Arabic, Siamese and Chinese. In all, sixty-
eight translations, into twenty-three different languages,
are on record, namely: Arabic, Armenian, Chinese,
Danish, Dutch, Finnish, Flemish, French, German,
Hungarian, Dllyrian, Italian, Japanese, Polish, Portu-
guese, Modern Greek, Russian, Servian, Siamese, Span-
ish, Swedish, Wallachian, and Welsh. Truly, it proved
a work for the world, and, from China té America, all
nations wept over the sorrows of Uncle Tom and
_ laughed at the antics of Topsy and the shocked auster-
ity of Miss Ophelia.

In addition to the full editions, there were abridg-
ments, adapted to the use of children, and dramatiza-
tions, of which the first apppeared in the United States
in 1852, without the knowledge or consent of the
author, and made a most successful run in the leading
36 THE STORY OF THE BOOK.

cities, and afterward in those of Europe. Yet all this
vast popularity brought the author nothing but fame.
Her profits were restricted to the ten per cent. paid her
by Mr. Jewett, and from the great returns from the
drama not a penny came to her purse.

Fame came to her, if nothing more. In her European
journey, in 1853, all classes united to do her honor; her
presence called forth universal enthusiasm; while in
Scotland a penny offering was collected among the
people, and a thousand guineas presented to the author
during her visit to Edinburgh. In London a valuable
bracelet was presented her by the Duchess of Suther-
land, its oval links being made in imitation of slave
fetters, on several of which were inscribed the dates
of notable events in the history of the emancipation
of negro slaves. More significant of the general feel-
ing was an address from the women of England to
the women of America, in which they prayed for aid to
free the world from ‘“‘ our common crimes and common
dishonor.”? To this were appended no less than 562,-
848 signatures, of all classes, from the highest nobility
te the lowest kitchen maid. Twenty-six massive vol-
umes were formed from the signatures, each fourteen
inches high, nine wide and three thick, the whole
enclosed in an oak case. Certainly no author, before or
sinee, ever had such recognition of national sympathy.

Such is the story of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’’ briefly
told. Some critics have claimed that it is not a great
book, and that Mrs. Stowe was not a great woman.
That depends on what is called greatness.

Certainly, the book was written as all great books are
written. ‘The subject possessed the author and heated
her mind to the white heat of production. She saw and
felt her characters, lived in her seenes, and in the
mingled gloom and humor of her work, produced a
picture of the world as it is, inhabited by people that
traly live and breathe on her pages. It may not fully
respond to the canons of eriticism, but it is instinct with
genius, and the verdict of the world is surely of far
more weight than the decision of a narrow-visioned
anatomist of words and phrases.
&



NCLE TOM’S CABIN ” is in form
and purpose a work of fiction, It
was necessarily made go, for in no
other way could it have attracted.
the large measure of public atten-
tion desired and brought its les-
son fully before the minds of the
people. But in its underlying
purpose it is far more than a work
of fiction. Its novelistic form is
but a cloak to cover a body of
solid facts within. It is intended as a picture of actual
life, a realistic panorama of a state of society then exist~
ing, a photograph in life colors of the institution of
slavery, revealed in all its lights and shadows, its hor-
rors and alleviations, to a world that knew it not and
was not fully ready to accept the revelations concerning
it. As a result, the work was bitterly assailed, its
statements questioned, its pictures of Southern life
denied, its characters called perversions of the truth,
and Mrs. Stowe was forced to come to the defense of her
work in an extended supplementary volume entitled “A
Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” in which she sustained her
statements by abundant documentary evidence ; showed
that the leading incidents of her story were based on
actual facts, and proved that her characters were drawn
from real life, being pen pictures of people she had mes
or faithful reproductions of types of character and life
scenes of which she had read or been told. Her deserip-
at




38 A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS.

tion of the source of her characters is of interest, as a
proof of the care she took in making her work true to
life, and we here present it in brief epitome. The
remainder of her ‘‘Key” consists largely of docu-
mentary evidence of the treatment of and laws against
slaves, too voluminous to be here presented.

She tells us herself that ‘‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin” is a
collection of real incidents, to a greater extent, perhaps,
than any other work of fiction ever written; made up
of actual facts, words and expressions, her share of the
work being merely to put these facts artistically together
in a frame of fiction, changing names, dates and scenes,
but keeping true throughout to the living details of the
state of society about which she wrote. It is a kaleido-
scope of slavery, its parts rearranged, but all present
and allevident. In reviewing the characters introduced
we shall commence with him who gives his name to the
work, Uncle Tom.

Uncle Tom. Critics of Mrs. Stowe’s work have spoken
of Uncle Tom as an improbable, almost an impossible,
character; yet she assures us that her picture of this
black-skinned Christian hero has been most abundantly
confirmed. Many persons said to her, after reading the
book, ‘‘ I knew an Uncle Tom in such a Southern State,’’
and the stories told her of these characters would have
made asmall volume. One of them was a negro slave in
New Orleans of such remarkable honesty that his master
trusted him to the most complete extent. He would
give him a handful of bills without looking at them to
purchase supplies for the family, quite confident that he
would receive the proper change, saying to those who
thought this action imprudent, that he had sufficient
proofs of his servant’s conscientiousness to freely trust
him with all he owned. His brother, who was visiting
him, was so struck with the man’s evident and deep
piety that he said, ‘‘ I hope you will never do anything
to deprive this man of his religious privileges, for I
think a judgment will come upon you if you do.’ The
slaveholder replied that he was not quite foolish enough
to do that, since he knew that the man’s value was due
to his religion.
A KEY T0 THE CHARACTERS. 39

Another of the Uncle Tom stamp was Josiah Henson,
in his later years a well-known colored clergyman of
Canada, but who in early life had been a slave, embit-
tered against his master by cruel treatment of his father
and brought up in a state of heathenism. He was con-
verted at a camp meeting, became an ardent and con-
scientious Christian, and gradually, though he could not
read a, word of the Bible, developed into a negro preacher
of great force and impressiveness. He became so val- ©
uable to his master that he was made overseer of the
whole estate, which he managed with unusual skill and
prudence. Subsequently, the master’s affairs becoming
inyolved, he proposed to remove all his negroes from his
Maryland estate to Kentucky, and left the performance
of this entirely to Henson, who was to take the slaves
alone, without other attendant, over the long interven-
ing distance, on his simple promise to do so faithfully.
Henson’s honor was sorely tried. On his way he passed
through a part of Ohio, and was told that he and his
fellows were now free, if they chose to claim their free-
dom, which he was strongly urged to do. But he had
given his promise, and no inducement could make him
violate his Christian principle, while his influence over
his followers was so great that they all willingly went
with himto Kentucky. These two examples must suf-
fice out of the numerous instances of Christian conscien-
tiousness that might be adduced.

George Harris. The incidents of the life of this char-
acter are again far from exceptional, Mrs. Stowe giving
a number of parallel cases of which she had personal
knowledge. Ohe of the persons spoken of, Lewis Clark
by name, was a handsome quadroon, chosen as her ser-
vant by a married daughter of the family, whose ungov-
ernable temper and violence had already reduced one
servant to a state of idiocy. Her outbreaks of wrath
were now visited upon him, and only flight saved him
from being reduced to the state of his predecessor. As
for the tale which George Harris gives of the sale of his
mother and her children, Josiah Henson, whom we
have already mentioned, has published a parallel one.
His master having died, all the slaves of the plantation
40 A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS.

were sold to the highest bidder, his brothers and sisters
being bid off separately, while the mother stood by in
an agony of grief at the coming separation from her
children. Then the mother was sold, the purchaser
being a Mr. R., of Montgomery County, Maryland.
Finally, Josiah, a mere child, was offered for sale, when
the distracted mother pushed through the crowd to her
purchaser, fell at his feet and clung to his knees, entreat-
ing him in heart-breaking tones to buy her baby as well
as herself, and spare her_at least one of her little ones.
The man thus appealed to not only refused her request,
but was brutal enough to accompany his refusal with
such violent blows.and kicks that the poor mother was
forced to creep out of his reach, her sobs of grief being
mingled with groans of pain. This incident would be
almost past belief but that it is attested by one of such
known probity as Henson.

As regards the advertisement for the recapture of
George Harris, ‘‘ dead or alive,’’ which has been called
in question, it was an incident of common occurrence,
such advertisements being frequent in the newspapers of
the time described. We could give a considerable list
of them if necessary, but one must suffice.

The Wilmington (N.C.) Advertiser, of July 18, 18388,
contains two such advertisements, of which we quote
the following:

RAY AWAY, my negro man RICHARD. A reward of $25 will be paid for his

\ apprehension, dead or alive. Se ncnry proof will only be required of his
being Killed. He has with him, in all Probab lity, his wife Eliza, who ran away
from Col. Thompson, now a resident of Alabama, about the time he commenced
his journey to that State. fs

DURANT H. RHODES.
, Eliza. The story of Eliza is founded on a well-
authenticated fact. Mrs. Stowe saw at a church in
Kentucky a beautiful quadroon girl, whom she was told
was a slave, and was further told that her master had
refused to sell her. ‘‘A Southern gentleman,’’ her
informant said, ‘‘not long ago offered her master a
thousand dollars for her; but he told him that she was
too good to be his wife, and he certainly should not have
her for a mistress.’’ y
This girl became the Eliza of the work, the incidents
A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS. 41

of her story being of a character that could have abund-
ant corroboration. As for her crossing the Ohio on the
ice, which has been disputed, such a circumstance
actually happened. Mrs. Stowe had read of such an
occurrence, and its truth was confirmed by a Presby-
terian clergyman whom she met, and who said: ‘I
understand that they dispute that fact about the
woman’s crossing the river. Now I know all about
that, for I got the story from the very man that helped
her up the bank. I know it is true, for she is now liv-
ing inCanada.’’ The plot formed by Haley, Marks and
Loker to kidnap Eliza from Ohio has been stated to
caricature the way in which justice was administered in
that State; but in this instance Mrs. Stowe only para-
phrased an incident in the life of a servant in her own
family, who was saved from being delivered up by a
venal magistrate only by a midnight flitting, aided by
Professor Stowe and Henry Ward Beecher.

Topsy. We have only one more slave character to
speak of, the inimitable Topsy, whose impish pranks
. mmake much of the humor of the book, but who truth-
fully represents, in her ignorance and impishness, num-
bers of children in slave households. Devoid of prin-
ciple, quick, active and subtle in mind, penetrating as
by instinct the degradation of their condition, feeling
their black skin to be an outward sign of inferiority,
they were urged on by a kind of inner desperation to .
demonstrate their utter sinfulness of thought and action.
‘Nothing but a nigger,’? was to poor Topsy the brand
of hopeless worthlessness, and Miss Ophelia’s effort to
bring up such a child as a Christian, had to contend
with the absence of every suitable inducement in the
mind of the genuine Topsy.

Miss Ophelia. Miss Ophelia was the very last person
to control such a child as Topsy, whose small but keen
intelligence saw through her sham Christianity, tainted
as it was with a prejudice against the black skin of her
would-be neophyte. Miss Ophelia is one of a numerous
class who imagine that they can reform the world with-
out reforming themselves, who are hedged in by a thick
crust of prejudices and narrow views of life and its
42 A KEY TO THE CHARACTERS.

luties. Honest and well-intentioned they are, no
doubt, but deeply self-ignorant, and unaware that the
narrowness which is hidden from themselves is patent
to all whom they meet. ‘The love sentiment of genuine
Christianity is wanting, and without it Miss Ophelia
could not hope to find anything but rebellion in her
pupil.

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby. Mrs. Stowe, while painting in
lurid colors the dark side of slave-life, was anxious to
paint its bright side as well, and has done so in the
Shelbys, of whom there must have been abundant ex-
amples in the era of slavery. Had all been like them,
the institution of slavery would have been much less of an
evil, and the agitation for its removal would have found
far fewer advocates. With this class, easy indulgence
and good-natured forbearance were combined with just
discipline and carefully-imparted religious instruction,
and the plantation became a patriarchal establishment,
where happiness and order reigned. The one over-
shadowing evil was the always present danger of death
or misfortune to these well-meaning slave-owners, fol-
lowed by sale into possibly far less favorable conditions.

St. Clare. In St. Clare, we meet with another type of
those calculated to make the slave system a patriarchate.
Mrs. Stowe tells us that she drew his character with
enthusiasm and hope. At heart an abolitionist, con-
vinced of the utter wrong and injustice of slavery, for-
tune had made him a slave-holder, and forced him to
feel his weakness as such. He was one at heart with
John Randolph, Patrick Henry, and other Southerners
of Revolutionary times. From Patrick Henry, we may
quote. After expressing his abhorrence of the whole sys-
tem, he continues: ‘‘ Would anyone believe that I am
master of slaves of my own purchase? I am drawn
along by the general inconvenience of living here with-
cut them. I will not, I cannot justify it. :

I know not when to stop. I would say many things on
the subject, a serious view of which gives a gloomy
prospect to future times.’’

John Randolph said in Congress: ‘I envy neither
the heart nor the hand of that man who rises here to
‘A KEY T0 THE CHARACTERS. 43

defend slavery on principle; ’”’ and his will contains the
following words: ‘‘I give to my slaves their freedom,
to which my conscience tells me they are justly en-
titled.”’? These were the St. Clairs of an earlier date.

Marie St. Clare. In Marie St. Clare, we come to
another type of people, an example of a class of women
who may be found everywhere, but whose besetting
weakness becomes a terror when they are entrusted
with uncontrolled authority. In the North the Marie
St. Clares are always in domestic hot water. Their
servants cannot be trusted to do anything right. They
ought to be glad to have the worst rooms in the house
at the lowest possible wages, and should possess the
whole series of Christian virtues on a scant weekly pit-
tance, the lack of perfection and gratitude to their bene-
factor being shamefully selfish and unprincipled. The
Marie St. Clare of the South, under the slave regime,
became a household tyrant. The least disrespect or
failure in obedience to orders led to condign punish-
ment. She had no hesitation to sever her servants
from their nearest kindred, there being only one person
in her household to be considered—herself ; and she had
as little hesitation in visiting them with disgraceful and
violent punishments, such as have often been described
by eye-witnesses, as inflicted by the public whipper in
the calaboose at New Orleans.

Legree. But the Shelbys and St. Clares represent but
one side of slave-life. Even Marie St. Clare, with her
utter selfishness, is an estimable character as compared
with Legree, the type of the soulless slave-holder, of
whom the South held far too large a number, and whom
Mrs. Stowe depicts in the darkest colors, but no darker
than the truth demands. The Legree of the book is
ugly, coarse and profane. These qualities were not the
only ones found in bad masters. There were men of
some degree of culture and refinement whose cold-
blooded selfishness led them to almost the brutal con-
duct of a Legree. There were men who worked their
plantations on the principle of getting all that was pos-
‘gible out of their negroes in a few years, and then
exchanging them for others, and of this type Legree
44 A REY TO THE CHARACTERS.

was simply an extreme representative. To these the
horrors of the slave system were principally due, and to
them we may largely ascribe the development of the
final class to be considered.

Haley. Haley, the negro-trader, is given, in ‘‘ Uncle

Tom’s Cabin,” as the representative of a large class,
including, in addition,the negro-catcher, the kidnapper,
the whipper, and the other auxiliaries of the institution.
These men were the dregs of the white society of the
South, despised by those who employed them, necessary
but abhorrent elements of a system which could not
well be sustained without such brutal and soulless acces-
sories. Of course, the Haleys, the Tom Lokers, and
that genus, form but one species out of a large class.
There were all varieties of negro-traders, downward
from those who conducted the business by wholesale,
who were gentlemanly and courteous, and who deplored
the necessity of the institution of which they availed
themselves. From these, down to the Haleys, there
were many grades, but the highest rank of dealers
could not avoid, from the exigencies of the situation,
occasional acts of inhumanity.
’ With these few pages, describing the source of the
characters of the work, we shall leave the reader to the
perusal of the book itself, satisfied that its inherent
truthfulness cannot but impress itself on his mind.

















ral
WH 1

; ) : vr .
PRETAC
Pettit thd th ie

dite ss Mey
: AN hin hy hiya fy

be




1G
Hs



fue

ay,
a sifi



title indicates, lie among a

race hitherto ignored by the

associations of polite and re-

fined society ; an exotic race,
whose ancestors, born
beneath a tropic sun,
brought with them, and
perpetuated to their de-
scendants, a character
so essentially unlike the
hard and dominant An-
glo-Saxon race, as for many years to have won from it
only misunderstanding and contempt.

But another and better day is dawning ; every influence
of literature, of poetry and of art, in our times, is becom-
ing more and more in unison with the great master chord
of Christianity, ‘good will to man.”

The poet, the painter, and the artist, now seek out
and embellish the common and gentler humanities of life,
and, under the allurements of fiction, breathe a human-
izing and subduing influence, favorable to the develop-
ment of the great principles of Christian brotherhood.

The hand of benevolence is everywhere stretched out,
searching into abuses, righting wrongs, alleviating dis-
tresses, and bringing to the knowledge and sympathies
of the world the lowly, the oppressed, and the forgotten.

In this general movement, unhappy Africa at last is
remembered ; Africa, who began the race of civilization
and human progress in the dim, gray dawn of early time,
45
46 PREFACE.

but who, for centuries, has lain bound and bleeding at
the foot of civilized and Christianized humanity, implor-
ing compassion in vain.

But the heart of the dominant race, who have been
her conquerors, her hard masters, has at length been
turned toward 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!

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 toward those individuals who, often
without any fault of their own, are involved in the trials
and 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 evils of slavery from sketches like these, is not the
half that could be told, of the unspeakable whole.

In the northern states these representations may, per-
haps be thought caricatures; in the southern states are
witnesses who know their fidelity. What personal
knowledge the author has had, of the truth of incidents
such as here are related, will appear in its time.

It is a comfort to hope, as so many of the world’s sor-
rows and wrongs have, from age to age, been lived down,
so a time shall come when sketches similar to these shall
be valuable only as memorials of what has long ceased
to be.

When an enlightened and Christianized community
shall have, on the shores of Africa, laws, language, and
literature, drawn from among us, may then the scenes
of the house of bondage be to them like the remembrance
of Egypt to the Israelite—a motive of thankfulness to
Him who hath redeemed them!

For, while politicians contend, and men are swerved
PREFACE. 47

this way and that by conflicting tides of interest and
passion, the great cause of human liberty is in the hands
of One, of whom it is said:

“He shall not fail nor be discouraged
’Till He have set judgment in the earth.”

“He shall deliver the needy when he crieth,
The poor, and him that hath no helper.”

“He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence,
And precious shall their blood be in His sight.’




he Hi i) |
Oe

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: Lael giyt
tet il

-~ LD


8 CPCS OSSSOSOGS

WN the first day of January, in the year of our
| Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-
three, all persons held as slaves in any State:
or designated part of a State, the people
whereof. shall be then in rebellion againsi
the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and
forever free; and the executive government of the
United States, including the military and naval au-
thority thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom
of such persons, or any of them, in any efforts they may
make for their actual freedom.

The Executive will, on the first day of January afore-
said, designate the States and parts of States, if any, in
which the people thereof, respectively, shall then be in
rebellion against the United States; and the fact that
any State, or the people thereof, shall on that day be in
good faith represented in the Congress of the United
States, by members chosen thereto at elections wherein
a majority of the qualified voters of such State shall
have participated, shall, in the absence of strong coun-
tervailing testimony, be deemed conducive evidence:
that such State, and the people thereof, are not then in
rebellion against the United States.

And by virtue of the power and for the purpose afore:
said, I do order and declare that all persons held as
slaves within such designated States and parts of States
are, and henceforward shall be free.

And upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of
justice, warranted by the Constitution, upon military
necessity, I invoke the considerate judgment of man-
kind and the gracious favor of Almighty God.

A. Lincoin.




48





Henry Ward Beecher selling slaves in Plymouth Church.


CHAPTER I.

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

Latz in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two
gentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-
furnished dining parlor, in the town of P »1n Kentucky.
There were no servants present, and the gentlemen, with
chairs closely approaching, seemed to be discussing some
subject with great earnestness.

For convenience sake, we have said, hitherto, two gentle- ’
men. One of the parties, however, when critically ex-
amined, did not seem, strictly speaking, to come under the
species. He was a short, thick-set man, with coarse, com-
monplace features, and that swaggering air of pretension
which marks alow man who is trying to elbow his way
upward in the world. He was much over-dressed, in a
gaudy vest of many colors, a blue neckerchief, bedropped
gayly 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. watchchain, with a
bundle of seals, of portentous size and a great variety of
colors, attached to it—which, in the ardor of conversation,
he was in the habit of flourishing and jingling with evi-
dent satisfaction. His conversation was in free and easy
defiance of Murray’s Grammar, and was garnished at con-
venient intervals with various profane expressions, which
not even the desire to be graphic in our account shall in-
duce us to transcribe. ;

His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a
gentleman ; and the arrangements of the house, and the


52 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 should arrange the matter,’
Mr. Shelby.

“‘T can’t make trade that way—I positively can’t, Mr.
Shelby,” said the other, holding up a glass of wine between
his eye and the light. :

‘‘Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon
fellow; he is certainly worth that sum anywhere—steady, .
honest and capable, manages my whole farm like a
clock.”

«You mean honest, as niggers go,” said Haley, helping
himself to a glass of brandy.

“© 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 flourish of his hand, ‘‘ but Zdo,
I had a fellow, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans—
7b was as good as a meetin’, now, really, to hear that critter
pray; and he was quite gentle and quiet like. He fetched
me a good sum, too, for I bought him cheap of a man that
was “bliged to sell out; so I realized six hundred on him.
Yes, I consider religion a valeyable thing inanigger, 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 Cincin-
nati alone, to do business for me, and bring home five hun-
dred dollars. ‘Tom,’ saysI 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. Iam sorry 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
conscience.”

“Well, I’ve got just as much conscience as any man in
business can afford to keep—just a little, you know, to

? gaid
a een :
ae
basi!

sa
a




lutions.

1c evo

th many comi

ing wi

ing’

1S S$:

h

ing

Accompany:
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 5d

swear by, as *t were,” said the 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—a
leetle too hard.” ‘The trader sighed contemplatively, and
poured out some more brandy.

‘Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?” said, Mr.
Shelby, after an uneasy interval of silence.

«Well, haven’t you a boy or gal that you could throw
in with Tom ?”

“¢ 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, be-
tween four and five years of age, entered the room. There
was something in his appearance remarkably beautiful and
engaging. His black hair, fine as floss silk, hung in
glossy curls about his round, dimpled face, while a pair of -

‘Targe dark eyes, full-of fire and softness, looked out from
beneath the rich, long lashes, as he peered curiously into
the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet and yellow plaid,
carefully made and neatly fitted, set off to advantage the
dark and rich style of his beauty ; and a certain comic air
of assurance, blended with bashfulness, showed that he had
been not unused to being petted and noticed by his master.

“‘ Hulloa, Jim Crow!” said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and
snapping a bunch of raisins toward him, ‘‘pick that up,
now !”

The child scampered, with all his little strength, after
the prize, while his master laughed.

“‘©CGome 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 the
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 ap-
56 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

pearance 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 commenced ton-
ing a psalm tune through his nose, with imperturbable
gravity.

“Hurrah! bravo! what a young ’un!” said Haley;
“‘that chap’s a case, I’ll promise. ‘Tell you what,” said
he, suddenly clapping his hand on Mr. Shelby’s shoulder,
“fling in that chap, and I’ll settle the business—I will.
Come, now, if that ain’t doing the thing up about the
rightest!”

At this moment the door was pushed gently open, and
a young quadroon woman, apparently about twenty-five,
entered the room.

There needed only a glance from the child to her, to
identify her 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 admiration. Her dress was of the neatest
possible fit, and set off to advantage her finely molded
shape; a delicately formed hand and a trim foot and ankle
were items of appearance that did not escape the quick eye
of the trader, well used to run up at a glance the points of
a fine female article.

‘Well, Eliza?” said her master, as she stopped and
looked hesitatingly at him.

“‘T was looking for Harry, please, sir;” and the boy
bounded toward her, showing his spoils, which he had
gathered in the skirt of his robe.

“Well, take him away, then,” said Mr. Shelby;
and hastily she withdrew, carrying the child on her
arm.

‘By Jupiter,” said the trader, turning to him in ad-
miration, ‘‘there’s an article, now! You might make
your fortune on that ar gal in Orleans, any day. I’ve seen
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 57

over a thousand, in my day, paid down for gals not a bit
handsomer.”

“T don’t want to make my fortune on her,” said Mr.
Shelby, dryly; 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
ad slapping his hand familiarly on Shelby’s shoulder, he
added :

«© Come, how will you trade about the gal? what shall I
say for her—what’ll you take?”

“Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold,” said Shelby.
“‘*My wife would not part with her for her weight in

old.”
a “‘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, J reckon.”

“T tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of; I say no,
and I mean no,” said Shelby, decidedly.

“Well, you'll let me have the boy, though,” said the
trader; ‘‘ you must own I’ve comedown pretty handsomely
for him.”

“‘ What on earth can you want with the child?” said
Shelby.

“Why, I’ve got a friend that’s going into this yer
branch of the business—wants to buy up -handsome boys
to raise for the market. Fancy articles entirely—sell for
waiters, and so on, to rich “uns, that can pay for hand-
some ’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, ?m a humane man, and I
hate to take the boy from his mother, sir.”

“QO, you do? La! yes—something of that ar natur. I
understand, perfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on
with women, sometimes. I al’ays hates these yer screach-
in’, screamin’ times. ‘They are mighty onpleasant; but, as
I manages business, 1 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
58 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

~home. Your wife might get her some ear-rings, or a new
gown, or some such truck, to make up with her.”
‘©T’m afraid not.”
“« Lor’ bless ye, yes! These critters ain’t like white folks,
you know; they gets over things, only manage right.
Now, they say,” said Haley, assuming a candid and confi-
dential air, ‘‘that this kind o’ trade is hardening to the
feelings; but I never found it so. Fact is, I never could
do things up the way some fellers manage the business.
T’ve seen *em as would pull a woman’s child out of her
arms, and set him up to sell, and she screechin’ like mad
all the time; very bad policy—damages the article—
makes “em quite unfit for service sometimes. I knew a
real handsome gal once, in Orleans, as was entirely ruined
by this sort o’ handling. The fellow that was trading for
her didn’t want her baby; and she was one of your real
high sort, when her blood wasup. JI tell you, she squeezed
up her child in her arms, and talked, and went on real
awful. Jt 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 manage-
ment-—there’s where “tis. It’s always best to do the
humane thing, sir; that’s been my experience.” And the
trader leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms, with
an air of virtuous decision, apparently considering him-
self a second Wilberforce. ;
The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply,
for while Mr. Shelby was thoughtfully peeling 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’ him-
self; but I say it jest because it’s the truth. I believe I’m
reckoned to bring in about the finest droves of niggers
that is brought in—at least, I’ve been told so; if I have
once, I reckon I have a hundred times—all in good case—
fat and likely, and I lose as few as any man in the busi-
“ness. And I lays it all tomy management, sir; and
humanity, sir, I may say, is.the great pillar of my manage-
ment.”

Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said,
«* Indeed!”
UNCLE VOM’S CABIN. 59

“Now, I’ve been laughed at for my notions, sir, and
T’ve been talked to. They ain’t pop’lar, and they ain’t
common; but I stuck to ’em, sir; ve stuck to ’em, and
realized well on ’em; yes, sir, they have paid their pas-
sage, 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 in company. Perhaps you laugh, too, dear
reader; but you know humanity comes out in a variety of
strange forms nowadays, and there is no end to the odd
things that humane people will say and do.

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

“Tt’s strange now, but I never could beat this into peo-
ple’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 ’t was, you see,
for a better hearted feller never broke bread; ’*t was
his system, sir. I used to talk to Tom. ‘Why Tom,’ I
used to say, ‘when your gals takes on and cry, what’s the
use 0’ crackin on ’em over the head, and knockin’ on ’em
round? It’s ridiculous,’ says I ‘and don’t do no sort 0’
good. Why, I don’t see no harm in their cryin,’ says I;
‘it’s natur,’ says I, ‘and if natur can’t blow off one way,
it will another. Besides Tom,’ says I ‘it jest spiles your
gals; they get sickly, and down in the mouth; and some-
times they gets ugly—particular yallow gals 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 all your jawin’ and crackin’; and
it pays better,’ says I, ‘depend on ’t.? But Tom couldn’t
get the hang on ’t; and he spiled so many for me, that I
had to break off with him, though he was a good-hearted
fellow, and as fair a business hand as is goin’.”

« And do you find your ways of managing do the busi-
ness better than Tom’s?” said Mr. Shelby.

«Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any-
ways can, I takes a leetle care about the onpleasant parts
like selling young uns and that—get the gals out of the
way—out of sight, out of mind, you know—and when it’s
clean done, and can’t be helped, they naturally gets used
toit. ’Taint, you know, as if it was white folks, that’s
brought up in the way of ‘ spectin’ to keep their children
60 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

and wives, and all that. Niggers, you know, that’s fetched
up properly, ha’n’t no kind of *spectations of no kind; so
all these things comes easier.”

“‘T’m afraid mine are not properly brought up, then,”
said Mr. Sheiby.

“‘S’pose not; you Kentucky folks spile your niggers.
You mean well by ’em, but ’tan’t no real kindness, arter all.
Now, a nigger you see, what’s got to be hacked and tumbled
round the world, and sold to ‘om 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
Iventure 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. very man, you
know, Mr. Shelby, naturally 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 slight shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a dis-
agreeable nature.

“‘ Well,” said Haley, after they had both silently picked
their nuts for a season, ‘‘ what do you say?”

“Tl 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 neigborhood be kuown. It
will get out among my boys, and it will not be a particu-
larly 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
Vl tell you, ’'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 my answer,” said Mr. Shelby, and the
trader bowed himself out of the apartment.

“I'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the
steps,” said he to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed,
“‘ with hisimpudent assurance; but he knows how much he
has me at advantage. If anybody had ever said to me
that I should sell Tom down south to one of those rascally
traders, I should have said, ‘Is thy servant a dog, that he
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 61

‘should do this thing?? And now it must come, for ought

Isee. And Hliza’s child, too! I know that I shall have
some fuss with wife about that; and, for that matter,
about Tom, too. So much for being in debt—heigho!
The fellow sees his advantage, and means to push it.”

Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to
be seen in the State of Kentucky. ‘The general preva-
lence of agricultural pursuits of a quiet and gradual nature,
not requiring those periodic seasons of hurry and pressure
that are called for in the business of more southern dis-
tricts, makes the task of the negro a more healthful 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 nat-
ure when the prospect ofsudden and rapid gain is weighed
in the balance, with no heavier counterpoise than the in-
terests of the helpless and unprotected.

Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the
good-humored indulgence of some masters and mistresses,
and the affectionate loyalty of some slaves, might be
tempted to dream the off-fabled poetic legend of a
patriarchal institution, and all that; but over and above
the scene there broods a portentous shadow—the shadow
of Jaw. So long as the law considers all these human
beings, with beating hearts and lir'ng affections, only as so
many things belonging to a master—so long as the failure,
or misfortune, or imprudence, or death of the kindest
owner, may cause them any day to exchange a life of
kind protection and indulgence for one of hopeless misery
and toil—so long it is impossible to make anything
beautiful or desirable in the best regulated administration
of slavery.

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 any-
thing 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 information is the key to
the preceeding conversation.

Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the
door, Eliza had caught enough of the conversation to
62 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 that the little fellow looked up into her face in ase
tonishment. !

‘¢ Eliza, girl, what ails you to-day?” said her mistress,
when Eliza had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked -down the
work-stand, and finally was abstractedly offering her mis-
tress a long night-gown in place of the silk dress
she had ordered her to bring from the wardrobe.

Eliza started. ‘O, missis! ” she said, raising her eyes;
then, bursting into tears, she sat down in a chair, and be-
gan sobbing.

“Why, Hliza my child! what ails you?” said her mis-
tress.

“ talking with master in the parlor! I heard him.”

“Well, silly child, 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 mas-
ter 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 ap, in that pretty
braid you learned the other day, and don’t go listening at
doors any more.”

«Well, but, missis, you never would give your consent
—to—to——

‘‘Nonsense child! to be sure, I shouldn’t. What do
you talk so for? I would as soon have one of my own
children sold. But, really, Eliza, you are getting al-
together 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,”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 63

Reassured by her mistress’ confident tone, Eliza pro-
ceeded nimbly and adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her
own fears, as she proceeded.

Mrs. Shelby was a woman of a high class, both intellect-
ually and morally. To that natural magnanimity and gen-
erosity of mind which one often marks as characteristic of
the women of Kentucky, she added high moral and re-
ligious sensibility and principle, carried out with great
energy and ability into practical results. Her husband,
who made no professions to any particular religious char-
acter, nevertheless reverenced and respected the consis-
tency of her’s, 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 qualities 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 contemplated—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 in-
credulity with which she had met Hliza’s suspicions, 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 II.
THE MOTHER.

EizA had been brought up by her mistress, from girl-
hood, as a petted and indulged favorite.
The traveler in the south must often have remarked
64 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 ap-
pearance prepossessing and agreeable. liza, 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 young mulatto man, who
was a slave on a neighboring estate, and bore the name of
George Harris.

This young man had been hired out by his master to
work in a bagging factory, where his adroitness and in-
genuity caused him to. be considered the first handin 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 favorite in the factory.
Nevertheless, as this young man was in the eye of the law
not a man, but a thing, all these superior qualifications
were subject to the control of a vulgar, narrow-minded,
tyrannical master. This same gentleman, having heard of
the fame of George’s invention took a ride over to the

_ factory, to see what this intelligent chattel had been about.
He was received with great enthusiasm by the em-
pioyer, who corgratulated him on possessing so valuable a
slave.

He was waited upon over the factory, shown the machin-
ery 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 consciousness of in-
feriority. What business had his slave to be marching
round the country, inventing machines, and holding up
his head among gentlemen? He’d snon puta stop to it.
He’d take him back, and put hin. to hoeing and digging,
and ‘‘see if he’d step about so smart.” Accordingly, the

*A machine of this description was really the invention of a
young colored man in Kentucky,



































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George stood like one transfixed.


66 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

manufacturer and all hands concerned were astounded
when he suddenly demanded George’s wages, and .an-
nounced his intention of taking him home.

“But, Mr. Harris,” remonstrated the manufacturer,
‘isn’t this rather sudden?”

‘* What if it is? isn’t the man mine? ”

«We would be willing, sir, to increase the rate of com-
pensation.”

‘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 busi-
ness.”

“* Dare say he may be; never was much adapted to any-
- thing that I set him about, I'll be bound.”

«But only think of his inventing this machine,’
posed one of tlre workmen, rather unluckily.

<©O, yes !—a machine for saving work, is it? He'd in-
vent that P’ll be bound; let a nigger alone for that, any
time. They are all labor-saving machines themselves,
every one of “em. No, he shall tramp !”

George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doom
thus suddenly 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 throngh his veins. He
breathed short, and his large dark eyes flashed like live
coals ; and he might have broken out into some dangerous
ebullition, had not the kindly manufacturer touchea him
on the arm, and said, in a low tone:

“Give way, George ; go with him forthe 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
disrespeotful 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.

? inter-
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 67

During that period—being much trusted and favored by
his employer—he had free liberty to come and go at dis-
cretion. The marriage was highly approved of by Mrs.
Shelby, who with a little womanly complacency in match-
making, felt pleased to unite her handsome favorite with
one of her own class who seemed in every way suited to
her ; and so they were married in her mistress’ great parlor,
and her mistress herself adorned the bride’s beautiful hair
with’ orange-blossoms, and threw over it the bridal veil,
which certainly could scarce have rested on a fairer head ;
and there was no lack of white gloves, and cake and wine
—of admiring guests to praise the bride’s beauty, and her
mistress’ indulgence and liberality. For a year or two
Eliza saw her husband frequently, and there was nothing
to interrupt their happiness, except the loss of two infant
children, to whom she was passionately attached, and
whom she mourned with a grief so intense as to call for
gentle remonstrance from her mistress, who sought, with
maternal anxiety to direct her naturally passionate feelings
within the bounds of reason and religion.

After the birth of little Harry, however, she had
gradually beeome tranquilized and settled; and every
bleeding tie and throbbing nerve, ouce more entwined
with that little life, seemed to become sound and health-
ful, and Eliza 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 after George had been taken away, when, as
he hoped, the heat of the occasion had passed away, and
tried every possible inducement to lead him ‘to restore him
to his former employment.

“You needn’t trouble yourself to talk any longer,” said
he, doggedly ; <‘I know my own business, sir.”

“‘T did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I only
thought that you might think it for your interest to let
your man to us on the terms proposed.”

“O, I understand the matter well enough. I saw your
winking and whispering, the day I took him out of the
factory; but you don’t come it over me that way. It’s a
a free country, sir; the man’s mine, and I do what I please
with him—that’s it!”

And so fell George’s last hope; nothing before him but a
68 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

life of toil and drudgery, rendered more bitter by every lit-
tle smarting vexation and indignity which tyrannical in-
genuity could devise.

A very humane jurist once said, The worst use you can
put a man to isto hang him. No; there is another use
that a man can be put to that.is worse!

CHAPTER III.
THE HUSBAND AND FATHER.

Mrs. SHELBY had gone on her visit, and Eliza stood
in the veranda, rather dejectedly looking after the re-
treating carriage, when a hand was laid on her shoulder.
She turned round, and a bright smile lighted up her fine
eyes.

“‘George, is it you? How you frightened me! Well; I
am so glad you’s come! Missis is gone to spend the after-
noon; so come into my little room, and we’ll have the time
all to ourselves.”

Saying this, she drew him into a neat little apartment
opening on the veranda, where she generally sat at her
sewing, within call of her mistress.

‘¢ How glad I am—why don’t you smile? And lonk at
Harry—how he grows.” The boy stood shyly regarding
his father through his curls, holding close to the skirts of
his mother’s dress. ‘‘Isn’t he beautiful?” said Eliza,
lifting his long curls and kissing him.

“‘T wish he’d never been born!” said George, bitterly.
«TI 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,” said he, fondly; ‘it’s too bad. O, how
I wish you never had seen me—you might have been
happy!”

“George! George! how can you talkso? 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,
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 69

“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!”

“©O, George, how can you!”

«‘- Yes, Eliza, it’s all misery, misery, misery! My life
is bitter as wormwood; the very life is burning out of me.
I’m a poor, miserable, forlorn drudge; I shall only
drag you down with me, that’s all. What’s the use of
our trying todo anything, trying to know anything, try-
ing to be anything? What’s the use of living? I wish I
was dead!”

“°Q, 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 a

“* Patient!” said he, interrupting her; ‘‘hav’n’t I been
patient? Did I saya word when he came and took me
away, for no earthly reason, from the place where every-
body was kind to me? I’d paid him truly every cent of my
earnings—and they all say I worked well.”

“‘ Well, it 7s 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’ma better man than he is. I know
more about business than he does; [ama better manager
than he is; I can read better than he can; I can write a
better hand—and I’ve learned it all myself, and no thanks
to him—I’ve learned it in spite of him; and now what
right has he to make a dray-horse of me? to take me from
things I can do, and do better than he can, and put me to
work that any horse can do? He tries to doit; he says
he’ll bring me down and humble me, and he puts me
to just the hardest, meanest and dirtiest work, on pur-

ose!”
“°O, 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 care-
ful—do, do—for my sake—for Harry’s! ”

“*T have been careful, and I have been patient, but it’s
growing worse and worse; flesh and blood can’t bear it any
longer; every chance he can get to insult and torment me,
he takes, i thought I could do my work well, and keep


70 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

on quiet, and have some time to read and learn out of work
hours; but the more he sees I can do, the more he loads on.
He says that though I don’t say anything, he sees Pve got
the devil in me, and he means to bring it out; and one of
these days it will come out in a way that he won’t like, or
I’m mistaken! ”

“©O dear! what shall we do?” said Eliza, mournfully.

“Tt was only yesterday,” said George, ‘‘as I was busy
loading stones into a cart, that young Mas’r Tom stood
there, slashing his whip so near the horse that the creature
was frightened. I asked him to stop, as pleasant as 1 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 ina rage,
and said he’d teach me who was my master; and he tied me
to a tree, and cut switches for young master, and told him
that he might whip me till he was tired; and he did do it!
If I don’t make him remember it, some time!” and the
brow of the young man grew dark, and his eyes burned
with an expression that made his young wife tremble.
“«Who made this man my master? That’s what I want to
know!” he said.

“Well,” said Eliza, mournfully, ‘I always thought that
T must obey my master and mistress, or 1 could’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, in-
dulged you, and taught you, so that you have a good edu-
cation; 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
allmy keeping a hundred times over. I won’t bear it.
No, 1 won't!” he said, clinching 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 cf 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 meas if he understood
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 71

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 afford to have every nigger
keeping his dog, and ordered me to tie a stone to his neck
and throw him in the pond.”

<©O, George, you didn’t do it!”

“Do it? not 1! 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 my-
self. I don’t care. Mas’r will find out that ’m one that
whipping won’t tame. My day will come yet, if he don’t
look out.”

‘“ What are you going to do? O, George, don’t do any-
thing wicked; if you only trust in God, and try to doright,
he’ll deliver you.”

“¢T ain’t a Christian like you, Eliza; my heart’s full of
bitterness; I can’t trust in God. Why does he let things
be so?”

“°O, 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 someharder. I wish I could be
good; but my heart burns, and can’t be reconciled, any-
how. You couldn’t, in my place—you can’t now, if I
tell you all ’'ve got to say. Youdon’t know the whole yet.”

‘“ What can be coming now?”

“Well, lately mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to
let me marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and
ail his tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads
up above him, and that Vve 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; bnt yes-
terday he told me that 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 min-
ister, as much as if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza,
simply.
72 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is
no law in this country for that; I can’t hold you for my
wife, if he chooses to part us, That’s why I wish I’d
~ never seen you—why I wish I’d never been born; it would
have been better for us both—it would have been better for
this poor child if he had never been born. All this may
happen to him yet!”

“°O, but master is so kind!”

«*Yes, but who knows? he may die—and then he may
be sold to nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he
is handsome, and smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza,
that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good
and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him
worth too much for you to keep!”

The words smote heavily on Hliza’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 veranda, where
the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and
where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr.
Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her
husband her fears, but checked herself.

“*No, no—he has enough to bear, poor fellow!” she
thought. “No, I won’t tell him; besides, it ain’t true;
missis never deceives us.”

“‘So, Hliza, my girl,” said the husband, mournfully,
“bear up, now; and good-bye, for ’m going.”

“Going, George! Going where?”

*«* To Canada,” said he, straightening himself up; ‘‘ and
when I’m there, I’ll buy you; that’s all the hope that’s
left us; You have a kind master, that won’t refuse to
ech you. I'll buy you and the boy—God helping me,

will!”

“°O, dreadful? if you should be taken?”

“‘T won’t be taken, Eliza; V’ll. die first! Ill be free, or
Pll 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!”

<*O, George, for my sake, do be careful! Don’t do any-
thing 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.


The parting of George and Eliza.
“






UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 75

«Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas’r took it into
his head to send me right by here, with a note to Mr.
Symmes, that lives a mile past. I believe he expected I
should come here to tell you what Ihave. _It would please
him, if he thought it would aggravate ‘Shelby’s folk’s,’
as he calls’em. I’m going home quite resigned, you un-
derstand, 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
will hear you.”

“©, 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 weeping—such parting as those may make whose
hope to meet again isas the spider’s web—and the husband
and wife 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 desig.
nates his master’s dwelling. In front it had a neat gar
den-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 largip
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 brilliant
annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four o’clocks, found
an indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendors,
and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe’s heart.

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the
house is over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its pre-
paration as head cook, has left to inferior officers in the
kitchen the business of clearing away and washing dishes,
and come out into her own snug territories, to “ get
her ole man’s supper;” therefore, doubt not that it is her
76 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

you see by the fire, presiding with anxious interest over
certain frizzling items in a stew pan, and anon with grave
consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from
whence steam forth indubftable intimations of ‘‘something
good.” A round, black, shining face is her’s, 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 con-
tentment 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 neighborhood, 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 achicken or turkey or duck in the barn-
yard but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and
seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end; and

certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing,
stuffing and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to in-
spire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake
in all its varities of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other
species too numerous to mention, was a sublime mystery
to all less practised compounders; and she would shake her
fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would
narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her
compeers had made to attain to her elevation.

The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of
dinners and suppers “in style,” awoke all the energies of
her soul; and no sight was more welcome to her than a
pile of traveling trunks launched on the veranda, for then
she foresaw “resh efforts and fresh triumphs.

Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the
bake-pan; in which congenial operation we shall leave her
till we finish our picture of the cottage.

In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a
snowy spread; and by the side of it was a piece of carpet-
ing, of some considerable size. On this piece of carpeting
Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the up-
per walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and
the whole corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished
consideration, and made so far as possible, sacred from the
marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks. In
fact, that corner was the drawing-room of the establish-




Aunt Chloe.

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 79

ment. Inthe other corner was a bed of much humbler
pretensions, and evidently designed for wse. The wall
over the fire-place was adorned with some very brilliant
scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington,
drawn and colored in a manner which would certainly
have astonished that hero, if ever he had happened to meet
with its like.

On arough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-
headed boys, with glistening black eyes and fat shining
cheeks, were busy in superintending the first walking op-
erations 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 something decidedly clever.

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out
in front of the fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying
cups and saucers ofa decidedly brilliant pattern, with other
symptoms of an approaching meal. At this table was
seated Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelby’s best hand who, as he is to
be the hero of our story, we must photograph for our
readers. He was a large, broad-chested, powerfully-made
man, of a full glossy black, and a face whose truly African
features were characterized by an expression of grave and
steady good sense, united with much kindliness and
benevolence. ‘There was something about his whole air
self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a confiding
and humble simplicity.

He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate
lying before him, on which he was carefully and slowly
endeavoring 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 qg, you sce.”

“‘La sakes, now, does it ?” said Uncle Tom, looking with
a respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flour-
ishingly scrawled g’s and g’s innumerable for his edification;
and then, taking the pencil in his big heavy fingers, he
patiently re-commenced.

“How easy white folks al’us does things!” said Aunt
Chloe, pausing while she was greasing a griddle with a
80 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

scrap of bacon on her fork, and regarding young Master
George with pride. ‘‘The way he can write, now! and
real, too! and then to come out here evenings and read
his lessons to us—it’s mighty interestin’ !”

“But, Aunt Chloe, Pm getting mighty hungry,” said
George. ‘‘Isn’t that cake in the skillet almost done ?”

«© Mose done, Mas’r George,” said Aunt Chloe, lifting
the lid and peeping in—“ browning beantiful—a real lovely
brown. Ah! let me alone for dat. Misses let Sally try to
make some cake, t’other day, jes to darn her, she said. °*O,
go way, missis,’ says I ; ‘it really hurts my feelin’s now, to
see good vittles spiled dat ar way! Cake ris all to one side
—no shape at all; no more than my shoe—go way !”

And with this final expression of contempt for Sally’s
greenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-
kettle, and disclosed 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 entertain-
ment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about. earnestly in
the supper department.

“Here you, Mose and Pete ! get out de way, you niggers !
Get away, Polly, honey—mammy’ll give her baby somefin,
by and by. Now, Mas’r George, you jest take off dem
books, and set down now with my ole 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 too well for that,
‘Aunt Chloe.”

“‘So you did—so you did, honey,” said Aunt Chloe,
heaping the smoking batter-cakes on his plate; ‘you
know’d your old aunty’d keep the best for you. 0, 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 ac-
tivity of the griddle department had somewhat subsided ;
and, with that, the youngster flourished a large knife over
the article in question.

‘*La bless you, Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, with
earnestness, catching his arm, ‘‘ you wouldn’t be for cuttin’
it wid dat ar great heavy knife! Smash all down—spile


The cabin exterior. Uncle Tom’s cabin interior. “Not that way,Uncle Tom.”

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 88

all de pretty rise of it. Here, I’ve got a thin old knife, I
keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light
asafeather! Now eat away—you won’t get anything to
beat dat ar.”

““Tom Lincon says,” said George, speaking with his
mouth full, ‘‘ that their Jinny isa better cook than you.”

“Dem Lincons ain’t much count, no way!” said Aunt
Chloe, contemptuonsly; ‘‘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 Lincon, now,
alongside Mas’r Shelby! Good Lor! and Missis Lincon—
can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis—so
kinder splendid, yer know! O, go way! don’t tell me
nothin’ of dem 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 cook.”

“So I did,” said Aunt Chloe—‘‘I may say dat. Good,
~ plain,-common cookin’, Jinny 711 do; make a good pone 0”
bread—bile her taters far—her corn cakes isn’t, extra,
not extra now, Jinny’s corn cakes isn’t, but then they’s far
—but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she
do? Why, she makes pies—sartin she does; but what
kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as
melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a puff? Now, I
went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married,
and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin’ pies. Jinny
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 likedemar. Why, dey
wan’t no ’count ’t all.”

“IT 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. don’t know.
Lor, the family ain’t nothing! She can’t be spected to
know! “I'a’nt no fault o’ hern. Ah, Mas’r George, you
doesn’t know half your privileges in yer family and bring-
in’ up!” Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes
with emotion.

“‘T’m sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and
84 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

pudding privileges,” said George. ‘Ask Tom Lincon if
{don’t crow over him, every time I meet him.”

Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a
hearty guffaw of laughter, at this witticism of young
master’s, laughing till the tears rolled down her black, shin-
ing cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully slap-
ping 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 day; and, be-
tween each of these sanguinary predictions, going off intoa
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 a some of Aunt Chloe’s pies; they’re the right sort,’
says I.”

‘<¢Pity, now, Tom couldn’t,” 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, someo’ 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 privileges, ’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 J made when we guv de dinner to
General Knox? I and missis, we come pretty near quar-
relling about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies
sometimes, I don’t know; but, sometimes, when a body has
de heaviest kind o’ ’sponsibility on ’em, as ye may say,
and is all kinder ‘seris’ and taken up, dey takes dat ar
time to be hangin’ round and kinder interferin’?! Now,
missis, she wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 85

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 lilies when de dew’s on ’em; and look at my
great black stumpin hands. Now, don’t ye think dat
de Lord must have meant me to make de pie crust, and
you to stay in de parlor? 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, saysshe, ‘ Well Aunt Chloe, I
think you are about in the right on ’t,’ says she; and she
went off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over the
head for bein’ so sarcy; but dar’s whar ’tis—I can’t de
nothin’ with ladies in de kitchen !”

“Well, you made out well with that dinner—I remem-
ber everybody said so,” said George.

“Didn’t 1? And wan’t I behind de dinin’-room door
dat bery day? and didn’t I see de gineral 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 knows what’s
what, now, as well as I do—de gineral. Ye see, there’s
pints in all pies, Mas’r George; but tain’t everybody knows
what they is, or orter be. But the gineral he knows; I
know 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 conld not eat another morsel and, there-
fore, he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads and
glistening eyes which were regarding their operations
hungrily from the opposite corner.

1 ** Here, you Mose, Pete,” he said, breaking ‘off liberal
bits, and throwing it at them; ‘‘ you want some, don’t you?
Come, Aunt Chloe, bake them some cakes.”

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the
chimney-corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly
pile of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and began alter-
nately filling its mouth and her own, and distributing to
86 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

Mose and Pete, who seemed rather to prefer eating their’s
as they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling
each other, and occasionally pulling the baby’s toes.

“0, go long, will ye?” said the mother, giving now and
then a kick, in a kind of general way, under the table,
when the movement became too obstreperous. ‘‘ Can’t ye be
decent when white folks comesto see ye? Stop dat ar,
now, will ye? Better mind yerselves, or I’ll take ye down
a button-hole 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 indis-
tinctness seemed to produce very little impression on the
young sinners addressed.

- Ta, now!” said Uncle Tom, “ they are so full of tickle
all the while, they can’t behave theirselves.”

Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with
hands and faces well plastered with molasses, began a
vigorous kissing of the baby.

“Get along wid ye!” said the mother, pushing’away their
woolly heads. ‘‘Ye’ll all stick together, and never get
clar, if ye do dat fashion. Gclong to de springand wash
yerselves!” she said, seconding her exhortations by a slap,
which resounded very formidably, but which seemed only
to knock ont so much more laugh from the young ones,
as they tumbled precipitately over each other out of doors,
where they fairly screamed with merriment.

«Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns?” said
Aunt Chloe, rather complacently, as, producing an old
towel, kept for such emergencies, she poured a little water
out of the cracked tea-pot onit, and began rubbing off the
molasses from the baby’s face and hands; and, having pol-
ished her till she shone, she set her down in Tom’s lap,
while she busied herself in clearing away supper. The
baby employed the intervals in pulling Tom’s nose,
scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his
woolly hair, which last operation seemed to anord her
special content. ;

<‘ Ain’t she a peart young un?” said Tom, holding her
from him to take a full-length view; then, getting up, he
set her on his broad shoulder, and began capering and
dancing with her, while Master George snapped at her
with his pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and Pete, now re-
turned again, roaredafter her like bears, till Aunt Chloe
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 87

declared that they “fairly took her head off ” with their
noise. As, according to her own statement, this surgical
operation wasa matter of daily occurrence in the cabin,
the declaration no whit abated the merriment, till every
one had roared and tumbled and danced themselves down
to a state of composure.

*‘ Well, now, I hopes you’re 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 goin’ to have the meetin’.”

“°O, 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 Master George, decisively, giving a push to the rude
machine.

Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed
highly delighted to push the thing under, saying, as she
did so, ‘* Well, mebbe ’t will do *em some good.”

The house now resolved itself into a committee of the
whole, to consider the accommodations and arrangements
for the meeting.

‘* What we’s to do for cheers, now, J declar I don’t
know,” said Aunt 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 encour-
agement to hope that a way would be discovered at pres-
ent.

«©Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest
cheer, last week,” suggested Mose.

«You golong! Tl boun’ you pulled *em out; some 0’
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 it, then,” said Mose, “and den
he’d begin, ‘Come saints and sinners, hear me tell,’ and
den down he’d go,” and 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 shamed?”
88 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Master 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.

“‘ Well, ole 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 readin’ *bout’ in de good book—dey never fails,” said
Mose, aside to Pete.

“‘7’m sure one on ’em caved in last week,” said Pete,
*‘and let ’em all down in de middle cf de singin’; dat ar
was failin’, warnt it?”

During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty
casks had been rolled into the cabin, and being secured
from rolling, by stones on each side, boards were laid
across them, which arrangement, together with the turn-
ing down of certain tubs and pails, and the disposing of
the rickety chairs, at last completed the preparations.

** Mas’r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know
he’ll stay to read for us,” said Aunt Chloe; ‘’pears like
76 will be so much more interestin’.”

George very readily consented, for your boy is always
ready for anything that makes him of importance.

The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from
the old gray-headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl
and lad of fifteen.
various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally got her new
red headkerchief, and how ‘‘ Missis was a going to give
Lizzy that spotted muslin gown, when she’d got her new
berage made up;” and how Mas’r Shelby was thinking of
buying a new sorrel colt, that was going to prove an addi-
tion to the gloriesof the place. A few of the worshipers
belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to
attend, and who brought in various choice scraps of infor-
mation, 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 a while the singing commenced, to the evident de-
light of all present. Not even all the disadvantage of
nasal intonation could prevent the effect of the naturally
fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited. ‘The words
were sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung
in the churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more
indefinite character, picked up at camp-meetings.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. j 89

The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was
sung with great energy and unction:

“* Die on the field of battle,
Die on the field of battle,
Glory in my soul.”

Another special favorite had oft repeated the words—

“0, 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 imagin-
ative, 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 intermingled 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, chil’en! Well, I’m mighty glad to hear ye all
and see ye all once more, ’cause I don’t know when I’ll be
gone to glory; but I’ve done got ready, chil’en ; pears like
I'd got my little bundle all tied up, and my bonnet on,
jest a waitin’ for the stage to come along and take me
home ; sometimes, in the night, I think I hear the wheels
a rattlin’, and I’m lookin’ out all the time ; now, you jest
be ready too, for I tell ye all, chil’en,” she said, striking
her staff hard on the floor, “dat ar glory is a mighty
thing! It’s a mighty thing, chil’en—you don’no nothing
about it—it’s wonderful.” And the old creature sat
down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while
the whole circle struck up:

“OQ, Canaan, bright Canaan,
I’m bound for the land of Canaan.”

Master George, by request, read the last chapters of Reve-
lation, often interrupted by such exclamations as ‘‘ The
sakes now!’ ‘Only hear that!” “Jest think on’t!’’
“Ts all that a comin’ sure enough ?”

George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in relig-
90 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

ious things by his mother, finding himself an object of
general admiration, threw in expositions of his own, from
time to time, with a commendable seriousness 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 “’t was reely
*mazin’ !”

Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters,
in the neighborhood. Having, naturally, an organization
in which the morale was strongly predominant, together
with a greater breadth and cultivation of mind than
obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with
great respect, as a sort of minister among them ; and the
simple, hearty sincere style of his exhortations might. have
edified even better educated persons. But it was 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 to have wrought itself into his being, as
to have become a part of himself, and to drop from his
lips unconsciously ; in the language of a pious old negro,
he ‘prayed right up.” And go much did his prayer
always work on the devotional feelings of his audiences,
that there seemed often a danger that it would be lost alto-
gether 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 otherwise 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 bills,
‘which, as they were counted, he pushed over to the trader,
who counted them likewise.

“All fair,” said the trader; “‘ and now for signing these

er.”

: Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale toward him,
and signed them, like a man that hurries over some dis-
agreeable 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
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 91

handed to Mr. Shelby, who took it with a gesture of sup-
pressed eagerness.
«Wal, now, the thing’s done!” said the trader, getting

Pe Tt's done!” said Mr. Shelby, ina musing tone; and,
fetching a long breath, he repeated, ‘‘ Jf’s done.”

“* Yer don’t seem to feel much pleased with it,” pears to
me,” said the trader.

“Haley,” said Mr. Shelby, ‘I hope you’ll remember
that you promised, on your honor, you would’nt 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. Howsomever, P!l do the very best I can in
gettin’ Tom a good berth; as to my treatin’ on him bad,
you needn’t be a grain afeared. If there’s anything
that I thank the Lord for, it is that I am never no ways
cruel.”

After the expositions which the trader had previously
given of his humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel
particularly reassured by these declarations; but, as they
were the best comfort the case admitted of, he allowed
the trader to depart in silence, and betook himself to a
solitary cigar.

>

CHAPTER V.

SHOWING THE FEELINGS OF LIVING PROPERTY ON CHANG-
ING OWNERS.

Mr. anp Mrs. SHELBY had retired to their apartment
for the night. He was lounging in a 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 hag-
gard eyes, she had excused her attendance that night, and
ordered her to bed. ‘The employment, naturally enough,
suggested her conversation with the girl in the morning;
and, turning to her husband, she said carelessly:






















































































Eekwan

“Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow ?”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 93

“ « By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow thai
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.

“Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business
here, pray?”

“© Well, he’s a man that I transacted some business with
last time I was at Natchez,” said Mr. Shelby.

«And he presumed on it to make Hmmesle quite at home,
and call and dine here, ay ?”

‘¢Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him,”
said Shelby.

“Ts he a negro-trader!’ said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a
certain embarrassment in her husband’s manner,

“Why, my dear, what put that into your head?” said
Shelby, looking up.

“‘ Nothing—only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a
great worry, crying and taking on, and said you were talk-
ing 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
ap On not perceiving that he was holding it bottom up-
ward,

«It will have to come out,” said he, mentally; ‘‘ as well
now as ever.”

“‘T told Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brush-
ing her hair, <‘ that she was a little fool for her pains, and
that you never had anything to do with that sort of per-
sons. Ofcourse, 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; but the fact is that my business lies so that
, cannot get on without. Ishall have to sell some of my

hands.”

“‘To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you can-
not be serious.”

“Tm Bonn to say that Iam,” said Mr. Shelby. ‘I’ve
agreed to sell ‘'om.”

‘‘What! oar Tom? that good, faithful creature! been
your faithful servant from a boy! O, Mr. Shelby! and.
you have promised him his freedom, too—you and I have
94 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can believe
anything now-—lI can believe ow that you could sell little
Harry, poor Eliza’s only child!” said Mrs. Shelby, in a
tone between grief and indignation.

‘Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed
to sell Tom and Harry both; and I don’t know why I am
to be rated, as if I were a monster, for doing what every
one does every day,”

“But why, of all others, choose these!’ said Mrs.
Shelby.‘ Why sell them, of all on the place, if you must
sell at all?”

“ Because they will bring the highest sum of any, that’s
why. I could choose another, if you say so. ‘The fellow
made me a high bid on Eliza, if that would suit you any
better,” said Mr. Shelby.

“The wretch!” said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.

‘‘ Well, I didn’t listen to it a moment—out of regard to
your feelings I wouldn’t—so give me some credit.”

“¢ My dear,” said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, “ for-
give me. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely
unprepared for this; but surely you will allow me to inter-
cede for these poor creatures. Tom is a noble-hearted,
faithful fellow, if he is black. Ido believe, Mr. Shelby,
that if he were put to it, he would lay down his life for
you.”

“‘T know it—I dare say; but what’s the use of all this?
I can’t help myself.”

«‘ Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I’m willing to
bear my part of the inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have
tried—tried most faithfully, as a Christian woman should
—to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent creat-
ures. 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 acknowledgment that we
care for no tie, no duty, no relation, however sacred, com-
pared with money? I have talked with Eliza about her
boy—her duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch
UNCLE '0M'S CABIN. 95

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 believe me when she sees us turn round and sell
her child—sell him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body and
soul!”
~ “Pm sorry you feel so about it, Emily—indeed I am,”
said Mr. Shelby; ‘‘ and I respect your feelings, too, though
I don’t pretend to share them to their full extent; but I
tell you now, solemnly, it’s of no use—I can’t help myself.
I didn’t mean to tell you this, Emily; but, in plain
words, there is no choice between selling these two and
selling everything. Hither 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 be-
fore 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 givethemup. Haley fancied
the child; he agreed to settle the matter that way, and no
other. J was in his power, and had to do it. Ifyou
feel so to have them sold, would it be any better to have
all sold?”

Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning
to her toilet, she rested her face in her hands, and gave a
sort of groan.

«This is God’s curse on slavery—a bitter, bitter, most
accursed thing—a‘curse to the master and a curse to the
slave! I was a fool to think I could- make anything good
out of such a deadly evil. It isa sin to hold a slave under
laws like ours—I always felt it was—I always thought so
when I was a girl—I thought so still more after I joined
the church; but I thought I could gild it over—I thought
by kindness, and care, and instruction, I could make
the condition of mine better than freedom—fool that I
was!”

““Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist,

uite.”
ep “* Abolitionist! if they knew all I know about slavery
they might talk! We don’t need them to tell us; you know
T never thought that slavery was right—never felt willing
to own slaves.”
96 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

«Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious
men,” said Mr. Shelby. ‘‘ You remember Mr. B——’s
sermon, the other Sunday?”

“‘T don’t want to hearsuch sermons; I never wish to
hear Mr. B in our church again. Ministers can’t
help the evil, perhaps—can’t cure it, any more than we
can—but defend it! it always went against my common
sense. And I think you didn’t think much of that ser-
mon, either.”

‘“ Well,” said Shelby, ‘*I must say these ministers some-
times carry matters further than we poor sinners would ex-
actly 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.”

«©O yes, yes!” said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstract-
edly fingering her gold watch—‘‘T haven’t any jewelry of
any amount,” she added thoughtfully; ‘but would not |
‘this watch dosomething? 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.”

“‘T’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 off. If you knew
the man as I do, you’d think that we had had a narrow
escape.”

“‘Ts he so hard, then?”

“‘ Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather—
aman alive to nothing but trade and profit—cool and un-
hesitating, 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 this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and
Eliza’s child?”

““ 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



‘


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 97

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 drive
somewhere, and carry Hliza off. Let the thing be done
when she is out of sight.”

“‘No, no,” said Mrs. Shelby; ‘I'll be in no sense accom-
plice orhelp in this cruel business. T’ll go and see poor
old Tom; God help him, 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! What have we done, that this cruel necessity should
come on us?”

There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. and
Mrs. Shelby little suspected.

Communicating with their apartment was a large closet,
opening by a door into the outer passage. When Mrs.
Shelby had dismissed Eliza for the night, her feverish and
excited mind had suggested 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.

When 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 soff-and timid creature she had been hitherto. She
moved cautiously along the entry, paused one moment at
her mistress’ door, and raised her hands in mute appeal to
Heaven, and then turned and glided into her own room.
It was a quiet, neat apartment, on the same floor with her
mistress. There was the pleasant sunny window, where
she had often sat singing at her sewing; there a little case
of books, and various little fancy articles, ranged by them,
the gifts of Christmas holidays; there was her simple ward-
robe 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 curls falling negligently around his unconscious face,
his rosy. mouth half open, his little fat hands thrown out
over the bed-clothes, and a smile spread like a 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
98 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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:

‘*Q, missis! dear missis! don’t think me ungrateful—
don’t think hard of me, anyway—I heard all you and mas-
ter said to-night. Iam going to try to save my boy—you
will not blame me! God bless and reward you for all your
kindness!” s

_ 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 handkerchief tirmly round her waist; and,
so fond is a mother’s remembrance, that, even in the ter-
rors of that hour, she did not forget to put in the little
package one or two of his favorite toys, reserving a gayl
painted parrot to amuse him, when she should be called
on to awaken him. It was some trouble to arouse the
little sleeper; but, after some effort, he sat up, and was
playing with his bird, while bis mother was putting on her
bonnet and shawl.

«‘ Where are you going, mother?” said he, as she drew
near the bed, with his 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 be very still; and, opening a door in
her room which led into the outer veranda, she glided
noiselessly out. :

It was asparkling, frosty, star-light night and the mother
wrapped the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet
with vague terror, he clung round her neck.

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end
_ of the porch, rose, with a low growl, as she came near.
She gently spoke his name, and the animal, an old petand


Uncle Tom.”?

ing away,

m runni

’

ReNT.



UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. © 101

playmate of her’s, instantly, wagging his tail, prepared to
follow her, though apparently revolving much, in his sim-
ple dog’s head, what such an indiscreet midnight promen-
ade might mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence or im-
propriety in the measure seemed to embarrass him consider-
ably; for he often stopped, as Eliza glided forward, and
looked wistfully, first at her and then at the house, and
then, as if reassured by reflection, he pattered along after
her again. A few minutes brought them to the window
of Uncle Tom’s cottage, and Eliza stopping, tapped lightly
on the windw-pane.

The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom’s had, in the order
of hymn-singing, been protracted to a very late hour; and, -
as Uncle Tom had indulged himself in a few lengthy solos
afterward, the consequence was, that, although it was now
between twelve and one o’clock, he and his worthy help-
meet were not yet asleep.

“ Good Lord, what’s that?” said Aunt Chloe, starting

“up and hastily drawing the curtain. .‘‘ My sakes alive, ifit
ain’t Lizy! Get on your clothes, ole man, quick! there’s
old Bruno, too,a pawin’ round; what on airth! DP’m gwine
to open the door.”

And, suiting the action to the word, the door flew open,
and the light of the tallow candle, which Tom had hastily
lighted, fell on the haggard face and dark, wild eyes of
the fugitive.

‘© Lord bless you! I’m skeered to look at ye, Lizy! Are .
ye tuck sick, or what’s come over ye?”

“Tm 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 mistress’ door to-night, and I heard master tell
missis that he had sold my Harry, and you, Uncle Tom,
both, to a trader; and that he was going off this morning
on his horse, and that the man was to take possession
to-day.”

“‘Tom had stood, during this speech, with his hands
raised and his eyes dilated, like a man inadream. Slowly
and gradually, as its meaning came over him, he collapsed,
rather than seated himself, on his old chair, and sunk his
head down upon his knees,
102 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“The good Lord have pity on us!” said Aunt Chloe.
“*O! it don’t seem as if it was true! What has he done,
that mas’r should sell him?”

“We hasn’t done anything—it isn’t for that. Master
don’t want to sell; and inissis—she’s always good. I heard
her plead and beg for us; but he told her ’t was no use;
that he was in this man’s debt, and that this man had got
the power over him; and thatif he didn’t pay him off clear,
it would end in his having to sell the place and all the peo-
ple, and move off. Yes, 1 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 ain’t
a Christian and an angel, there never was one. ’ma
wicked girl to leave her so; but, then, Ican’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 ain’t right, the Lord forgive me, for I can’t help
doing it!”

“Well, ole 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? Id a heap
rather die than go there, any day! ‘There’s time for
ye—be off with Lizy—you’ve got a pass to come and go
any time. Come, bustle up, and Ill get yourthings to-
gether.”

Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but
quietly around, and said:

‘No, no—Iain’t going. Let Eliza go—its her right!
I wouldn’t be the one to say no—’t ain’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 everything go to rack,
why, let me be sold. Is’pose I can b/’ar it as well as any
on ’em,” he added, while something like a sob and a sigh
shook his broad, rough chest convulsively. ‘‘ Mas’r always
found me on the spot—he always will. I never have broke
trust, nor used my pass no ways contrary to my word, and
I never will. It’s better for me alone to go, than to break
up the place and sell all. Mas’r ain’t to blame, Chloe, and
he’ll take care of you and the poor ay

Here he turned to the rough trundle-bed full of little
woolly heads, and broke fairly down. He leaned over the




UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. 103

back of the chair, and covered his face with his large
hands. Sobs, heavy, hoarse and loud, shook the chair
and great tears fell through his fingers on the floor: just
such tears, sir, as you dropped into the coffin where lay
your first-born son; such tears, woman, as you shed when
you heard the cries of your dying babe. For, sir, he was
a man—and you are but another man. And, woman,
though dressed in sills and jewels, you are but a woman,
and, in life’s great straits and mighty griefs, ye feel but one
sorrow!

‘And now,” said Eliza, as she stood in the door, ‘I
saw my husband only this afternoon, and I little knew
then what was to come. ‘They have pushed him to the
very last standing place, and he told me, to-day, that he
was going torun away. Do try, if you can, to get word to
him. Tell him how I went, and why I went; and tell him
I’m going to try and find Canada. You must give my love
to him, and tell him, if I never see him again,” she turned
away, and stood with her back to them for a moment, and
then added, in a husky voice, ‘tell him to be as good as
he can, and try and meet me in the kingdom of heaven.
Call Bruno in there,” she added. ‘*Shut the door on him,
poor beast! He mustn’t go with me!”

A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and
blessings, and, clasping her wondering and affrighted child
in her arms, she glided noiselessly away.

>

CHAPTER VI.
DISCOVERY.

Mr. AND Mrs. SHELBY, after their protracted discussion,
of the night before, did not readily sink to repose, and,
in consequence, slept somewhat later than usual, the ensu-
ing morning.

‘‘T wonder what keeps Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, after
giving her bell repeated pulls, to no purpose.

Mr. Shelby was standing before his dressing-glass, sharp-
ening his razor; and just then the door opened, and a col-
ored 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.
104 ' UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonisn-
ment.

“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! Really, it will be some-
thing pretty awkward for me, if she is. Haley saw that I
hesitated about selling this child, and he’ll think I con-
nived at it, to get him: out of the way. It touches my
honor!” And Mr. Shelby left the room, hastily.

There was great ruuning and ejaculating, and opening
and shutting of doors, and appearance of faces in all
shades of colur in different places, for about a quarter of
an hour. One person only, who might have shed some
light on the matter, was entirely silent, and that was the
head cook, Aunt Chloe. Silently, and with a heavy cloud
settled down over her once joyous face, she proceeded mak-
ing out her breakfast biscuits, as if she heard and saw noth-
ing of the excitement around her.

Very soon, about a dozen young imps were roosting,
like so many crows, on the veranda railings, each one de-
termined to be the first one to apprize the strange master
of his ill-luck.

“* He'll be rael mad, I’ll be bound,” said Andy.

“* Won't he swar!” said little black Jake.

“Yes, for he does swar,” said woolly headed Mandy.
“‘T hearn him yesterday, at dinner. I hearn all about it
then, ’cause I got into the closet where misses keeps the
great jugs, and I hearn every word.” And Mandy, who
had never in her life thought of the meaning of a word
she had heard, more than a black cat, now took airs of
superior wisdom, and strutted ®bout, 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 veranda were not disappointed in their

ope of hearing him “‘swar,” which he did with a fluency




































































































ee he

eee ET Fela"

They ducked and dodged hither and thither to be out of the reach
2 of his riding whip.
106 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 veranda, where they kicked up
their heels and shouted to their full satisfaction.

“Tf Thad the little devils!” muttered Haley, between
his teeth.

“But you hain’t got ’em, though,” said Andy, with a
triumphant flourish, and making a string of indescribable
mouths at the unfortunate trader’s back, when he was fairly
beyond hearing. ;

««T say now, Shelby, this yer’s a most extro’rnary busi-
ness!” said Haley, as he abruptly entered the parlor. “It
seems that gal’s off, with her young un.”

“*Mr. Haley, Mrs. Shelby is present,” said Mr. Shelby.

**I beg pardon, ma’am,” said Haley, bowing slightly,
with a still lowering brow; “but still I say, as I said be-
fore, 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.”

“TI did expect fair dealing in this matter, I confess.” said
Haley.

‘Well, sir,” said Mr. Shelby, turning sharply round
upon him, ‘what am I to understand by that remark?
If any man calls my honor in question, I have but one an-
swer for him.”

The trader cowered at this, and in a somewhat lower
tone said that ‘‘it was plaguy hard on a fellow, that had
made a fair bargain, to be gulled that way.” :

‘Mr. Haley,” said Mr. Shelby, “if I did not think you
had some cause for disappointment, I should not have
borne from you the rude and unceremonious style of your
entrance into my parlor 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 unfairness in this matter. Moreover, I shall feel
bound to give you every assistance, in the use of horses,
UNCLH TOMS CABIN. 107

servants, etc., in the recovery of your property. So, in
short, Haley,” said he, suddenly dropping from the tone
of dignified coolness to his ordinary one of easy frank-
ness, ‘‘the best way for you is to keep good-natured
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 respectable mulatto woman to at-
tend 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
familiar.

“Tam not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with
such freedom,” said Mr. Shelby, dryly.

“* Beg pardon; 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 surges of sensation than the report of Tom’s fate.
' among his compeers on the place. It was the topic in
every mouth, everywhere, and nothing was done in the
house or in the field, but to discuss its probable results.
Hliza’s flight—an unprecedented event ‘on the place—
was also a great accessory in stimulating the general ex-
citement.

Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being
about three shades blacker than any other son of ebony on‘
the place, was revolving the matter profoundly in all its’
phases and bearings, with a comprehensiveness of vision
and a strick lookout to his own personal well being, that
would have done credit to any white patriot in Wash-
ington.

“It’s an ill wind dat blows nowhar—dat ar a fact,” said
Sam, sententiously, giving an additional hoist to his panta-
loons, and adroitly substituting a long nail in place of a
missing suspender-button, with which effort of mechanical
genius he seemed highly delighted.
108 UNULE TOM’S CABIN.

«‘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 ridin’ round de country—boots blacked—pass in
his pocket—all grand as cuffee—who but he? Now, why
shouldn’t Sam—dat’s what I want to know.”

“‘ Halloo, Sam—O Sam! mas’r wants you to cotch Bill
and Jerry,” said Andy, cutting short Sam’s soliloquy.

‘‘ High! what’s afoot now, young un?”

“Why, you don’t know, I s’pose, that Lizy’s cut stick,
and clared out, with her young un?”

“You teach your granny!” said Sam, with infinite con-
tempt; ‘‘ knowed it a heap sight sooner than you did; this
nigger ain’t so green, now!”

“Well, anyhow, mas’r wants Bill and Jerry geared
right up; and you and I’s to go with Mas’r Haley, to look
arter her.”

“‘ Good, now! dat’s de time o’ day!” said Sam. ‘It’s
Sam dat’s called for in dese yer times. He’s de nigger.
aoe if I don’t cotch her, now; mas’r ’ll 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 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 rael 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
missis’ side the fence, now I tell yer.”

Black Sam, upon this, scratched his woolly pate, which,
if it did not contain very profound wisdom, still contained
a.great deal of a particular species much in demand among
politicians of all complexions and countries and vulgarly
denominated ‘‘ knowing which side the bread is buttered;”
s0, stopping with grave consideration, he again gave a
hitch to his pantaloons, which was his regularly organized
method of assisting his mental perplexities.

** Der ain’t no sayin’—never—’bout no kind o’ thing in
dis yer world,” he said, at last,
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 109

Sam spoke like a philosopher, emphasizing ¢his—as if he
had had a large experience in different sorts of worlds, and
therefore had come to his conclusions advisedly.

“¢ Now, sartin I’d a said that missis would a scoured the
varsal world after Lizy’” added Sam, thoughtfully.

«So she would,” said Andy !‘* but can’t ye see through .
a ladder, ye black nigger ? Missis don’t want dis yer Mas’r
Haley to get Lizy’s boy ; dat’s de go !”

“High!” said Sam, with an indescribable 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 hosses—mighty sud-
den, too—for I hearn missis ’ quirin’ arter yer—so you’ve
stood foolin’ long enough.”

Sam, upon this, began to bestir himself in real earnest,
and after awhile appeared, bearing down gloriously toward
the house, with Bill and Jerry in a full canter, and
adroitly throwing himself off before-they had any idea of
stopping, he brought them up alongside of the horse-posts
like a tornado. THaley’s horse, which was a skittish young
colt, winced, and bounced, and pulled hard at his halter.

“Ho, ho!” said Sam, “‘skeery, ar ye ?” and his black
visage lighted up with acurious, mischievousgleam. ‘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 sensi-
bilities 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 deter-
mination to pay court as did ever suitor after a vacant
place at St. James’ or Washington.

«Why have you been loitering so, Sam? I sent Andy
to tell you to hurry.” .

“Tord bless you, missis!” said Sam, ‘horses won’t be
110 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

eotched all in a mimit; they’d done clared out way down
to the south pasture, and the Lord knows whar!”

“Sam, how often must I tell you not to say ‘Lord
bless you, and the Lord knows,’ and such things? It’s
wicked.”

“©Q, 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’ll start fair.
I'll be berry careful.”

“Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show him
the road, and help him. Be careful of the horses, Sam;
you know Jerry was a little lame last week; don’t ride them
too fast.”

Mrs. Shelby spoke the last words with a low voice, and
strong emphasis.

“Let dis child alone for dat!’ said Sam, rolling up his
eyes with a 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, in spite of herself. ‘‘ Yes, missis, I’ll look
out for de hosses!”

“Now, Andy,” said Sam, returning to his stand under
the beech-trees, “‘ you see I wouldn’t be ’t all surprised if
dat ar gen’lman’s crittur should gib a fling, by and by,
when he comes tobea gettin’ up. You know, Andy, crit-
turs will do such things;” aud therewith Sam poked Andy
in the side, in a highly suggestive manner.

“High!” said Andy, with an air of instant apprecia-
tion.

“* 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, getall dese yer hosses loose, caper-
in’ permiscus round dis yer lot and down to de wood dar,
and I specs mas’r won’t be off in a hurry.”

Andy grinned.

“Yer see,” said Sam, ‘yer see, Andy, if any such
thing should happen as that, Mas’r Haley’s horse should
begin to act contrary, and cut up, you and I jist lets go of
our’n to help him, and we'll help him—oh yes!” And Sam
UNCLE. TOM’S CABIN: ‘lil

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 veranda. Some-
what mollified by certain cups of very good coffee, he came
out smiling and talking, in tolerably restored humor. Sam
and Andy, clawing for certain fragmentary palm-leaves,
which they were in the habit of considering as hats, flew
to the horse-posts, to be ready to “help mas’r.”

Sam’s palm-leaf had been ingeniously disentangled from
all pretensions to braid, as respects its brim; and the
slivers starting apart, and standing upright, gave it a blaz-
ing air of freedom and defiance, quite equal to that of any
Fejee chief; while the whole brim of Andy’s being de-
parted 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?”

“Well, boys,” said Haley, “look alive now; we must
lose no time.”

“Not a bit of him, mas’r!” said Sam, putting Haley’s
rein in his hand, and holding his stirrup, while Andy was
untieing 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 ejaculations, 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 overturned Sam, and, giving two or
three contemptuous snorts, flourished his heels vigorously
in the air, and was soon prancing away toward the lower
end of the lawn, followed by Bill and Jerry, whom Andy
had not failed to let loose, according to contract, speeding
them off with various direful ejaculations. And now en-
sued a miscellaneous scene of confusion. Sam and Andy
ran and shouted—dogs barked here and there—and Mike,
Mose, Mandy, Fanny, and all the smaller 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 spirit of the scene with


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The mettlesome creature threw his master sprawling, .


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 113

great gusto; and having for his coursing ground a lawn of
nearly half a mile in extent, gently sloping down on every
side into indefinite woodland, he appeared to take infinite
delight in seeing how near he could allow his pursuers to
approach him, and then, when within a hand’s breadth
whisk off with a start and a snort, like a mischievous beast
as he was, and career far down into some ally 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 Cour de
Lion, which always blazed in the front and thickest of
the battle, Sam’s palm-leaf was to be seen everywhere
when there was the least danger that a horse could be
caught; there he would bear down full tilt, shouting,
‘*Now for it! cotch him! cotch him!” in a way that
would set everything to indiscriminate rout in a moment.

Haley ran up and down, and cursed and swore and
stamped miscellaneously. Mr. Shelby in vain tried to
shout directions from the balcony, and Mrs. Shelby from
her chamber window alternately langhed and wondered—
not without some inkling of what 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
7em; but I cotched him!”

“You,” growled Haley in no amiable mood. ‘If it
hadn’t been for you, this never would have happened.”

“Lord bless us, mas’r,” said Sam, ina tone of the deep-
est 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
hours, with your cursed nonsense. Now let’s be off, and
have no more fooling.”

‘Why, mas’r,” said Sam, in a deprecating tone, “I be-
lieve you mean to kill us all clar, horses and all. Here we
are all just ready to drop down, and the critters all in a
reck of sweat. Why, mas’r won’t think of startin’ on now
114 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

till arter dinner. Mas’r’s hoss 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 over-
heard this conversation from the veranda, now resolved to
do her part. She came forward, and, courteously express-
ing 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 parlor, while Sam, roll-
ing his eyes after him with unutterable meaning, pro-
ceeded 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 toa post. O, Lor, if it warn’t as good
as ameetin’, now, to see him a dancin’ and kickin’ and
swarin’ atus. Didn’t I hear him? Swar away, ole fellow
(says I to myself); will yer have yer horse 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 hoss up. Lord he’d killed me, if he durs’ to; and there
I was a standin’ as innercent and as humble.”

“Tor, I seed you,” said Andy; ‘ain’t you an old hoss,
Sam ??

‘Rather specks I am,” said Sam; ‘‘ did yer see missis
up stars at de winder? I seed her laughin’.”

“I’m sure, I was racin’ so, I didn’t see nothing,
Andy.

« Weil, yer see,” said Sam. proceeding gravely to wash
down Haley’s pony, ‘‘I’se ’quired what yer may call a
habit 0’ dobservation, Andy. It’s a very ’portant habit,
Andy; and I ’commend yer to be cultivatin’ it, now yer
young. Hist up that hind foot, Andy. Yer see, Andy,
its bobservation makes all de difference in niggers. Didn’t
I see which way the wind blew dis yer mornin’? Didn’t I
- see what missis wanted, though she neverlet on? Datar’s
bobservation, Andy. I’spects it’s what you may call a fac-
ulty. Faculties is different in different peoples, but culti-
vation of ’em goes a great way.”

” said
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 115

“T guess if I hadn’t helped your bobservation dis
aoe yer wouldn’t have seen your way so smart,” said
Andy.

os nay said Sam, ‘‘ you’s a promisin’ child, der ain’t
no manuer o’ doubt. I thinks lots of yer, Andy; and I
don’t feel no ways ’shamed to take ideas from you. We
oughtenter overlook nobody, Andy, cause de smartest on
us gets tripped up sometimes. And so, Andy, let’s go up
to the house now. [ll be boun’ missis’ll give us an uncom-
mon good bite, dis yer time.”

CHAPTER VII.
THE MOTHER’S STRUGGLE.

Ir 1s 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 bad ever known, and cutting loose from
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, asit lay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed
to speak reproachfully to her, and ask her whither could’
she go from a home like that? ;

But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a
paroxysm of frenzy by the near approach of a fearful dan-
ger. Her boy was old enough to have walked by her side, -
and, in an indifferent case, she would only have led him
by the hand; but now the bare thought of putting him
out of her arms made her shudder, and she strained him
to her bosom with a convulsive grasp, as she went rapidly
forward.

The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she
trembled at the sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering
shadow sent the blood backward to her heart, and quick-
ened her footsteps, She wondered within herself at the
116 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 toa Friend above—‘ Lord
help! Lord save me!”

If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were
going to be 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 hours, 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 hurriedly 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 himself
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, ain’t you, mother?”

«Yes, sure!” said the mother, in a voice that startled
herself; for it seemed to her to come from a spirit within,
that was no part of her; and the boy dropped his little
weary head on her shoulder, and was soon asleep. How
the touch of those warm arms, the gentle 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-move-
ment of the sleeping, confiding child. Sublime is the
dominion of the mind over the body, that for a time, can
. make flesh and nerve impregnable, and string the sinews
like steel, so that the weak become so mighty.

The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot,
passed by her dizzily, as she walked on; and still she went,
leaving one familiar object after another, slacking not,
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 117

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 con-
nections, in the little village of T , notfar from the
Ohio river, and knew the road well. To go thither, to es-
cape across the Ohio river, were the first hurried outlines
of her plan of escape; beyond that, she could only hope in
God. 3

When horses and vehicles began to move along the high-
way, with that alert perception peculiar to a state of ex-
citement, and which seems to be a sort of inspiration, she
became aware that her headlong pace and distracted air
might bring on her remark and suspicion. She therefore
put the boy on the ground, and, adjusting her dress and
bonnet, she walked on at as rapid a pace as she thought
consistent with the preservation 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 a while, 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—until we come to the
river!” And she hurried again into the road, and again
constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly for-
ward.

She was many miles past any neighborhood where she
was personally known. If she should chance to meet any
one who knew her, she reflected that the well-known kind-
ness of the family would be of itselfa blind to suspicion,
as making it an unlikely supposition that she could be a.


118 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

fugitive. As she was also so white as not to be known as
of colored lineage, without a critical survey, and her child
was white also, it was much easier for her to pass on un-
suspected. ,

On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat
farm-house, to rest herself, and buy some dinner for her
child and self; for, as the danger decreased with the dis-
tance, the supernatural tension of the nervous system les-
sened, and she found herself both weary and hungry.

The good woman, kindly and gossiping, seemed rather
pleased than otherwise with having somebody come in to
talk with; and accepted, without examination, Hliza’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 now early spring, and the river was swollen and
turbulent; great cakes of floating ice were swinging
heavily to and fro in the turbid waters. Owing to the
peculiar form of the shore on the Kentucky side, the land
bending far out into the water, the ice had been lodged
and detained in great quantities, and the narrow channel |
which swept round the bend was full of ice, piled one cake
over another, thus forming a temporary barrier to the de-
scending 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 unfavor-
able aspect of things, which she saw at once must prevent
the usual ferry-boat from running, and then turned into a
small public house on the bank, to make a few inquiries.

The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and
stewing operations over the fire, preparatory to the evening
meal, stopped, with a fork in her hand, as Eliza’s sweet
and plaintive voice arrested her.

«‘ What is it ?” she said.

“Isn't there any ferry or boat, that takes people over to
snow ?” she said.

‘“No, indeed!’ said the woman; the boats have
stopped running.”



B


UNCLE T0M'S CABIN. 119

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 ?”

“T’ve got a child that’s very dangerous,” said Eliza.
“‘T never heard of it till last night, and I’ve walked quitea
piece to-day, in hopes to get to the ferry.”

‘* Well, now, that’s onlucky,” said the woman, whose
motherly sympathies were much aroused ; ‘‘ I’m re’lly con-
sarned for ye. Solomon!” she called, from the window,
toward a small back building. A man, in leather apron
and very dirty hands, appeared at the door.

“‘T 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
with some truck this evening, if he durs’ to; he’ll be in.
here to supper to-night, so you’d better set down 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 isn’t used to walking, and I’ve hur-
ried him on go,” said Eliza. :

“‘ Well, take him into this room,” said the woman,
opening a door which led into it, where stood a comfortable
bed. Eliza laid the weary boy upon it, and held his hands
in her’s till he was fast asleep. For her there was no rest.
As a fire in her bones, the thought of the pursuer urged
her on; and she gazed with longing eyes on the snillen,
surging 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 the table, yet it was soon seen, as the
thing hag often been seen before, that it required more
than one to make a bargain. So, although the order was
' fairly given out in Haley’s hearing, and carried to Aunt
Chloe by at least half a dozen juvenile messengers, that
dignitary only gave certain very gruff snorts, and tosses of
120 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

her head, and went on with every operation in an unusu-
ally 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 occurred constantly, to
retard the course 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 water, and had to go to the spring
for more; and another precipitated the butter into the path
of events; and there was from time to time giggling news
brought into the kitchen that “ Mas’r Haley was mighty
oneasy, and that he couldn’t sit in his cheer no ways but
was a walkin’ and stalkin’ to the winders and through the

orch.”
: “‘Sarves him right!” said Aunt Chloe, indignantly,
“He'll get wus nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don’t
mend his ways. His master’ll be sending for him, and
then see how le’ll look!”
“Hell go to torment, and no mistake,” said little
ake.

“* He desarves it!’ said Aunt Chloe, grimly; “he’s broke
a many, many, many hearts—I tell ye all!’ she said, stop-

ing, with a fork uplifted in her hands; ‘‘its like what

as’r George reads in Ravelations, souls a callin’ under the
altar! and acallin’ 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
fistened to with open mouth; and, the dinner being now
fairly sent in, the whole kitchen was at leisure to gossip
with her, and to listen to her remarks.

“Sich ll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won’t
ther?” said Andy.

“‘V’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're sayin’. Forever is a dre’ful word, chil’en; it’s awful
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 121
to think on’t. You oughtenter to wish that ar to any
human crittur.”

‘*We wouldn’t to anybody but the soul-drivers,” said
Andy; ‘‘ nobody can help wishing it to them, they’s so
awful wicked.”

<* Don’t natur herself kinder cry out on ’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
erying and holding on by her clothes—don’t dey pull ’em
off and sells “em? Don’t dey tear wife and husband apart?”
said Aunt Chloe, beginning to ery, ‘‘ when it’s jest takin’
the very life on *em? and all de while does they feel one
bit—don’t dey 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,” says Tom.

“* Pray for ’em!” said Aunt Chloe; “ Lor, it’s too tough!
I can’t pray for ’em.”

“«Tt’s natur, Chloe, and natur’s strong,” said Tom, “ but
the Lord’s grace is stronger; besides, you oughter think
what an awful state a poor crittur’s soul’s in that7ll do
them ar things—you oughter thank God that you ain’t like
him, Chloe. I’m sure I’d rather be sold, ten thousand
times over, than to haveall that ar poor crittur’s got to
answer for.”

“*So’d I, a heap,” said Jake. ‘‘ Lor, shouldn’t we cotch
it, Andy?”

Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent
whistle.

“T’m glad mas’r didn’t go off this morning, as he looked
to,” said Tom; ‘that ar hurt me more than sellin’, it did.
Mebbe it might have been natural for him, but t’would
have come desp’t hard on me, as has known him from a
baby; but I’ve seen mas’r, and I begin ter feel sort o’ re-
conciled to the Lord’s will now. Mas’r couldn’t help his-
self; 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 keepin’ up all
the ends. ‘The boys all means well, but they’s powerful
car’less. That ar troubles me.”

The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the
parlor.
122 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

«‘Tom,” said his master, kindly, ‘‘I want you to notice
that I give this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand
dollars if you are not on the spot when he wants you;
he’s going to-day to look after his other business, and
you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like,
boy.”

Y Thank you, mas’r,” said Tom.

«‘ And mind yerself,” said the trader, ‘‘and don’t come
if over your master with any o’ yer nigger tricks; for Ill
take every cent out of him, if you ain’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—‘ was jist eight years old when ole missis put you into my
arms, and you wasn’t a year old. ‘Thar’ saysshe, ‘ ‘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
wasa Christian? ”

Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to
his eyes.

<¢ My good boy,” said he, <‘the Lord knows you say but
the truth; and if I was able to help it, all the world
shouldn’t buy you.”

**And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs.
Shelby, “‘ you shall be redeemed as soon as I can any
way bring together means. Sir,” she said to Haley,
‘take good account of who you sell him to, and let me
know.”

“Lor, yes, for that matter,” said the trader, “I may
bring him up in a year, not much the wuss for wear, and
trade him back.”

“Vl trade with you then, and make it for your advan-
tage,” said Mrs. Shelby.

“Of course,” said the trader, ‘‘all’s equal with me;
li’ves trade ’em up as down, sol does a good business. All
I want is a livin’, 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 feel -
ings. ‘The more hopelessly sordid and insensibie he ap-
peared, the greater became Mrs. Shelby’s dread of his suc-

>
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 123

ceeding 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, chat-
ted familiarly, and did all she could to make time pass im-
perceptibly.

At two o’clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to
the posts, apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by
the scamper of the morning.

Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abund-
ance of zealous and ready officiousness. As Haley ap-
proached, he was boasting, in flourishing style, to Andy,
of the evident and eminent success of the operation, now
that he had ‘“‘farly come to it.” d

«Your master, I s’pose, 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 muttered:

“‘T 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 considable sharp. I spect
they’s the kind, though they hain’t never had no practice.
They’s far dogs, though, at most anything, if you’d get
’em started. Here, Bruno,” he called, whistling to the
lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultously
toward them.

“You go hang,” said Haley, gettingup. ‘‘ Come, tum-
ble up now. ”

Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to
tickle Andy as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split
out into a laugh, greatly to Haley’s indignation, who made
acut at him with his riding-whip.

‘«T’se *stonished at yer, Andy,” said Sam, with awful
gravity. ‘This yer’s a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn’t
be a makin’ game. ‘This yer ain’t no way to help mas’r.”

“*T shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley,
decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the es-
tate. ‘*I know the way of all of *em—they makes tracks
for the underground.”
124 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“ Sartin,” said Sam, “ dat’s de idee. Mas’r Haley hits
de thing right in de 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 trav-
eled.”

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.

“Tf yer warn’t both on yer such cussed liars, now!” he
said, contemplatively, as he pondered a moment. -

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 com-
posed into the most doleful gravity.

“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 naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley,
thinking aloud, and not minding Sam’s remark.

“Dar ain’t no sayin’,” said Sam; “ gals is pecular; they
never does nothin’ ye thinks they will; mose gen’lly the
contrar. Gals is nat’lly made contrary; and so if you
thinks they’ve gone one road, it is sartin you’d better go
other, and then you'll be sure to find ’em. Now, my
private pinion is, Lizy took der dirt road; so I think we’d
better take de straight one.”

This profound generic view of the female sex did not
seem to dispose Haley particularly to the straight road; and
he announced decidedly that he should go the other, 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.”


UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. 125

¢¢ 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 byder creek, and thar,
ain’t it, Andy?”

Andy wasn’t certain; he’d only “ hearn tell,” about that
road, but never been over it. In short, he was strictly
noncommittal.

Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities
between lies of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that iti
lay in favor 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 Eliza.

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 an hour’s ride, and after that it was cut across by
various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact. perfectly
well—indeed, the road had been so long closed up, that
Andy had never heard of it. He therefore rode along with
an air of dutiful submission, only groaning and vociferat:-.
ing occasionally that ’t was ‘‘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 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 precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-
126 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

yard belonging to a large farming establishment. Nota
soul was in sight, all the hands being employed in the fields;
but asthe 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, “and you knew all about
this.”

“ Didn’t I tell yer I know’d, and yer would n’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. liza was standing by the window, look-
ing out in another direction, when Sam’s quick eye caught
a glimpse of her. Haley and Andy were two yards be-
hind. At this crisis, Sam contrived to have his hat
blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic ejacu-
lation, which startled her at once; she drew suddenly
back; the whole train swept by the window, round to the
front door.

A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one
moment to Eliza. Her room opened bya side door to the
river, She caught her child, and sprang down the steps
toward it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her, just as
she was disappearing down the bank; and throwing him-
self from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy,
he was after her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy
moment her feet to her scarce seemed to touch the ground
and a moment brought her to the water’s edge. 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 the raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap—im-




She vaulted sheer over the Turbid Current.

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 129

possible to anything but madness and despair; and Haley,
Sam, and Andy, instinctively cried out, and lifted up their
hands, as she did it.

The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted
pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she
staid there not a moment. With wild cries and desperate
energy she leaped to another and still another cake; stum-
bling—leaping—slipping—springing upward again! Her
shoes are gone—her stockings cut from her feet—while
blood marked every step; but she saw nothing, felt noth-
ing, till dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio side, anda
man helping her up the bank. _

«* Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!” said the man,
with an oath.

Eliza recognized the voice and face of a man who owned
a farm not far from her old home.

“°O, Mr. Symmes—save me—do save me—do hide me,”
said Eliza.

“© Why, what’s this?” said the man. ‘ Why, if ’tain’t
Shelby’s gal!”

“My child! This boy—he’d sold him! There is his
master,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. <‘‘O,
Mr. Symmes, you’ve got a little boy.”

“©So I have,” said the man, as he roughly, but kindly,
drew her up the steep bank. ‘‘ Besides, you’re a right
brave gal. I like grit, wherever I see it.”

When they had gained the top of the bank, the man
paused.

“Yd be glad to do something for ye,” said he; “but
then there’s nowhar I could take ye. ‘The best I can do
is to tell ye to go ¢har,” said 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 0’
Gateer Ou they'll help you, they’re up to all that sort o’
thing.

“‘The Lord bless you!” said Eliza, earnestly.

“No ’easion, no ’casion in the world,” said the man.
«‘ What I’ve done’s of no ’count.”

“And, oh, surely, sir, you won’t tell any one?”

“*Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for?
In course not,” said the man. ‘‘Oome, now, go along like
a likely, sensible gal, as you are. You’ve arnt your liberty
and you shall have it, for all me,”
130 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

The woman folded her child to her bosom, und walked
firmly and swiftly away. ‘The man stood and looked after
her.

‘‘Shelby, now, mebbe won’t think this yer the most
neighborly 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’ crit-
ter a strivin’ and pantin’, and trying 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 instructed in his constitutional relations, and
consequently was betrayed into acting in a sort of Chris-
tianized manner, which, if he had been better situated -
and more enlightened, he would not have been left to do.

Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the
scene, till Eliza had disappeared up the bank, when he
turned a blank, inquiring look on Sam and Andy.

“That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business,” said
am.

“The gal’s got seven devil’s in her, I believe,” said
Haley. ‘‘ How like a wildcat she jumped.”

«Wal, now,” said Sam, scratching his head, “I hope
mas’r’ll *scuse us tryin’ dat ar road. Don’t think I feel
spry enough for dat ar, no way!” and Sam gave a hoarse
chuckle. ;

“* You laugh!” said the trader, with a growl.

“Lord bless you, mas’r, I couldn’t help it, now,” said
Sam, giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul.
“She looked so curis, a leapin’ and springin’— ice a
crackin’—and only to hear her—plum! kerchunk! ker-
splash! Spring! Lord! how she goes it!” and Sam
and Andy laughed till the tears rolled down their black
cheeks.

“Tl make ye laugh t’other side yer mouths,” said the
trader, laying about their heads with his riding-whip.

Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were
on their horses before he was up.

“‘Good-evening, mas’r,” said Sam, with much gravity.
“T bery much spect missis be anxious *bout Jerry. Mas’r
Haley won’t want us no longer. Missis wouldn’t hear of
our ridin’ the critters over Lizy’s bridge to-night;” and,
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 131

with a facetious poke into Andy’s ribs, he started off, fol-
lowed by the latter, at full speed—their shouts of laughter
coming faintly on the wind.

CHAPTER VIII.
THREE OF A KIND.

Eiza made her desperate retreat across the river just in
the dusk of twilight.. The gray mist of evening, “rising
slowly from the river, enveloped 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 re-
turned to the little tavern, to ponder further what was to
be done. The woman opened to him the door of a little
parlor, covered with a rag carpet, where stood a table with
a very shining black oil-cloth, sundry lank, high-backed
wood chairs, with some plaster images in resplendent
colors on the mantel-shelf, above a very dimly-smoking
grate ; a long hard-wood settle extended its uneasy length
by the chimney, and here Haley sat down 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 re-
peating. over a not very select litany of imprecations on
himself, which, though there was the best possible reason
to consider them as true, we shall, as a matter of taste,
omit.

He was startled by the loud and dissonant voice of a
man who was apparently dismounting at the door. He
hurried to the window. ,

«< By the land ! if this yer ain’t the nearest, now, to what
I’ve heard folks call Providence,” said Haley. ‘I do
b’lieve that ar’s ‘om 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 proportion. He was dressed
in a coat of buffalo-skin, made with the hair outward,
which gave him a shaggy and fierce appearance, perfectly
132 UNCLE 10M’S CABIN.

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 unto man’s estate, and walking
about in a hat and coat, they would have no unapt idea of
the general style and effect of his physique. He was ac-
companied by a traveling companion, In many respects an
exact. contrast to himself. He wasshortand slender, lithe
and cat-like in his motions, and had a peering, mousing
expression about his keen black eyes, with which every
feature of his face seemed sharpened into sympathy ; his
thin, long nose, ran out as if it was eager to bore into the
nature of things 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 ont a big tumbler half full 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 considerately in the directions of the various
bottles, ordered at last a mint julep, in a thin and quiver-
ing voice, and with an air of great circumspection. When
poured out, he took it and looked at it with a sharp, com-
placent 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 for-
ward, 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, in-
stantly stopped his sipping, and, poking his head forward,
looked shrewdly on the new acquaintance, as a cat some-
times looks at a moving dry leaf, or some other possible
object of pursuit. ;

‘I say, Tom, this yer’s the luckiest thing in the world.
I’m in a devil of a hobble, and you must help me out.”

“Ugh! aw! like enough !” grunted his complacent ac-
quaintance. ‘* A body may be pretty sure of that, when
you’re glad to see “em; something to be made off of ’em.
What’s the blow now?”

“* You’ve got a friend here?” said Haley, looking doubt
fully at Marks; “ partner, perhaps? ”










TEE ss "

VA
SEN
ATS

SRN



on,

th gruff and surly attenti

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stened to him w

Loker li
134 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“¢- Yes, Ihave. Here, Marks, here’s that ar feller 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 treatin this here parlor. So, now, old
coon,” said he to the man at the bar, ‘get us hot
water, and sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the real stuff,
and we’ll have a blow-out.”

Behold, then, the candles lighted the fire stimulated to
the burning point in the grate, and our three worthies
seated round a table, well spread with all the accessories to
good fellowship enumerated before.

Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles.
Loker shut up his mouth, and listened to him with gruff
and surly attention. Marks, who was anxiously and with
much fidgeting compounding a tumbler of punch to his
own peculiar taste, occasionally looked up from his em-
provers, and, poking his sharp nose and chin almost into

aley’s face, gave the most earnest heed to the whole nar-
-rative. The conclusion of it appeared to amuse him ex-
tremely, for he shook his shoulders and sides in silence,
and perked up his thin lips with an air of great internal
enjoyment.

‘“So then, ye’r fairly sewed up, ain’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.

“Tf we could get a breed of gals that didn’t care, now,
for their young uns,” said Marks; “ tell ye, I think ’twould
be *bout the greatest mod’rn improvement I knows on,”
and Marks patronized his joke by a quiet introductory
sniggle.

“Jes so,” said Haley; ‘ young 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 general thing, the tighter they sticks to

« Wal, Mr. Haley,” said Marks, ‘‘jest pass the hot
water. Yes, sir; you say jest what I feel and all’us have.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 185

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
*tway to a man that thought he’d take his chance raising
on’t, being it didn’t cost nothin’; never thought, yer know,
of the gal’s takin’ on about it—but, Lord, yer oughter seen
how she’ went on. Why, re’lly, she did seem to me to
yalley the child more ’cause *twas 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’lly was droll to think on’t.
Lord, there ain’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 nicely swapped off for a
keg o’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 what should she do
but ups on a cotton-bale, like a cat, ketches a knife from
one of the deck hands, and, I tell ye, she made all fly for
a minit, till she saw *twan’t no use; and she jest turns
round, and pitches head first, young un and all, into the
river—went down plump, and never ris.”

“Bah!” said Tom Loker, who had listened to these
stories with ill-repressed disgust—*‘shif’less, both on ye!
my gals don’t cut up no such shines, I tell ye!”

«Indeed! how do you help it?” said Marks, briskly.

“« Help it? why, I buys a gal, and if she’s got a young
un to be sold, I jest walks up and puts my fist to her
face, and says, ‘Tiook 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 un’s mine, and not yourn, and you’ve no kind 0’
business with it. I’m going to sell it, first chance; mind,
you don’t cut up none o’ yer shines about it, or I'll make
ye wish ye’d never been born.’ I tell ye, they sees it ain’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.
136 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN,

Loker brought down his fist with a thump that fully ex-
plained the hiatus.

“‘That ar’s what ye may call emphasis,” said Marks,
poking Haley in the side, and going into another small
giggle. ‘‘Ain’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 you ain’t the devil, Tom, you’s his twin brother;
Tl say that for ye!”

Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty,
and began to look as affable as was consistent, as John
Bunyan says, ‘‘ with his doggish nature.”

Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple
of the evening, began to feel a sensible elevation and en-
largement of his moral faculties—a phenomenon not un-
usual with gentlemen of aserious and reflective turn, under
similar circumstances.

“‘ Wal, now, Tom,” he said, ‘ye re’lly 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 ain’t nothing else left to get,
ye know.” 5

“Boh,” said Tom, ‘ don’t I know? don’t make me too
sick with any yer stuff—my stomach is a leetle 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 this now, I al’ays meant
to drive my trade so as to make money on ’t, fust and fore-
most, as much as any man; but, then, trade ain’t every-
thing, and money ain’t everything, ’cause we’s all got souls,
IT don’t care, now, who hears me say it, and I think a
cussed sight on it—so I may as well come outwithit. I
b’lieve in religion, and one of these days, when I’ve got
matters tight and snug, I calculates to tend to my soul and
them ar matters; and so what’s the use of doin’ any more
wickedness than’s re’lly necessary—it don’t seem to me it’s
’t all prudent.”

“Tend to yer soul!” repeated Tom, contemptuously;
it'd take a bright look-out to find a soul in you—save your-
self any care on that score. If the devil sifts you through
a hair sieve, he won’t find one,” ;
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 137

‘‘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.
“‘T can stand most any talk o’ yourn, but your pious talk
—that kills me right up. After all, what’s the odds
between me and you? ”Tain’t that you care one bit more, or
have a bit more feelin’—it’s clean, sheer, dog meanness,
wanting to cheat the devil and save your own skin; don’tI
see through it? And your ‘ gettin’ religion,’ as you call it,
arter all, is too p’isin mean for any crittur—run up a bill
with the devil all your life, and then sneak out when pay
time comes! Boh!”

“Come, come, gentlemen, I say; this isn’t business,”
said Marks. ‘‘'There’s different ways, you know, of look-
ing at all subjects. Mr. Haley is a very nice man, no
doubt, and has his own conscience; and, Tom, you have
your ways, and very good ones, too, Tom; but quarreling,
you know, won’t answer no kind of purpose. Let’s go to
business. Now, Mr. Haley, what is it? you wantus to un-
dertake 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, grufily.

“Come, now, Loker, none of your hufts,” said Marks,
licking his lips; ‘‘ you see, Mr. Haley’s a puttin’ usin a
way of a good job, I reckon; just hold still—these yer ar-
rangements is my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley, how is
she? what is she?” ‘

“Wal! white and handsome—well brought up. T’da
gin 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. Ain’t it beautiful?”

Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during
this communication, now suddenly snapped it together, as
a big dog closes on a piece of meat, and seemed to be digest-
ing the idea at his leisure.

“* Ye see,” said Marks to Haley, stirring his punch as he
138 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

did so, ‘‘ye see, we has justices convenient at all p’ints
along shore, that does up any little jobs in our line quite
reasonable. Tom, he does the knockin’ down and that ar;
and I come in all dressed up—shining boots— everything
first chop, when the swearin’ ’s to be done. You oughter
see, now,” said Marks, in a glow of professional pride, ‘‘ how
I can tone it off. One day, ’m Mr. Twickem, from New .
Orleans; ’nother day, I’m just come from my plantation
on. Pear! river, 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 different, you know.
Now, Tom’s a roarer when there’s any thumping or fight-
ing to be done ; but at lying he ain’t good, Tom ain’t—ye |
see it don’t come natural to him; but, Lord, if thar’s.a
feller-in the country that can swear to anything and every-
thing, and put in all the circumstances and flourishes with
a longer face, and carry’t through better’n I can, why, I’d
like to see him, that’s all! I b’lieve my heart, I could get
along and snake through, even if justices were more par-
ticular 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
all ring again. ‘* [fl do!’ he said.

“Lord bless ye, Tom, ye needn’t break all the glasses !”
said Marks ; “‘ save your fist for time o’necd.”

«‘But, gentlemen, ain’t I to come in for a share of the
profits ?” said Haley.

“* Ain’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 fist, “don’t I know you,
Dan Haley ? Don’t you think to come it over me! Sup-
pose 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 and
out, and you keep quiet, or, ye see, we’ll have both—
what’s to hinder? Ain’t you show’d us the game? It’s
as free to us as you, I hope. If you or Shelby wants to
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 139

chase us, look where the partridges was last year; if you
find them or us, you’re quite welcome.”

“©O, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that,” said Haley,
alarmed; ‘‘ you catch the boy for the job—you allers did .
trade far with me, Tom, and was up to yer word.”

“‘ Ye know that,” said Tom; ‘‘I don’t pretend none of
of your sniveling 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 ain’t all I want, by a long jump,” said Tom.
“Ye don’t think I did business with you, down in Natchez,
for nothing, Haley; I’ve learned to hold an eel, when I
catch him. ‘You’ve got to fork over fifty dollars, flat
down, or this child don’t start a peg. I know yer.”

«“Why, when you have a job in hand that may bring a
clean profit of somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hun-
dred, why, ‘om, you’re onreasonable,” said Haley.

«Yes, and hasn’t we business booked for five weeks to
come—all we can do? And suppose we leaves all, and
goes to bushwhacking round arter yer young un, and final-
ly doesn’t catch the gal—and gals allers is the devil to
catch—what’s then? would you pay us a cent—would you?
I think I see you 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 far, ain’t it, Marks ?”

“‘ Certainly, certainly,” said Marks, with a conciliatory
tone ; *‘it’s only a retaining fee, you see—he! he! he !—
we lawyers, you know. Wal, we must all keep good-natured
—keep easy, yer know. Tom/’ll have the boy for yer, any-
where ye’ll name; won’t ye, Tom?”

‘Tf I find the young un, I’ll bring him on to Cincinnati,
and leave him at Granny Belcher’s, on the landing,” said
Loker.

Marks had got fromhis 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 con-
tents:

‘«¢ Barnes—Shelby County—boy Jim, three hundred dol-
lars for him, dead or alive.
1L£0 : UNCULK TOM’S CABIN.

«‘Edwards—Dick and Lucy—man and wife, six hun-
dred dollars; wench Polly and two children—six hundred
for her or her head.”

‘‘T’m jest a runnin’ over our business, to see if we can
take up this yer handily. Joker,” 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.

“T’ll manage that ar; they’s young in the business, and
must speck to work cheap,” said Marks, as he continued to
read. ‘‘Ther’s three on ’em, easy cases, *cause all you’ve
got to do is to shoot ’em, or swear they is shot; they could
not, of course, charge much for that. ‘Them other cases,”
he said, folding the paper, ‘‘ will bear putting off a spell.
So now let’s come to the particulars. Now, Mr. Haley,
you saw this yer gal when she landed?”

‘«'To be sure—plain as I see you.”

“And a man helpin’? on her up the bank?” said
Loker.

““To be sure, I did.”

“‘ Most likely,” said Marks, “she’s took in somewhere;
but where, ’s a question. Tom, what do you say?”
7s “We must cross the river to-night, no mistake,” said

om.

“But there’s no boat about,” said Marks. The ice is
running awfully, Tom; ain’t it dangerous?”

*“Dun’no nothing ’bout that—only it’s got to be done,”
said Tom, decidedly.

“* Dear me,” said Marks, fidgeting, “it’ll be—I say,” he
said, walking to the window, ‘“‘it’s dark as a wolf’s mouth,
and, Tom——”

«“The long and short is, you’re scared, Marks; but I
can’t help that—you’ve got to go. Suppose. you want to
lie by a day or two, till the gal’s been carried on
the underground line up to Sandusky or so, before you
start.

“QO, no; I ain’t a grain afraid,” said Marks,
“only ——”

“Only what?” said Tom.

“Well, about the boat. Yer see there ain’t any
boat.”

‘“‘I heard the woman say there was one coming along .
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 141

this evening, and that a man was going to cross over in it.
Neck or nothing, we must go with him,” said Tom.

“T s’pose you’ve got good dogs,” said Haley.

‘First rate,” said Marks. ‘ But what's the use? you
hain’t got nothin’ o’ her’s to smell on.’

«Yes, I have,” said Haley, triumphantly. ‘* Here’s her
shawl she left on the bed in her hurry; she left her bonnet,
too.”

“That ar’s lucky,” said Loker; ‘‘ fork over.

“Though the dogs might damage the gal, it they come
on her unawars, ” said Haley.

«« That ar’s a consideration,” said Marks. ‘Our dogs
tore a feller half to pieces, once, down in Mobile, ’fore we
could get ’em off.”

«‘ Well, ye see, for this sort that’s to be sold for their
looks, that ar won’t answer, ye see,” said Haley.

““I do see,” said Marks. ‘* Besides, if she’s got took in,
’tain’t no go, neither. Dogs is no ’count in these yer up
states where these critters “gets carried; of course, ye can’t
getontheir track. They only does down in plantations,
where niggers, when they runs, has to do their own run-
ning, and don’t get no help.”

“Well,” said Loker, who had just stepped out to the bar
to make some inquities, “‘ they say the man’s come with
the boat; so, Marks

That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quar-
ters he was leaving, but slowly rose toobey. After exchang-
ing a few words of further arrangement, Haley, with vis-
ible 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 be-
comes one great market for bodies and souls, and human
property retains the locomotive tendencies of this nine-
teenth century, the trader and catcher may yet be anloug
our aristocracy.



While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and
142 UNCLE '0M'S CABIN.

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 ejacu-
lations, 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 anda
somersault, come right side up in his place again, and, draw-
ing on a grave face, begin to lecture Andy in high sound-
ing tones for laughing and playing the fool. Anon, slap-
ping his sides with his arms, he would burst forth in peals
of laughter, that made the old woods ring as they-passed.
With all these evolutions, he contrived to keep the horses
up to the top of their speed, until between ten and
eleven, their heels resounded on the gravel at the end of
the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to the railings,

“Tg that you, Sam? Where are they?”

“*Mas’r Haley’s a-restin’ at the tavern; he’s drefful fa
tigned, missis.”

*« And Eliza, Sam? ”

‘Wal, she’s clar ’cross Jordan. Asa body may say, in
the land 0’ 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 persarves his own. Lizy’s
done gone over the river into "Hio, as ’markably as if
de Lord took her over in a chariot of fire and two hosses.”

Sam’s vein of piety was always uncommonly fervent in
his mistress’ presence; and he made great capital of script-
ural figures and images.

‘*Come up here, Sam,” said Mr. Shelby, who had fol-
lowed on to the veranda, ‘“‘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 not Ia 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? Yousee 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 it away.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 148

“‘ Here, Andy, you nigger, be alive!” called Sam, under
the veranda; ‘‘ take these yer horses to der barn; don’t ye
hear mas’r a callin’?”? and Sam soon appeared, palm-leaf in
hand, at the parlor door. ;

““Now, Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was,”’ said
Mr. Shelby. ‘ Where is Eliza, if you know?”

«Well, 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 J 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. :

“* Kasy! couldn’t nobody a doneit, widout de Lord. Why,
now,” said Sam, ‘‘’t was jist dis yer way. Mas’r Haley,
and me, and Andy, we comes up to de little tavern by the
river, and I rides a leetle ahead—(I’s so zealous to be a
cotchin’ 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 hars, and she dodges back, when Mas’r
Haley he goespast fhe door; and then, I tell ye, she clared
out de side door; she went down de river bank—Mas’r
Haley he seed her, and yelled out, and him, and me, and
Andy, we took arter. Downshecome to de 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’t were a great island. We come right behind
her, and I thought my soul he’d got her sure enough—
when she gin sich a screech as I never hearn; and thar she
was, clar over t’other side the current, on the ice, and
then on she went, a screeching and a jumpin’—the ice
went crack! c’wallop! cracking! chunk! and she a bound-
in’ like a buck! Lord, the spring that ar gal’s got in her
ain’t common, I’m o’ ’pinion.”

Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement,
while Sam told his story. /

“‘God be praised, she isn’t dead!” she said; ‘‘ but where
is the poor child now?”

“‘De Lord will pervide,” said Sam, rolling up his eyes
piously. ‘As I’ve been a sayin’, dis yer’s a providence
and no mistake, as missis has allers been a instructin’ on
144 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 hosses, dis yer
mornin’, and keep ’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 circum-
stances.

Now, there is no more use in making believe be angry
with a negro than with a child; both instinctively see the
true state of the case, through all attempts to affect the
contrary; and Sam was in no wise disheartened by this re-
buke, though he assumed an air of doleful gravity, and
stood with the corners of his mouth lowered in most peni-
tential style.

“* Mas’r’s quite right—quite; it was ugly on me—there’s
no disputin’ that ar; and of course mas’r and missis
wouldn’t encourage no such works. I’m sensible of dat
ar; but a poor nigger like me’s ’mazin’ tempted to act
ugly sometimes, when fellers will cut up such shines as
dat ar Mas’r Haley; he ain’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 sense of your errors, you may go now and
tell Aunt Chloe she may get you some of that cold ham
that was left from 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.

Jt will be perceived, as has been before intimated, that
Master Sam 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 in-
vested for his own especial praise and glory; and having
done up his piety and humility, as he trusted, to the sat-
isfaction of the parlor, he clapped his palm-leaf on his
head, with a sort of rakish, free-and-easy air, and pro-
ceeded to the dominions of Aunt Chloe, with the intention
of flourishing largely in the kitchen.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 145

“Tl speechify these yer niggers,” said Sam to himself,
“now Tve got achance. Lord, I’ll reel it off to make ’em
stare!”

It must be observed that one of Sam’s especial delights
had been to ride in attendance on his master to all kinds
of political gatherings, where, roosted on some rail fence
or perched aloft in some tree, he would sit watching the
orators, with the greatest apparent gusto, and then, descend-
ing among the various brethren of his own color, assembled
on the sameerrand, he would edify and delight them with
the most ludicrous burlesques and imitations, all delivered
with the most imperturbable earnestness and solemnity;
and though the auditors immediately about him were gen-
erally of his own color, it not unfrequently happened that
they were fringed pretty deeply with those of a fairer com-
plexion, 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 mag-
nifying his office.

Now, between Sam and Aunt Chloe there had existed
from ancient times, a sort of chronic feud, or rather a de-
cided 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 fol-
lowed 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 expression
like one who has suffered immeasurable hardships in behalf
of a persecuted fellow-creature—enlarged 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 supremacy in the cooking department, and all
thereto pertaining.

The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple virtuous
body was ever cajoled by the attentions of an electioneer-
ing politician with more ease than Aunt Chloe was won
over by Master Sam’s suavities; and if he had been the
prodigal son himself, he could not have been overwhelmed
with’ more maternal bountifulness; and he soon found
himself seated, happy and glorious, over a large tin pan
146 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

containing a sort of ol/a podrida of all that had appeared
on the table for two or three days past. Savory morsels of
ham, golden blocks of corn-cake, fragments of pie of every
conceivable mathematical figure, chicken wings, gizzards,
and drumsticks, all appeared in picturesque confusion; and
Sam, as monarch of all he surveyed, sat with his palm-leaf
cocked rejoicingly to one side, and patronizing Andy at his
right hand.

The kitchen was full of all his compeers, who had
hurried and crowded in, from the various cabins, to hear
the termination of the day’s exploits. Now was Sam’s
hour of glory. The story of the day was rehearsed, with
all kinds of ornament and varnishing which might be
necessary to heighten its effect ; for Sam, like some of our
fashionable dilettanti, never allowed a story to lose any of
its gilding by passing through his hands. Roars of
laughter attended the narration, and were taken up and
prolonged by all the smaller 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 inex-
pressibly droll glances, without departing from the sen-
tentious elevation of his oratory.

“Yer see, fellow-countrymen,” said Sam elevating a tur-
key’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 0’ these yer drivers that comes smelling round arter
any our people, why, he’s got me in his way ; Z’m the feller
he’s got to set in with—I’m the feller for yer 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 help this yer mas’r to cotch Lizy ; seems to me yer
talk don’t hang together,” said Andy.

“T tell you now, Andy,” said Sam, with awful superior-
ity, ‘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 col- |


“Fellow countrymen !’’ said Sam, elevating a turkey’s leg with
energy.

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 149

lusitate, which most of the youngerly members of the com-
pany 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 railly spected mas’r was sot dat way.
When I found missis was sot the contrar, dat ar was con-
science more yet—cause fellers allers gets more by stickin,
to missis’ side—so yer see I’s persistent either way, and
sticks up to conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes,
principles,” said Sam, giving an enthusiastic toss to a
chicken’s neck—‘‘ what’s principles good for, if we isn’t
persistent, I wanter know? Thar, Andy, you may have
dat ar bone—’tan’t picked quite clean.”

Sam’s audience hanging on his words with open mouth,
he could not but proceed.

‘‘Dis yer matter ’bout persistence, feller-niggers,” said
Sam, with the air of one entering into an abstruse subject,
‘« dis yer ’sistency’s a thing what ain’t seed into very clar,
by most anybody. Now, yer see, when a feller stands up
for a thing one day and night, de contrar de next, folks
ses (and nat’rally enough dey ses), why he ain’t persistent,
—hand me dat ar bit 0’ corn-cake, Andy. But let’s look
inter it. I hope the gen’lmen and der fair sex will scuse
my usin’ an or’nary sort o’ parison. Here ! I’m a tryin’ to
get top o’ der hay. Wal, I puts up my larder dis yer side;
*tain’t no go—den, cause I don’t try dere no more, but
puts my larder right de contrar side, ain’t I persistent ?
I’m persistent in wantin’ to get up which ary side my
larder is ; don’t you see, all on yer ?”

“ knows!” muttered Aunt Chloe, who was gettin rather
restive; the merriment of the evening being to her some-
what after the Scripture comparison—like ‘‘ vinegar upon
nitre.”

‘Yes, indeed!” said Sam, rising, full of supper and
glory, for a closing effort. <‘‘ Yes, my fellow-citizens and
ladies of de other sex in general, I has principles—’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
forty—jest anything that I thinksis principle, I goes into ’t
—I wouldn’t mind if dey burnt me “live—I’d walk right
up to de stake, I would, and say, here I comes to shed my
last blood fur my principles, fur my country, fur de gen’!
interest of s’ciety.”
150 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

‘¢ Well,” said Aunt Chloe, ‘one o’ yer principles will
have to be to get to bed some time to-night, and not be a
keepin’ every body 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 palm-leaf
with benignity, « and be good boys.”

And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dis-
persed. :

CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A SENATOR IS BUT A MAN.

THE light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and car-
pet of a cosey parlor, and glittered on the sides of the tea-
cups and well-brightened tea-pot, as Senator Bird was
drawing off his boots, preparatory to inserting his feet ina
pair of new handsome slippers, which his wife had been
working for him while away on his senatorial tour. Mrs.
Bird, looking the very picture of delight, was superintend-
ing the arrangements of the table, ever and anon ming-
ling admonitory remarks to a number of frolicsomie juve-
niles, who were effervescing 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
something to her husband.

“Yes, yes, I thought I’d just make a run down, spend
the night, and have a little comfort at home. I’m tired to
death, and my head aches!”

Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor-bottle, which stood
in the half-open closet, and appeared to meditate an ap-
proach to it, but her husband interposed. :

““No, no, Mary, no doctoring! a cup of your good hot
tea, and some of our good home living, is what I want,
It’s a tiresome business, this legislating!”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 151°

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, it was a very unusual thing for gentle little Mrs.
Bird ever to trouble her head with what was going on in
the house of the state, very wisely considering that she had
enough todo to mindherown. Mr. Bird, therefore opened
his eyes in surprise, and said:

«* Not very much of importance.”

“Well; but is it true that they have been passing a law
forbidding people to give meat and drink to those poor col-
ored 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, all at
once.” :

‘‘No, nonsense! I wouldn’t give a fip for all your poli-
tics, generally, but I think this is something downright
cruel and unchristian. I hope, my dear, no such law has
been passed.”

“‘T here 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 Abo-
litionists, that our brethren in Kentucky are very strongly
excited, and it seems necessary, and no more than Christian
and kind, that something should be done by our state to

quiet the excitement.”

«And what is the law? It don’t forbid us to shelter
these poor creatures a night, does it, and to give ’em some-
thing 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 subjection merely by a show of his teeth. Her hus-
band and children were her entire world, and in these she
152 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

ruled more by entreaty and persuasion than by command
or argument. ‘There was only one thing that was capable
of arousing her, and that-provocation came in on the side
of her unusually gentle and sympathetic nature; anything in
the shape of cruelty would throw her into a passion, which
was the more alarming and inexplicable in proportion to
the general softness of her nature. Generally the most in-
dulgent and easy to be entreated 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 neighbor-
hood, stoning a defenseless kitten.

“Vl 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 boy’s never stoned
another kitten.”

On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly with
very red cheeks, which quite improved her general appear-
ance, 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!”

“‘T never could have thought it of you, Jolin; you didn’t
vote for it?”

“« Kven so, my fair politician.”

«You ought to be ashamed, John! Poor, homeless,
houseless creatures! It’s a shameful, wicked, abominable
law, and J’ll break it, for one, the first time I get a chance;
and I hope I shall have a chance, I do! Things have got
to a pretty pass, if a woman can’t give a warm supper and
a bed to poor, starving creatures, just because they are
slaves, and have been abused and oppressed all their lives,
poor things!”

‘* But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are all
quite right, dear, and interesting, and I love you for them;
but, then, dear, we mustn’t suffer our feelings to run away
with our judgment; you must consider its not a matter of
private feeling—there are great public interests involved—
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 153

there is such a state of 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 involvea great
public evil i

‘‘Qbeying God never brings on public evils.. I know
it can’t. It’s always safest, all round, to do as He bids
us 99 id



“Now, listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a very
clear argument, to show ve

« wouldn’t do it. I putit to you, John—would you now
turn away a poor, shivering, hungry creature from your
door, because he wasarunaway? Would you, now?”

Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the mis-
fortune to bea man who had a particularly humane and
accessible nature, and turning away anybody that was in
trouble never had been hisforte; and what was, worse for
him in this particular pinch of the argument was, that his
wife knew it, and, of course, was making an assault on
rather an indefensible point. So he had recourse to the
usual means of gaining time for such cases made and pro-
vided; he said ‘‘ahem,” and coughed several times, took
out his pocket-handkerchief, and began to wipe his glasses.
Mrs. Bird, seeing the defenseless condition of the
enemy's territory, had no more conscience than to push her
advantage.

«IT should like to see you doing that, John—I really
should! ‘Turning 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 runaway from me, or you either,
John, I tell you folks don’t run away when they are happy,


a UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

and when they do run, poor creatures! they suffer enough
with cold and hunger and fear, without everybody’s turn-
ing against them; and, law or no law, I never will, so help
me God!” 3

“‘Mary! Mary! My dear, let me reason with you.”

«‘T hate reasoning, John—especially reasoning on such
subjects. ‘There’s a way you political folks have of coming
round and round a plain right thing; and you don’t believe
in it yourselves, when it comes to practice. Iknow you well

enough, John. You don’t believe its 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 his head in at the door, and wished “ missis
would come into the kitchen; ” and our senator, tolerably
relieved, looked after his little wife with a whimsical mixt-
ure of amusement and vexation, and, seating himself in
the arm-chair, began to read the papers.

After a moment, his wife’s voice was heard at the door,
in a quick, earnest tone—“‘ John! John! I do wish you'd
come here a moment.”

He laid down his paper, and went into the kitchen, and
started, quite amazed at the sight that presented itself :
A young and slender woman, with garments torn and
frozen, with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn away
from the cut and bleeding foot, was laid back ina deadly
swoon upon two chairs. ‘There was the impress of the de-

_spised 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 colored domestic, old Aunt Dinah,

_were busily engaged in restorative measures; while old
Cudjoe had got the boy on his knee, and was busy pull-
ing off his shoes and stocking, and chaffing his little cold
eet.

“Sure now, if she ain’ta sight to behold!” said old
Dinah, compassionately; ‘’pears like ’twas the heat that
made her faint. She was tol’able peart when she cum in,
and asked if she couldn’t warm herself here a spell; and I
was just a askin’ her where she cum from, and she fainted
right down. Never done much hard work, guess, by the

. looks of her hands.” :

«Poor creature!” said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as





_ Eliza lay in a deadly swoon upon two chairs.
Eliza was hurried into the carriage. Mrs, Bird slowly onened the drawer.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 157

the woman slowly unclosed her large, dark eyes, and looked
vacantly at her. Suddenly an expression of agony crossed
her face, and she sprang up, saying, “‘O, my Harry! Have
they got him?”

The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe’s knee, and, run-
ning to her side, put up hisarms. ‘0, he’s here, he’s
here!” she exclaimed.

«O, ma’am!” said she, wildly, to Mrs. Bird, ‘do pro-
tect us! don’t let them get him!”

“Nobody shall hurt you here, my poor woman,” said
Mrs. Bird, encouragingly. “ You are safe; don’t be
afraid.”

“‘ God bless you! ” said the woman, covering her face and
sobbing; while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get
into her lap.

With many gentle and womanly offices, which none knew
better how to render than Mrs. Bird, the poor woman was,
in time, rendered more calm. A temporary bed was pro-
vided for her on the settle, near the fire; and, after a short
time, she fell into a heavy slumber, with the child, who
seemed no less weary, soundly sleeping on her arm; for the
mother resisted, with nervous anxiety, the kindest attempts
to take him from her; and, even in sleep, her arm encircled
him with an unrelaxing clasp, as if shecould not even then
be beguiled of her vigilant hold.

Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlor, where,
strange as it may appear, no reference was made, on either
side, to the preceding conversation; but Mrs. Bird busied
herself with her knitting-work, and Mr. Bird pretended to
be reading the paper.

“‘T wonder who and what she is!” said Mr. Bird, at last,
as he laid it down.

«‘ When she wakes up and feels a little rested, we will
see,” said Mrs. Bird.

“I say, wife!” said Mr. Bird, after musing in silence
over his newspaper.

«Well, dear!”

“She couldn’t wear one of your gowns, could she, by
any letting down, or such matter? She seems to be rather
larger than you are.’

A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird’s face,
as she answered, ‘‘ We’ll see.”

Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out.
158 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

«T say, wife!”

“Well! What now?”

«* Why, ther’s that old bombazin cloak, that you keep on
purpose to put over me when I take my afternoon’s nap;
you might as well give her that—she needs clothes.”

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 setting up on the settle, by the
fire. She was looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm
heart-broken expression, very different from her former
agitated wildness.

«Did you want me?” said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones.
“
A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer; but
she lifted her dark eyes, and fixed them on her with such
a forlorn 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! ‘T'ell me where you came from, and
what you want,” said she.

“‘T came from Kentucky,” said the woman.

“When?” said Mr. Bird, taking up the interrogatory.

«To-night.”

<* How did you come?”

“*T crossed on the ice.”

** Crossed on the ice?” said every one present.

“Yes,” said the woman, slowly, ‘‘I did. God helping
me I crossed on the ice; for they were behind me—right
behind—and there was no other way!”

‘Law, missis,” said Cudjoe, ‘the ice is all in broken-
up blocks, a swinging and a tetering up and down in the
water!”

“T know it was—I know it!” said she, wildly; ‘* but I
did it! I wouldn’t have thought I could—I didn’t think
I should get over, but I didn’t care! I conld 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.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 159

‘¢ Was he unkind to you?”

‘* No, sir; he was a good master.”

«And was your mistress unkind to you?”

“No, sir—no! my mistress was always good to me.”

** What could induce you to leave a good home, then,
and run away, and go through such dangers?”

The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird, with a keen, scru-
tinizing glance, andit did not escape her that she was
dressed in deep mourning. {

“‘Ma’am,” she said, suddenly, “‘ have you ever lost a
child? ”

The question was unexpected, and it was a thrust on a
new wound; for it was only a month since a darling child
of the family had been laid in the grave.

Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and
Mrs. Bird burst into tears; but, recovering her voice, she
said: :

«Why 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 had. He was my comfort and pride, day and
night; and, ma’am, they were going to take himaway from
me—to sell him—sell him down south, ma’an, to goall alone
—a baby that had never been away from his mother in his
lifet 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 be found there, had
thrown themselves disconsolately into the skirts of their
mother’s gown, where they were sobbing, and wiping their
160 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

eyes and noses, to their heart’s content; Mrs. Bird had her
face fairly hidden in her pocket-handkerchief; and old
Dinah, with tears streaming down her black, honest face,
was ejaculating, ‘‘ Lord have mercy on us!” with all the
fervor of a camp-meeting; while old Cudjoe, rubbing his
eyes very hard with his cuffs, and making a most uncom-
mon variety of wry faces, occasionally responded in the
same key, with great fervor. Our senator wasa statesman,
and of course could not be expected to cry, like other
mortals; and so he turned his back to the company, and
looked out of the window, and seemed particularly busy in
clearing his throat and wiping his spectacle-glasses, occa-
sionally blowing his nose in a manner that was calculated
to excite suspicion, had any one been ina state to observe
critically. |

<¢ How came you to tell me you had a kind master?” he
suddenly exclaimed, gulping down. very resolutely some
kind of rising in his throat, and turning suddenly round
upon the woman.

“Because he was akind master; I’ll say that of him,
any way; and my mistress was kind; but they couldn’t
help themselves. They were owing money; and there was
some way, I can’t tell how, thata man had a hold on them
and they were obliged to give him his will. I listened, and
heard him telling mistress that, and she begging and plead-
ing for me, and he told her he couldn’t help himself, and
that the papers were all drawn; and then it was I took
him and left my home, and came away. I knew ’twas no
use of my trying to live, if they did it; for ’t ’pears like
this child is all I have.”

*«* Have you no husband?”

«Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is
real hard to him, and won’t let him come to see me, hardly
ever; and he’s grown harder and harder upon us, and he
threatens to sell him down south—it’s like T’ll never see
him again!”

The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these
words might have led a superficial observer to think that
she was entirely apathetic; but there was a calm, settled
depth of anguish in her large, dark eye, that spoke of
something far otherwise.

** And where do you mean to go, my poor woman?” said
Mrs, Bird.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 161

“¢To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very
far off, is Canada?” said she, looking up, with a simple,
confiding air, to Mrs. Bird’s face.

“ Poor thing!” said Mrs. Bird, involuntarily.

“Is ’tavery great way off, think?” said the woman,
earnestly.

“‘Much further than you think, poor child?” said Mrs.
Bird, ‘ but we will try to think what can be done for you.
Here, Dinah,-make her up a bed in your own room, close
by the kitchen, and V’ll think what to 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 parlor. She
sat down in her little rocking-chair before the fire, sway-
ing thoughtfully to andfro. Mr. Bird strode up and down
the room, grumbling to himself, ‘‘Pish! pshaw! con-
founded 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 lie quiet till it was over; but that little chap can’t be
kept still by a troop of horse and foot, I'll warrant me;
he'll bring it all out, popping his head out of some window
or door. A pretty kettle of fish it would be for me, 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 1 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, ‘ present occasion, though pretty well aware of the shape her
162 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

husband’s meditations were taking, she very prudently for-
bore 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,” hesaid, “‘ there’s my old client, Van Trompe,
has come over from 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 goon pur-
pose; and it’s a place that isn’t found in a hurry. There
she’d be safe enough; but the plague of the thing is,
nobody could drive a carriage there to-night, but me.”

«* Why not? 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 see, there’s no help for it. Cudjoe must putin the
horses, as quietly as may be, about twelve o’clock, and I’ll
take her over; and then, to give cclor to the matter, he
must carry me on to the next tavern, to take the stage for
Columbus, that comes by about three or four, and so it
will look as if I had had the carriage only for that. I
shall get into business bright and early in the morning.
But I’m thinking I shall feel rather cheap there, after all
that’s been said and done; but, hang it, I 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 little woman
looked so handsome, with the tears sparkling in her eyes,
that the senator thought he must be a decidedly clever
fellow, to get such a pretty creature into such a passionate
admiration of him; and so, 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
that 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 bedroom door adjoining her
room, and, taking the candle, set it down on the top of a
bureau there; then from a small recess she took a key, and
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 163

put it thoughtfully in the lock of a drawer, and made a
sudden pause, while two boys, who, boylike, had followed
close on her heels, stood looking, with silent, significant
glances, at their mother. And oh! mother thatreads 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
ofapaper. There was a toy horse and wagon, a top, a
ball—memorials gathered with many a tear and many a
_heart-break! She sat down by the drawer, and, leaning
her -head on her hands over it, wept till the tears fell
through her fingers into the drawer; then suddenly raising
her head, she began, with nervous haste, selecting the
plainest and most substantial articles, and gathering them
into a bundle.

“Mamma,” said one of the boys, gently tonching her
arm, ‘are you going to give away ¢hose things?”

‘“« My dear boys,” she said, softly and earnestly, ‘if our
dear, loving little Henry looks down from heaven, he would
be glad to have us do this. I could not find itin 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; andI hope God will send
his blessings with them!”

There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows al]
spring up into joys for others; whose earthly hopes, laid in
the grave with many tears, are the seed from which spring
healing flowers and balm for the desolate and the dis-
tressed. 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 wan-
derer. ;

After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and, tak-
ing 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
continued busily at it till the old clock in the corner
164 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

struck twelve, and she heard the low rattling of wheels at
the door.

“Mary,” said her husband, coming in, with his over-
coat in his hand, ‘* you must wake her up now; we must
be off.”

Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had
collected in a small plain trunk, and locking it, desired her
husband to see it in thecarriage, and then proceeded to call
the woman. Soon, arrayed in a cloak, bonnet, and shawl,
that had belonged to her benefactress, she appeared at the
door with her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her
into the 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 for-
gotten, 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, that had
been all the week before spurring up the legislature of his_
native state to pass more stringent resolutions against es-
caping fugitives, their harborers and abettors!

Our good senator in his native state had not been ex-
ceeded by any of his brethren at Washington, in the sort
of eloquence which has won for them immortal renown!
How sublimely he had sat with his hands in his pockets,
and scouted all sentimental weakness of those who would
put the welfare of a few miserable fugitives before great
state interests!

He was as bold as a lion about it, and “ mightily con-
vinced ” 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 witha stick and a bundle,
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 tried. He had never
thought that a fugivive might be a hapless mother, a de- |
fenseless child—like that one which was now wearing his
lost boy’s little well-known cap; and so, as our poor senator
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 165

was not stone or steel—as he was a man, and a down-
right noble-hearted one, too—he was, as everybody must
see, in a sad case for his patriotism. And you need not
exult over him, good brother of the southern states; for
we have some inklings that many of you, under similar
circumstances, would not do much better. We have rea-
son to know, in Kentucky, as in Mississippi, are noble and
generous hearts, to whom never was tale of suffering told
in vain. Ah, good brother! is it fair for you to expect of
us services which your own brave, honorable heart would
not allow you to render, were you in our place?

Be that as it may, if our good senator was a political sin-
ner, he was in a fair way to expiate it by his night’s pen-
ance. There had been a long continuous period of rainy
weather, and the soft, rich earth of Ohio, as every one
knows, is admirably suited to the manufacture of mud—
and the road was an Ohio railroad of the good old times.

‘And pray, what sort of a road may that be?” says
some eastern traveler, who has been accustomed to con-
nect no ideas with a railroad, but those of smoothness
or speed.

Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted
regions of the west, where the mud is of unfathomable and
sublime depth, roads are made of round rough logs, ar-
ranged 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 straightway essayeth to ride thereupon. In pro-
cess of time, the rains wash off all the turf and grass afore-
said, move the logs hither and thither, in picturesque posi-
tions, up, down and crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts
of black mud intervening.

Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling
along, making moral reflections as continuously as under the
circumstances could be expected—the carriage proceeding
along much as follows—bump! bump! bump! slush! down
in the mnd—the senator, woman and child, reversing their
positions so suddenly as tocome, without any very accurate
adjustment, against the windows of the down-hill side.
Carriage sticks fast, while Cudjoe on the out side is heard
making a great muster among the horses. After various
ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is
losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with
166 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 springs up, with another bounce—
down go the hind wheels—senator, woman, and child, fly
over on to the back seat, his elbows encountering her bon-
net, and both her feet being jammed into his hat, which
flies off in the concussion. After a few moments the
“slough ” is passed, and the horses stop, panting—the sen-
ator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet and
hushes her child, and they brace themselves firmly for what
is yet to come.

Fora while only the continuous bump! bump! intermin-
gled, 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 all. At last, with a square
plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then down into
their seats with incredible quickness, the carriage stops—
and, after much outside commotion, Cudjoe appears at the
door.

<« Please, sir, it’s powerful bad spot; this yer. I don’t
know how we’s to get clar out. I’m a thinkin’ we’ll have
to be a gettin’ rails.”

The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for
some firm foothold; down goes one foot an immeasurable
depth—he tries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tum-
bles over into the mud, and is fished out, in a very de-
spairing condition, by Cudjoe.

But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers’ bones.
Western travelers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in
the interesting process of pulling down rail fences, to pry
their carriage 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 farm-house.

It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the in-
mates; but at last the respectable proprietor appeared, and



Ee staoe holdine the candle aloft. The Senator despairingly steps out. ‘‘I say, gal, you needn’t be a bit afeard.»
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 169

undid the door. He was a great, tall, bristling Orsen of a
fellow, full six feet and some inches in his stockings, and
arrayed in a red flannel hunting-shirt. A very heavy mat
of sandy hair, in a decidedly tousled condition, and a beard
of some days’ growth, gave the worthy man an appearance,
to say the least, not particularly prepossessing. He stood
for a few minutes holding the candle aloft, and blinking on
our travelers with a dismal and mystitied expression that
was truly ludicrous. It cost some effort of our senator to
induce him to comprehend the case fully; and while he is
doing his best at that, we shall give him a little introduction
to our readers.

Honest old John Van Trompe was once quite a consider-
able land-holder and slave-owner in the state of Kentucky.
Having ‘ nothing of the bear about him but the skin,” and
being gifted by nature with a great, 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 for oppressor and oppressed. At last
one day, John’s great heart had swelled altogether too big
to wear his bonds any longer; so he 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 wagons, 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 farm, to enjoy his con-
science and his reflections.

«Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and
child from slave-catchers? ’’said the senator, explicitly.

“‘T rather think Iam,” said Honest John, with some con-
siderable emphasis.

«TI thought so,” said the senator.

<< Tf there’s anybody comes,” said the good man, stretch-
ing his tall, muscular form upward, ‘‘ why here ’m_ ready
for him; and I’ve got seven sons, each six foot high, and
they'll be ready for ’em. Give our respects fo ’em,” said
Jolin; “tell ’em it’s no matter how soon they call—make
no kinder difference to us,” said John, running his fingers
through the shock of hair that thatched his head, and burst-
ing 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.
170 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 herto goin. He took down acan-
dle, and lighting it, set it upon the table, and then ad-
dressed himself to Eliza.

“‘Now, I say, gul, 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 mantel-piece;
“‘and most people that know me know that ’t wouldn’t be
healthy to try to get anybédy out o’? my house when ’m
agin it. So ow you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as
if yer mother was a rockin’ ye,” said he, as he shut the
door.

“‘Why, this is an uncommon handsome un,” he said
to the senator. ‘Ah, well; handsome uns’ has the great-
est cause to run, sometimes, if they has any kind o’ feelin’
such as decent women should have. I know all about
that.”

The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Hliza’s
history.

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 doin’ what no kind o’ mother could
help a doin’! I tell ye what, these yer things make me
come the nighest toswearin’, now, o’ most anything,” said
Honest John, as he wiped his eyes with the back of a great
freckled, yellow hand. ‘‘I tell yer what, stranger, it was
years and years before I’d jine the church, ’cause the min-
isters round in our parts used to preach that the Bible
went in for these ere cuttings up—and I couldn’t be up to
’em with their Greek and Hebrew, and so I took up agin
’em, Bible and all. I never jined the church till I founda
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 juncture he presented.

‘* Ye’d better jest put up here, now, till daylight,” said .
he, heartily, ‘and V’ll call 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.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 171

“Ah, well, then, if you must, I’ll go a piece with
you, and show you across road that will take you there
better than the road you came on. That road’s mighty
bad.”

John equipped himself, and, with alantern in hand, was
soon seen guiding the senator’s carriage toward a road that
ran down ina-hollow, back of his dwelling. When they
parted, the senator putinto his hand a ten dollar bill.

“*Tt’s for her,” he said, briefly.

“ Ay, ay,” said John, with equal conciseness.

They shook hands, and parted.

CHAPTER X.
THE PROPERTY IS CARRIED OFF.

Tue 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 fire, covered with an ironing-cloth; a
coarse but clean shirt or two, fresh from the iron, hung
on the back of the chair by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had
another spread out before her on the table. Carefully she
rubbed and ironed every fold and every hem, with the most
scrupulous exactness, every now and then raising her hand
to her face to wipe off the tears that were coursing down
her cheeks.

Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and
his head 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 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 oh Lord ! how ken I?
172 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

If I know’d anything whar you’s goin’, or how they'd sarve
you! Missis says she’ll try and ’deem ye, in a year or two;
but Lor! nobody never comes up that goes down thar!
They kills ’em! I’ve hearn ’em tell how dey works ’em up
on dem ar plantations.”

“‘There’ll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is
here.”

“‘Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “s’pose dere will; but de
Lord lets dretful things happen, sometimes. I don’t seem
to get no comfort dat way.”

“T’m in the Lord’s hands,” said Tom; ‘ nothin’ can go
no furder than he lets it—and thar’s ove 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 comes will come
only on me; and the Lord, he’ll help me—I know he will.”

Ah, brave, manly heart—smothering thine own sorrow,
to comfort thy beloved ones! Tom spoke with a thick
utterance, and with a bitter choking in his throat—but he
spoke brave and strong.

“¢ Let’s-think on our marcies!” he added, tremulously, as
if he was quiet sure he needed to think on them very hard
indeed.

“* Marcies!” said Aunt Chloe; ‘‘ don’t see no marcy in’t!
*tan’t right! tain’t right it should beso! Mas’r never ought
ter left it so that ye could be took for his debts. Ye’ve
arnt 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’ll be up to ’em!”

“Chloe! now, if-ye love me, ye won’t talk so, when per-
haps jest the last time we'll ever have together! And I’ll
tell ye, Chloe, it goes agin me to hear one word again
mas’. Wan’t he put in my arms a_ baby?—it’s natur I
should think a heap of him. And he couldn’t be spected
to think so much of poor Tom. Mas’r is used to havin’ all
these yer things done for em, and nat’lly 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’ ’ve had? And he never would have let this
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 173

yer come on me, if. he could have seed it aforehand. I
know he wouldn’t.”

“‘Wal, any way, thar’s wrong about it somewhar,” said
Aunt Chloe, in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a
predominant trait; ‘‘I can’t jest make out whar ’tis, but
thar’s wrong somewhar, I’m clar o’ that.”

«Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above—he’s above
all—thar don’t a sparrow fall without him.”

“Tt don’t seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter,” said
Aunt Chloe. <‘‘ But dar’s no use talkin’; I'll jes wet up de
corn-cake, and get ye one good breakfast, ’cause nobody
knows when you'll get another.”

In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold
south, it must be remembered that all the instinctive affec-
tions of that race are peculiarly strong. Their local
attachments are very abiding. Theyare not naturally dar-
ing 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 be-
ing sent down river. We have ourselves heard this feel-
ing 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 bourn
No traveler 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 in-
duced to brave the perils of escape, in almost every case, by
the desperate horror with which they regarded being sold
south—a doom which was hanging either over themselves
or their husbands, their wives or children. ‘This nerves
the African, naturally patient, timid and unenterprising,
with heroic courage, and leads him to suffer hunger, cold,
pain, the perils of the wilderness, and the more dread pen-
alties of re-capture.

The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for
Mrs. Shelby had excused Aunt Chloe’s attendance at the
174 _ UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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
with scrupulous 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, “‘ hain’t we got a
buster of a breakfast!” at the same time catching ata frag-
ment of the chicken.

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!”

“©Q, Chloe,” said Tom, gently.

«Wal, I can’t help it,” said Aunt Chloe, hiding her
face in her apron; ‘‘I’s so tossed about, ib 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, wiping her eyes and taking
up the baby; ‘‘now I’s done I hope—now do eat some-
thing. 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
<‘T must put up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he’ll take
7em all away. I know thar ways—mean as dirt, they is!
Wal, now, yer flannels for rheumatis is in this corner; so be
carful, ’cause there won’t nobody make yeno more. Then
here’s yer old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed off
these yer stockings last night, and put the 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
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 175

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 bis hair, and occasionally breaking out
into clamorous explosions of delight, evidently arising out
of her own internal reflections.

“* Ay, crow away, poor crittur!’’ said Aunt Chloe; “ ye’ll
have to come to it, too! ye’ll live to see your 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’; ain’t no use in niggers havin’ nothin’!”

; dears one of the boys called out, ‘ Thar’s missis a-comin’
in!’

‘She can’t do no good; what’s she coming for?” said
Aunt Chloe.

Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in
a manner decidedly gruff and crusty. She did not seem to
notice either the action or the manner. She looked pale
and anxious.

“Tom,” she said “I come to ” and stopping sud-
denly, 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 Aunt Chloe,
bursting out in her turn; and for a few moments they all
wept in company. And in those tears they all shed to-
gether, the high and the lowly, melted away all the heart-
burnings and anger of the oppressed. O, ye who visit the
_ distressed, do ye know that everything your money can buy

_given with a cold, averted face, is not worth one honest
tear shed in real sympathy? .

<‘ My good fellow,” said Mrs. Shelby, ‘I can’t give you
anything to do you any good. If I give you money, it will
only be taken from you. But I tell you solemnly, and be-
fore God, that I will keep trace of you, 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 unceremonious kick pushed open the door.
Haley stood there in very ill humor, having ridden hard
the night before, and being not at all pacified by his ill
success in re-capturing his prey.


—

Ht ace



“Get in !’? said Haley to Tom.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 177

“Come,” said he, “ye nigger, yer ready? Ser-
ae ma’am!” said he, taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs.

helby.

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 wagon, and the
children, still crying, 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 wagon, that stood ready harnessed at the
door. A crowd of all the old and young hands on the
place stood gathered around it, to bid farewell to their old
associate. ‘Tom had been looked up to, both as a head
servant and a Christian teacher, by all the place, and there
was much honest sympathy and grief about him, particu:
larly 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
wagon.

“T’s done my tears!” she said, 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
wagon 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 veranda: -

“Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely
unnecessary.”

“‘Do’n. know, ma’am; I’ve lost one five hundred dollars
~ from this yer place, and I can’t afford to run no more risks.”
". © What else could she spect on him?” said Aunt Chloe,
indignantly, while the two boys, who now seemed to. com-
prehend at once their father’s destiny, clung to her gown,
sobbing and groaning vehemently.

.. &T’m sorry,” said Tom’. “that Mas’r George happened
to be away.”
178 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

George had gone to spend two or three days with a com-
panion on a neighboring estate, and having 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, mourn-
ful look, fixed to the last on 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 whom he dreaded—and his first feeling,
after the consummation of the bargain, had been that of
relief. But his wife’s expostulations awoke his half-slum-
bering regrets; and Tom’s manly disinterestedness in-
creased 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 sud-
denly drew up at the door of a blacksmith’s shop, when,
taking out with him a pair of handcuffs, he stepped into
the shop, to have a little alteration in them.

“« These yer’s a little too small for his build,” said Haley,
showing the fetters, and pointing out to Tom.

«Lor! now, if thar ain’t Shelby’s Tom. He hain’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 faithfulest, best crittur-——”

“Yes, yes,” said Haley; ‘‘ but your good fellers aré jest
the critturs to want ter run off. Them stupid ones, as
doesn’t care whar they go, and shifless, drunken ones, as
don’t care for nothin’, they'll stick by, and like as not be
rather pleased to be toted round; but these yer prime
fellers, they hates it like sin. No way but to fetter ’em;
got legs—they’ll use °em—no mistake.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 179

“¢ Well,” said the smith, feeling among his tools, ‘‘ them
plantations down thar, stranger, ain’t jest the place a Ken-
tuck nigger wants to go to; they dies thar tol’able fast,
don’t they?” aon

“‘ 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.

to have a nice, quiet, likely feller, as good un as Tom is,
go down to be fairly ground up on one of them ar sugar
plantation.”

“*Wal, he’s got a fa’r chance. I promised to do well by
him. Vl get him in house-servant in some good old
family, and then, if he stands the fever and ’climat-
ing, he’ll have a berth good as any nigger ought ter
ask for.”

‘© He leaves his wife and chil’en up here, s’pose?”

«* Yes; but he’ll get another thar. Lord, thar’s women
enough everywhar,” said Haley.

Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the
shop while this conversation was going on. Suddenly he
heard the quick, short click of a horse’s hoof behind him;
and, before he could fairly awake from his surprise, young
Master George sprang into the wagon, threw his arms
tumultuously round his neck, and was sobbing and scold-
ing with energy.

“T declare, it’s real mean! Idon’t care what they say,
any of ’em! It’s a nasty, mean shame! IfI wasa 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, yecan’t tell!” Here Tom made some movement of
his feet, and George’s eye fell on the fetters.

) “ What ashame!” he exclaimed, lifting hishands. ‘“ T’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—ain’t it ashame? They never sent for me, nor sent
me any word, and, if it hadn’t been for Tom Lincon, I
shouldn’t have heard it. I tell you I blew ’em up well, all
of ’em, at home!”
180 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

«That ar wasn’t right, I’m *feard, 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 speak-
ng e a mysterious tone, ‘‘l’ve brought you my dol-
lar J

*“©O! ITcouldn’t think o’ talkin’ on’t, Mas’r George, no
ways in the world!” said Tom, quite moved.

“But you shail take it!” said George; ‘look here—I
told Aunt Chloe I’d do it, and she advised me just to
make a hole in it, and put a 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!”

“No, don’t, Mas’r George, for it won’t do me any

ood.”

“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 back. Aunt Chloe and I have been talking about it.
I told her not to fear; I'll see to it, and I’ll tease father’s
life out; if he don’t do it.”

“©Q, Mas’r George, ye mustn’t talk so *bout yer own
father!”

«Lor, Uncle Tom, I don’t mean anything bad.”

«And now, Mas’r George,” said Tom, “ye must be a
good boy; ’member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al’ays
keep close to yer mother. Don’t be gettin’ into any of them
foolish ways boys has of gettin’ too big to mind their moth-
ers. 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. So, now, you hold on
_ to her, and grow up, and be a comfort to her, thar’s my
- own good boy—yon 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 willful,
sometimes—it’s natur they should be. But real gentlemen,
such as I hopes you’ll be, never lets. fall no words that
isn’t *spectful to thar parents. Ye ain’t fended, Mas’r
George? ”

“No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good
advice.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 181

“«T’s older, ye know,” said Tom, stroking the boy’s fine,
curly head with his large, strong hand, but speaking in a
voice as tender as a woman’s, ‘‘and I sees all that’s bound
up in you. O, Mas’r George, you has everything—l’arnin’
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! Bea
good mas’r, like yer father; and be a Christian, like yer
mother. ’Member yer Oreator in the days o’ yer youth,
Mas’r George.”

“V’ll be real good, Uncle Tom, I tell you,” said George.
“I'm going to be a first-rater; and don’t you be discour-
aged. 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 parlor with a carpet on it, when ’m
aman. OQ, you’ll have good times yet! ”

Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his
hands.

“‘Look here now, mister,” said George, with an air of
great superiority, as he got out, “I shall let father and
mother know how you treat Uncle Tom!”

«You’re welcome,” said the trader.

“T 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.

“So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and
women, I’m as good as they is,” said Haley; ‘‘ *tain’t any
meaner sellin’ on ’em than ’tis buyin.”

«‘V’ll never do either, when I’m a man,” said George;
“‘T’m ashamed, this day, that I’m a Kentuckian. Jalways
was proud of it before;” and George saé 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 hain’t got many like you,” he said, in the full-
ness of his heart, as the frank, boyish face was lost to his
view. Away he went, and Tom looked, till the clatter of
his horse’s heels died away, the last sound or sight of his
home.. But over his heart there seemed to be a warm spot

- where those young hands had placed that precious dollar.
Tom put up his hand, and held it close to his heart.
182 UNCLE TOM’S.CABIN.

“‘ Now, I tell ye what, Tom,” said Haley, as he came up
to the wagon, and threw in the hand-cuffs, ‘‘I mean to
start fa’r with ye, as I gen’ally do with my niggers; and
Vl tell ye now, to begin with, you treat me fa’r, and I’ll
treat you fa’r; I ain’t never hard on my niggers. Calcu-
lates to do the best for em I can. Now, ye see, you'd bet-
ter jest settle down comfortable, and not be tryin’ no tricks;
becanse nigger’s tricks of all sorts ’m up to, and it’s no
use. If nigger’s 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 assured Haley that he had no present intentions of
running off. In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a
superfluous one to a man witha great pair ofiron fetters on
his feet. But Mr. Haley had got in the habit of commenc-
ing his relations with his stock with little exhortations of
this nature, calculated, as he deemed, to inspire cheerful-
ness and confidence, and prevent the necessity of any un-
pleasant scenes.

And, here, for the present, we take our leave of Tom, to
pursue the fortunes of other characters in our story.

CHAPTER XI.

IN WHICH PROPERTY GETS INTO AN IMPROPER STATE OF
MIND.

Ir was late on a drizzly afternoon that a traveler alighted
at the door of a small country hotel, in the village of
N—,,in Kentucky. In the bar-room he found assembled
quite a miscellaneous company, whom stress of weather
had driven to harbor, and the place presented the usual
scenery of such reunions. Great, tall, raw-boned Ken-
tuckians, 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 each end of the fire-place sat
a long-legged gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his
hat on his head, and the heels of his muddy boots reposing
sublimely on the mantel-piece—a position, we will inform
~ UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 183

our readers, decidedly favorable to the turn of reflection
incident to western taverns where travelers exhibit ade-
cided 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 fact, everybody in the room bore on his head this
characteristic 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 to one side
—these were your men of humor, 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
Shakespearean study.

Divers negroes, in very free-and-easy pantaloons, and
with no redundancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about,
hither and thither, without bringing to pass any very par-
ticular results, except expressing a generic willingness
to turn over everything in creation generally for the bene-
fit of master and his guests. Add to this picture a jolly,
crackling, rollicking, fire, going rejoicingly up a great wide
chimney—the outer door and every window being set wide
open, and the calico window-curtain flopping and snapping
in a good stiff breeze of damp raw air—and you have an
idea of the jollities of a Kentucky tavern.

Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustra-
tion of the doctrine of transmitted instincts and peculiari-
ties. 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
184 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

rolled on the green sward, and put his upon trees and logs
—keeps all the windowsand 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 creat-
ure living.

Into such an assembly of the free and easy ovr traveler
entered. He was ashort, thick-set man, carfully dressed,
with a round, good-natured countenance, and something
rather fussy and particular in his appearance. 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 gentle-
men of weak nerves and particular habits.

“T gay, stranger, how are ye?” said the aforesaid gen-
tleman, firing 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, the threatening honor.

«Any news?” said the respondent, taking outa strip of
tobacco and a large hunting-knife from his pocket.

“* Not that I know of,” said the man.

“‘Chaw?” said the first speaker, handing the old gen-
tleman 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 when-
ever his long-sided brother fired in his direction; and this
being observed by his companion, 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. ;

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186 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

some of the company formed in a group around a large
handbill.

“* Nigger advertised! ” said one of the company, briefly.

Mr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman’s name, rose
up, and, after carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella
proceeded deliberately to take out his spectacles and fix
them on his nose; and, this operation being performed,
read as follows:

‘Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said
George issix feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is
very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write ; will prob-
ably try to pass for a white man; is deeply scared on his back and
shoulders ; has been branded in his right hand with the letter H.

‘«T will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the same sum
for satisfactory proof that he has been killed.”

The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to
end, in a low voice, as if he were studying it.

The long legged veteran, who had been besieging the
fire-iron, as before related, now took down his cumbrous
length, and rearing aloft his tall form, walked up to the
advertisement, and very deliberately spit a full discharge
of tobacco juice on it.

«*There’s my mind upon that!” said he, briefly; and sat
down again.

““Why, now, stranger, what’s that for?” said mine
h

ost.

“T’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.

“T’ve got a gang of boys, sir,” said the long man, re-
suming his attack on the fire-irons, ‘‘ and I jest tells °em—
‘ Boys,’ says I, ‘run now! dig! put! jest when ye want to.
I never shall come to look after you.’ That’s the way I
keep mine. Let ’em know they are free to run any time,
and it jest breaks up their wanting to. More’n all, I’ve
got free papers for ’em all recorded, in case I gets keeled

2
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 187

up any o’ these times, and they knows it; and I tell ye,
stranger, there ain’t a fellow in our parts gets more out of
his niggers than Ido. Why, my boys have been to Cin-
cinnati, 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'll have dogs’ works and dogs’ actions. Treat ’em like
men, and you'll have men’s works.” And the honest
drover, in his warmth, endorsed this moral sentiment by
firing a perfect few de joie at the fireplace.

“JT think you’re altogether right, friend,” said Mr. Wil-
son; ‘‘and this boy described here ¢s a fine fellow—no mis-
take 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

“Tl 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 had a fair chance, I’d mark him, I
reckon, so that he’d carry it one while.”

«These yer knowin’ boys is allers aggravatin’ and sarcy,”
said a coarse-looking fellow, from the other side of the
room; “that’s why 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 mas-
ters,”continued the other, well intrenched, in a course, un-.
conscious obtuseness, from the contempt of his opponent;
“‘ what’s the use o’ talents and them things, if you can’t
get the use on ’em yourself? Why, all the use they make
on’t is to get round you. I’ve had one or two of these
fellers, and I jest sold ’em down river. I knew I’d got to
loge ’em, first or last, if I didn’t.”

«Better send orders up to the Lord, to make you a set,
and leave out their souls entirely,” said the drover. :
Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach
of a small one-horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel
appearance, and a well-dressed, gentlemanly man sat on

the seat, with a colored servant driving.
188 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

The whole party examined the newcomer with the
interest with which a set of loafers in a rainy day usually
examine every newcomer. He was very tall, with a dark,
Spanish complexion, fine, expressive black eyes, and close-
curling hair, also of a glossy blackness. His well-formed
aquiline nose, straight thin lips, and the admirable contour
of his finely-formed limbs, impressed the whole company
instantly with the idea of something uncommon. He
walked easily in among the company, and with a nod indi-
cated 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. Turning, with an indifferent
air, he sauntered up to the advertisement, and read it over.

“Jim,” he said to his man, “‘seems to me we met a boy
something like this, up at Bernan’s, didn’t we?”

“© Yes, mas’r,” said Jim, ‘“‘only I ain’t sure about the
hand.”

«* Well, I didn’t look, of course,” said the stranger, with
a careless yawn. Then, walking up to the landlord, he
desired him to furnish him with a private apartment, as he
had some writing to do immediately.

The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about
seven negroes, old and young, male and female, little and
big, were soon whizzing about, like a covey of partridges,
bustling, hurrying, treading on each other’s toes, and
tumbling over each other, in their zeal to get mas’r’s 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.

The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the
entrance of the stranger, had regarded him with an air of
disturbed and uneasy curiosity. He seemed to himself to
have met and been acquainted with him somewhere, .but
he could not recollect. Every few moments, when the
man spoke, or moved, or smiled, he would start and fix his

.eyes on him, and then suddenly withdraw them, as the
bright, dark eyes met his with such unconcerned coolness.
At last, a sudden recollection seemed to flash upon him,
for he stared at the stranger with such an. air of blank
amazement and alarm, that he walked up to him.

“Mr. Wilson, I think,” said he, in a tone of recognition,
and extending his hand. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 189

recollect you before. I see yon remember me—Mr. Butler,
of Oaklands, Shelby county.”

““ Ye—yes—yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilson, like one speak-
ing in a dream.

Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that
mas’r’s room was ready.

“Jim, see to the trunks,” said the gentleman, negli-
gently; then addressing himselfto Mr. Wilson, he added:
“T ‘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 hissleep;
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 servantsdeparted, 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.

“‘T couldn’t have thought it!”

“‘Tam pretty well disguised, I fancy,” said the young
-man, with asmile. ‘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 advertisement at all.”

“OQ, George! but this is a dangerous game you are play-
ing. I could not have advised you to it.”

“‘T 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 un-
fortunates 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 in-
herited a setof fine European features, anda high, indomi-
table spirit. From his mother he had received only
a slight mulatto tinge, amply compensated by its ac-
companying rich, dark eye. A slight change in the tint
of the skin and the color of his hair had metamorphosed
him into the Spanish-looking fellow he then appeared;
and as gracefulness of movement and gentlemanly man-
ners had always been perfectly natural to him, he found no

Sa
190 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

difficulty in playing the bold part he had adopted—that of
a gentleman traveling with his domestic.

Mr, Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety 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 him.
self as follows:

“Well, George, I s’pose you’re running away—leaving
your lawful master, George-—(I don’t wonder at it)—at the
same time, I’m sorry, George—yes, decidedly—I think I
must say that, George—it’s my duty to tell you so.”

‘Why are you sorry, sir?” said George, calmly.

“Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposi-
tion to the laws of your country.”

“« My country!” said George, with a strong and bitter
emphasis; ‘what country have I, but the grave—and I
wish to God that I was laid there!”

“Why, George, no—no—it won’t do; this way of talk-
ing is wicked—unscriptural. George, you’ve got a hard
master—in fact, he is—well he conducts himself reprehen-
sibly—I can’t preterid 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 Chris-
tian, and I mean to be, if ever I get to where I can; but to
quote Bible to a fellow in my circumstances, 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 condition in
which he is called.” We must all submit to the indications
of Providence, George—don’t you see?”

George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded
Heat over his broad breast; and a bitter smile curling his
ips.


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 191

“ 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 inthe 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 cyes at this il-
lustration 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 noth-
ing could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking his
umbrella, and folding and patting down all the creases in
it, he proceeded on with his exhortations in a general
way.

“You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood
your friend; and whatever I’ve said, I’ve said 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. Ido run
a risk, but ”? he threw open his overcoat, and showed
two pistols anda bowie-knife. ‘‘ There,” he said ‘I’m ready
for em! Down south I never will go. No! if it comes to
that, I can earn myself at least six feet of free soil—the
first and last I shall ever own in Kentucky!”

“Why, George, this state of mind is awful; it’s getting
really desperate, George. I’m concerned. Going to break
the laws of your country!”

“My country again! Mr. Wilson, you have a country;
but what country have J, 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, once a year, that governments derive
their just power from the consent of the governed? Can’t
a fellow think, that hears such things? Can’t he put this
and that together, and see what it comes to?”

Mr. Wilson’s mind was one of those that may not
unaptly be represented by a bale of cotton—downy, soft,
benevolently fuzzy and confused. He really pitied George


192 UNCLE TOM'S VABIN.

with all his heart, and had a sort of dim and cloudy per-
ception of the style of feeling that agitated him; but he
deemed it his duty to go on talking good to him, with infi-
nite pertinacity.

“George, thisis 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 setting 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 noé a man, as much as
anybody? Well, Mr. Wilson, hear what I can tell you. I
had a father—one of your Kentucky gentlemen—who ~
didn’t think enough of me to keep me from being sold with
his dogs and horses, to satisfy the estate, when he died. I
saw my mother put up atsheriff’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 master, 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 thatI heard was her moans and screams,
when I was tied to his horse’s neck, to be carried off to his

lace.”

«Well, then?” .

‘* My master traded with one of the men, and bought my
oldest sister. She was a pious, good girl—a member of the
Baptist church—and as handsome as my poor mother had
been. She was well brought up, and had good manners.
At first, I was glad she was bought, for I had one friend
near me. I was soon sorry for it. Sir, I have stood at
the door and heard her whipped, when it seemed as if
every blow cut into my naked heart, and I couldn’t do any-
thing to help her; and she was whipped, sir, for wanting
to live a descent Christian life, such as your laws give no
slave girl a right to live; and at last I saw her chained with
a traders’ 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
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 1938

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 wasa
little fellow, and 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 be-
cause I hadn’t a friend 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 your factory.- Mr.
Wilson, you treated me well; you encouraged me to do well,
and to learn to read and write, and to try to make some-
thing of myself; and God knows how grateful I am for it.
Then, sir, I found my wife; you’ve seen her—you know
how beautiful sheis. When 1 found sheloved me, when I mar-
ried her, I scarcely could believe I was alive, I wasso happy;
and, sir, she isas goodasshe 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 that1 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 laws 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, and my wife and my-
self, but your 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 my country? Sir, I haven’t any country,
any more than I have any father. But I’m going to have
one. I don’t want anything of your country, except to be
let alone—to go peacably out of it; and when I get to
Canada, where the laws will own me and protect me, ¢hat
shall be my country, and its laws I will obey. But if any
man tries to stop me, let him take care, for 1 am desperate.
V’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 al-
together too much for the good-natured old body to whom
194 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

it was addressed, who had pulled out a great’ yellow silk
pocket- -handkerchief, and was mopping up his face with
great energy.

s* Blast ’em all!” he suddenly broke out. ‘ Haven’t I
always said so—the infernal old cusses! I hope I ain’t
swearing, now. Well! go ahead, George, go ahead; but
be careful, my boy; don’t shoot anybody, George, unless—
w ell—you'a ‘better not shoot, I reckon; at least, I
wouldn’t hit anybody, you know. Where is your wife,
George?” he added; as he nervously rose, and began walk-
ing the room.

“Gone, sir, gone, with her child in her arms, the Lord
only knows w here-—gone after the north star; and when
we ever meet, or whether we meet at all in this world, no
creature can tell.”

“Ts it possible! astonishing! from such a_ kind
family?”

‘* Kind families get in debt, and the laws of ous country
allow them to sell the child out of its mother’s bosom to
pay its master’s debts,” said George, bitterly.

“Well well,” said the honest old man, fumbling i in his
pocket. ‘“‘Is’pose, perhaps, I ain’t following my judg-
ment—hang it, I won’t follow my judgment!’ he added,
suddenly; © 0 here, George,” and, taking out a roll of
pills from his pocket-book, he offered them to George.

“* No, my kind, good sir!” said George, ‘ you’ve done a
great deal for me, and this might get you into trouble. I
have money enough, I hope, to take me as far as I
need it.”

“No; but you must, George. Money is a great help
everywhere—can’t have ‘too much, if you get it eee
Take it—do take it, now—do, my boy!”

“© On condition, sir, that I Pe 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?”

*° A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year
ago. He heard, after he got there, that his master was so
angry at him for going off that he had whipped his poor
old mother; and he has comeall the way back to comfort
her, and get a chance to get her away.’

*« Has he got her?”
ONCLE TOMS CABIN. 195

“* 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 wonderfully.
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.
LP’m free!”

“‘Take care! You are not sure—you may be taken.”

«¢ All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to
that, Mr. Wilson,” said George.

“T’m_ perfectly dumb-founded with your boldness! ”
said Mr. Wilson—‘‘ to come right here to the nearest,
tavern.”

“*Mr. Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near
that they will never think of it; they will look for me on
ahead, and you yourself wouldn’t know me. Jim’s
master don’t live in this country; he isn’t known in these
parts. Besides, he is given up; nobody is looking after
him, and nobody will take me up from the advertisement,
I think.” ;

«But the mark in your hand?”

George drew off his glove, and showed a newly healed

. scar in his hand.

“That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris’ regard,” he said
scornfully. <‘ A fortnight ago, he took it into his head to
give it to me, because he said he believed I should try to
get away one of these days. Looks interesting, doesn’t
it?” he said, drawing his glove on again.

“‘* Well I declare, my very blood runs cold when I
think of it—your condition and your risks! ” said Mr. Wil-
son.

“‘Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson;
at present, it’s about up to the boiling point,” said
George. ‘‘ Well, my good sir,” continued he, after a few mo-
ments silence, ‘‘I saw you knew me; I thought I’d just
have this talk with you, lest your surprised looks should
196 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

bring me out. I leave early to-morrow morning, before
daylight; by to-morrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio.
I shall travel by daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the
dinner-tables with the lords of the Jand. So, good-by,
sir; if you hear that I’m taken, you may known that ’m
dead.” :

George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with
the air of a prince. The friendly little old man shook it
heartily, and after a little shower of caution, he took his
umbrella, and fumbled his way out of the room.

George stood thoughtfully looking at the door, as the old
man closed it. A thought seemed to flash across hismind.
He hastily stepped to it, and opening it, said:

“* Mr. Wilson, one word more.”

The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, ©
locked the door, and then stood for a few moments looking
on the floor, irresolutely. At last raising his head with a
sudden effort:

‘‘Mr, Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian in
your treatment of me—I want to ask one last deed of Chris-
tian 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 effort, ‘‘I shall be kicked out and buried like
a dog, and nobody’ll think of it a day after, only my poor
wife! Poor soul, she’ll mourn and grieve; and if you’d
only contrive, 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 yer?” he added, earnestly.

“Yes, certainly—poor fellow,” said the old gentleman,
“aking the pin, with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver
in his voice.

“Tell 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. Wilgon,
will you?”

‘Yes, George, I'll tell her; but I trust you won’t die;
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 197

take heart—you’re a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord,
George. I wish in my heart you were safe through,
though—that’s what I do.”

“Ts there a God to trust in?” said George in such atone
of bitter despair as arrested the old gentleman’s words.
*©Q, I’ve seen things all my life that have made me feel
that there can’t be a God. You Christians don’t know
how these things look tous. There’s aGod for you, but is
there any for us?”

*©Q, 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 around abont him, but
righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his
throne. “There’s a God, George—believe it; trust in Him,
and I’m sure He’ll help you. Everything will be set right
—if not in this life, in another.”

The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man
invested him with 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 friend; I'll think
“of that.”

yo?

CHAPTER XII.
SELECT INCIDENT OF LAWFUL TRADE.

“‘In Ramah there was a voice heard—weeping, and lamentation,
and great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would
not be comforted.”

Mr. Harry and Tom jogged onward in their wagon,
each for a time, absorbed in his own reflections. Now,
the reflections of two men sitting side by side are a curious
thing—seated on the same seat, having the same eyes, ears,
hands and organs of all sorts, and having pass before
their eyes the same objects—it is wonderful what a variety
we shall find in these same reflections!

As, for example, Mr. Haley: he thought first of Tom’s
length, and breadth, and height, and what he would sell for,
if he was kept fat and in good case till he got him into
market. He thought of how he should make out his gang;
198 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

he thought of the respective market value of certain sup-
posititious men and women and children who were to com-
pose it, and other kindred topics of the business; then he
thought of himself, and how humane he was, that whereas
other men chained their “ niggers” hand and foot both,
he only put fetters on the feet, and left Tom the use of his
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 inso by ‘‘niggers” whom he had favored
but still he was astonished to consider how good-natured he
yet remained!

As to Tom, he was thinking over some woras of an un-
fashionable 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 acity.” These words of an ancient volume got up
principally by ‘‘ignorant and unlearned men,” have,
through all time, kept up, somehow, astrange 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 wad
only the blackness of despair.

Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers,
and began looking over their advertisements, with absorbed
interest. He was not a remarkably fluent reader, and
was in the habit of reading in asort 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:

ExEcuTor’s SALE—NEGROES—Agreeably to order of court, will
be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the court-house door, in
the town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar,
aged 60; John, aged 30; 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,

THOMAS FLINT,
Eaecutors.

“This yer I must look at,” said he to Tom, for want of
somebody else to talk to.

“Ye see, I’m going to get up a prime gang to take down
with ye, ‘T'om; it’ll make it sociable and pleasant like—good
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 199

cosnpany will, ye know. We must drive right to Washing.
tor. first and foremost, and then I'll clap you into jail,
while I does the business.”

Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly;
simply wondering, 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 con-

fessed, tuv, that the naive, off-hand information that he
was to be thrown into jail by no means produced an agree-
able impression on a poor fellow who had always prided
himself on @ strickly honest and upright course of life.
Yes, Tom, we must confess it, was rather proud of his
honesty, poor fellov—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, and 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 re-
spective tastes and turns, waiting for the auction to com-
mence. 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 reg-
ular 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 rheuma-
tism. By her side stood her only remaining son, Albert, a
bright-looking little fellow of fourteen years. The boy
was the only survivor of a large family, who had been suc-
cessively sold away from her to a southern market. The
mother held on to him with both her shaking hands, and
eyed with intensé trepidation every one who walked up to
examine him.

“‘Don’t be feared, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the
men, ‘‘I 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 a buying, if Ido come cheap—tell em dat ar—
you ¢edd em,” she added, earnestly.
200 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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. 3

“He ain’t gwine to be sold widout me!” said the old
woman, with passionate eagerness; ‘‘ he and I goes in a lot
together; I’s rail strong yet, mas’r, and can do heaps 0’
work—heaps on it, mas’r.” :

“On plantation?” said Haley, with a contemptuous
glance. ‘‘ Likely story!” and, as if satisfied with his ex-
amination, 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 follow-
ing 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 to-
gether,” said the man.

“¢ Wind it a tight pull—why, she’s an old rack 0’ bones—
not worth her salt.”

“You wouldn’t, then?” said the man.

«‘ Anybody’d be afool ’t would. 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, “tall,” said Haley; “‘ wouldn’t take her for a
present—fact—I’ve seen, now.”

‘Wal, *tis kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her
son—her heart seems so sot on him—s’pose they fling her
in cheap.”

«‘Them that’s got money to spend that ar. way, it’s all
well enough. I shall bid off on that ar boy for a planta-
tion-hand—wouldn’t be bothered with her, no way—notif
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.






I. His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face raised an instant
competition.
2. ‘‘Oh, Albert! Oh, my boy! 3. He drove them before him to
You’s my last baby.’’ the jail,
4. Haley pulled his mouth open, 5. The La Belle Riviere was
looked in and felt of his teeth. floating gayly down the stream.

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 203

The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum
in the audience; and the auctioneer, a short bustling, im-
portant fellow, elbowed his 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’ll put
us up togedder,” she said. ;

“0, mammy, I’m feard 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 com-
mence. 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 toward the block, while-a
deep, heavy groan rose behind him. The boy paused, and
looked back; but there was no time to stay, and dashing
the tears from his large, bright eyes, he was up in a
moment. — .

His fine figures, alert limbs, and bright face, raised an
instant competion, 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 toward 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—
‘not? 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
204 UNCLE T0M’S CABIN.

destitute of compassion, bought her for 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 de-
spairing old mother, whose agony was pitiful to see.

“‘Couldn’t dey leave me one? Mas’r allers said I should
have one—he did,” she. repeated over and over, in heart-
broken tones.

«Trust in the Lord, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the
men, sovrowfully. -

““What good will it do?” said she, sobbing passionately.

‘‘Mother, mother—don’t! don’t!” said the boy. ‘‘ They
say you’s got a good master.”

“TY don’t care—I don’t care. O, Albert! oh, my boy!
you’s my last baby. Lord, how ken I?”

“Come, take her off, can’t some of ye?” said Haley,
dryly; ‘‘don’t do no good for her to go on that ar way,.” .

The old men of the company, partly by persuasion and
partly by force, loosed the poor creature’s last despairing
hold, and, as they led her off to her new master’s wagon,
strove to comfort her.

‘“Now!” said Haley, pushing his three purchases to-
gether, and producing a bundle of handcuffs, which he
proceeded to put on their wrists; and fastening each hand-
cuff 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 commence-
ment 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 Riviére, as brave and beautiful a boat as
ever walked the waters of her namesake river, was floating
gayly 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 delightful 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

rivileges, as they sat in a knot, talking to each other in
ow tones.

“Boys,” said Haley, coming up, briskly, ‘I hope you
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 205

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 of poor Africa; but it’s to
be owned they did not look particularly cheerful; they had
their various little prejudices in favor 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.

“T’ve got a wife,” spoke out the article enumerated as
“John, aged thirty,” and he laid his chained hand on
Tom’s knee—‘‘ and she don’t know a word about this, poor

ir] ??

‘« Where does she live?” said Tom.

“In a tavern a piece down here,” said John; ‘‘I wish,
now, I could see her once more in this world,” he added.

Poor John! It was rather natural; and the tears that
fell, as he spoke, came as naturally as if he had been a
white man. Tom drew a long breath from a sore heart,
and tried, in his poor way, to comfort him.

And overhead, in the cabin, sat fathers and mothers,
husbands and wives; and merry, dancing children moved
round among them, like so many little butterflies, and
everything was going on quite easy and comfortable.

“OQ, mamma,” said a boy, who had just come up from
below, ‘‘ there’s a negro ‘trader on board, and he’s brought
four or five slaves down there.”

“Poor creatures!” said the mother, in a tone between
grief and indignation.

<‘ What’s that?” said another lady.

<‘Some poor slaves below,” said the mother.

<‘ And they’ve got chains on,” said the boy.

“‘ What a shame to our country that such sights are to be
seen!’ said another lady.

“ 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.” = =

“*In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant,”
said the lady to whose remark she had answered. ‘‘ The
most dreadful part of slavery, #0 my mind, isits outrages on
206 F UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. —

the feelings and affections—the separating 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 trimmings; “but then, I fancy, it
don’t occur often.”

«OQ, it does,” said the first lady, eagerly; ‘‘ I’ve lived
many years in Kentucky and Virginia both, and I’ve seen
enough to make any one’s heart sick. Suppose, ma’am,
your two children, there, should be taken from you, and
sold ?”

“© We can’t reason trom our feelings to those of this class
of persons,” said the other lady. sorting out some worsteds
on her lap.

“‘ Indeed, ma’am, you can know nothing of them, if you
say so,” answered the firstlady, 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 the
cabin window, and finally repeated, for a finale the remark
with which she had begun, ‘‘after all I think they are
better off than they would be to be free.”

“‘Tt’s undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the
African race should be servants, kept in a low condition,”
said a grave-looking gentleman in black, a clergyman,
seated by the cabin-door. ‘‘‘ Cursed be Canaan; a servant
of servants shall he be,’ the scripture says.”

“T say, stranger, is that ar what that text means?” said
a tall man, standing by.

“Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for someinscru-

table reason, to doom the race to bondage, ages ago; and
we must not set up our opinion against that.”
- € Well, then, we'll all go ahead and buy up niggers,”
said the man, ‘‘if that’s the way of Providence; won’t we,
squire?” said he, turning to Haley, who had been standing
with his hands in his pockets, by the stove, and intently
listening to the conversation.

<¢ Yes,” continued the tall man, ‘‘ we must all be resigned
to the decrees of Providence. Niggers must be sold, and
trucked round, and kept under; it’s what they’s made for.
*Pears like this yer view’s quite refreshing, ain’t it, stran-
ger?” said he to Haley.

«T never thought on’t,” said Haley. ‘I couldn’t have -
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 207

said as much, myself; I hain’t no larning. I took up the
trade just to make a living; if ’tain’t right, I calculated to
pent on’t in time, ye know.”

«¢ And now you'll save yerself the trouble, won’t ye?”
said the tall man. ‘‘ See what ’tis, now, to know scripture.
If ye’d only studied yer Bible, like this yer good man, ye
might have know’d it before, and saved ye a heap 0’
trouble. Ye could jist have said, ‘ Cussed be —what’s his
name? ‘and *twould all have come right.’” And the
stranger, who was no other than the honest drover whom
we introduced to our readers in the Kentucky tavern, sat
down, and began smoking, with a curious smile on his long
dry face. -

A tall, slender young man, with a face expressive of great
feeling and intelligence, here broke in, and repeated the
words, ‘‘‘ All things whatsoever ye would that men
should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.’ I sup-
pose,” he added, “‘ that is scripture, as much as ‘ Cursed
be Canaan.’” -

‘Wal, it seems quite as plain a text, stranger,” said
John the drover, ‘‘ to poor fellows like us, now;” and 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 black woman came running wildly
up the plank, darted into the crowd, flew up to where
the slave gang sat, and threw her arms round that unfor-
tunate piece of merchandise before enumerated—‘‘ John,
aged thirty”—and with sobs and tears bemoaned him as her
husband. ;

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
silent.

The young man who had spoken for the cause of human-
ity and God before stood with folded arms, looking on this

>
208 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

scene. He turned and Haley was standing at his side.
“My friend,” he said, speaking with thick utterance,
‘ Look at those poor creatures! Here ] am, rejoicing in my
heart that Iam going home to my wife and child; and the
same bell which is a signal to carry me onward toward
them will part this poor man and his wife forever.
Depend upon it, God will bring you into judgment for
this.”

The trader turned away in silence.

“‘T say, now,” said the drover, touching his elbow,
“‘there’s differences in parsons, ain’t there? ‘Cussed be
Canaan’ don’t seem to go down with this ’un, does it?”

Haley gave an uneasy growl.

«And that ar ain’t the worst on’t,” said John; ‘‘mabbe
it won’t go down with the Lord, neither, when ye come
to settle with him, one o’ these days, as all on us must, I
reckon.”

Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat.

“If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next
gangs,” he thought, “I reckon I’ll stop off this yer; it’s
really getting dangerous.” And he took out his pocket-
book, and began adding over his accounts—a process
which many gentlemen besides Mr. Haley have found a
specific for an uneasy conscience.

The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all
went on merrily, as before. Men talked, and loafed, and
read, and smoked. Women sewed, and children played,
and the boat passed on her way.

One day, when she lay to for awhile 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 moder-
ate 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 colored woman, bearing in her arms a young child. She
was dressed quite respectably, and a colored 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 rung, the steamer whizzed, the engine groaned
and coughed, and away swept the boat down the river.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 209

The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales
of the lower deck, and, sitting down, busied herself with
chirruping to her baby.

Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then,
coming up, seated himself near her, and began saying
something to her in an indifferent undertone.

Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the
woman’s brow; and that she answered rapidly, and with
great vehemence.

“‘T don’t believe it—I won’t believe it!” he heard her
say. ‘* You’re jist a foolin’ with me.”

“Tf you won’t believe it, look here!” said the man, draw-
ing 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!”

“‘T 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, toa 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 bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick,” said
the man, ‘‘ making over to you the girl Lucy and her child.
it’s all straight enough, for aught I see.”

The woman’s passionate exclamations collected a crowd
around her, and the trader briefly explained to them the
cause of the agitation.

“He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to
hire out as acook to the same tavern where my husband
works—that’s what mas’r told me, his own self; and I can’t
believe he’d lie to me,” said the woman.

«But he has sold you, my poor woman, there’s no doubt
about it,” said a good-natured looking man, who had
been examining the papers; ‘“‘he has done it, and no
mistake.”

“‘Then it’s no account talking,” said, the woman, sud-
denly 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
210 : UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

spirit over her head—the gentle breeze, that never inquires
whether the brow is dusky or fair that it fans. And she
saw suushine sparkling on the water, in golden ripples, 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
rouse her. She strained him suddenly and tightly in her
arms, and slowly one tear after another fell on his won-
dering, unconscious face; and gradually she seemed, and
little by little, to grow calmer, and busied herself with tend-
ing and nursing him.

The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large
and strong of his age, and very vigorous in his limbs.
Never for a moment still, he kept 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 manwhistled tothe boy, and offered him part of a
stick of candy, which he eagerly grabbed at, and very soon
had it in a baby’s general depository, to wit, his mouth.

«*Rum fellow!” said the man. ‘* Knows what’s what!”
and he whistled, and walked on. When he had got to the
other side of the boat he came across Haley, who was smok-
ing on the top of a pile of boxes.

The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar,
saying as he did so:

“‘Decentish kind 0’ wench you’ve got round there,
stranger.”

‘Why I reckon she ¢s tol’able fair,” said Haley, blow-
ing the smoke out of his mouth.

“Taking her down south?” said the man.

Haley nodded, and smoked on.

«‘ Plantation hand?” said the man. es

“‘Wal,” said Haley, ‘‘I’m fillin’ out an order for a
plantation, and I think I shall put herin. ‘They telled me
she was a good cook; and they can use her for that, or set
her at the cotton-picking. She’s got, the right fingers for
that; I looked at ’em. Sell well, either way;” and Haley
resumed his cigar.


1. The wild look of anguish and utter despair might have disturbed
one less practised.

2. With sobs and tears she bemoaned him as her husband.

3. He awoke with a sudden start and heard a splash in the water.
sett
Ste ai
ee

oa


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 918

«“They won’t want the young ’un on a plantatian,” said
the man.

“T shall sell him, first chance I find,” said Haley, light-
ing 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
aunt 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 Haiey; “‘ they is raised as easy as any
kind of critter there is going; they ain’t a bit more trouble
than pups. This yer chap will be running all round, ina
month.”

“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 drowned in a 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 awhile in silence,
neither seeming willing to broach the test question of the
interview. At last the man resumed:

“You wouldn’t think of wantin’ more than ten dollars
for that ar chap, seeing you mus¢ get him off your hand,
- anyhow?” ~

Haley shook his head, and spit impressively.

«© That won’t do, no ways,” he said, and began his smok-
ing again.

“Well, stranger, what will you take?”’

“Well, now,” said Haley, ‘‘I could raise that ar chap.
myself, or get him raised; he’s oncommon likely and
healthy, and he’d fetch a hundred dollars, six months
hence; and, in a year or two, he’d bring two hundred, if I
had him in the right spot; so I shan’t take a cent less nor
fifty for him now.” .

“°O; stranger! that’s ridiculous, altogether,” said the
man.

“* Fact!” said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head.

“Vl give thirty for him,” said the stranger, “‘ but not
a cent more.”

“Now, I’ll tell ye what I will do,” said Haley, spitting
214 : UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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. ‘‘ Very fair, we get there
about dusk. Chap will be asleep—all fair—get him off
quietly, and no screaming—happens beautiful—I like to
do everything quietly—I hates all kind of agitation and
fluster.” And so, after a transfer of certain bills had passed
from the man’s pocket-book to the trader’s, he resumed his
cigar.

It was a bright tranquil evening when the boat stopped
at the wharf at Louisville. The woman had been sitting
with her baby in her arms, now wrapped in a heavy sleep.
When she heard the name of the place called out, she
hastily laid the child down in a little cradle formed by 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 who 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
ei shore, and the crowd pressed in between her «nd the
child.

“‘Now’s your 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 care-
sth and was soon lost in the crowd that went up the
wharf.

__ When the boat, creaking, and groaning, aud puffing,
had loosed from the,wharf, and was beginning slowly to
strain herself along, the woman returned tv her old seat.
The trader was sitting there—the child was gone!

‘* Why, why—where?” she began, in bewildered sur-
prise.

“Lucy,” said the trader, ‘‘ your child’s gone; yoa 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

>
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 215

political perfection 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’s, sir, and
mine could be brought, with proper effort and cultivation.
The wild look of anguish and utter despair that the woman
cast on him might have disturbed one less practised; but
he was used to it. He had seen that same look hundreds
of times. You can get used to such things, too, my friend;
and itis the great object of recent efforts to make our
whole northern community used to them, for the glory of
the Union. So the trader only regarded the mortal an-
guish which he saw working in those dark features, those
clinched hands, and suffocating breathings, as necessary
incidents of the trade, and merely calculated whether she
was going to scream, and get up a commotion on the boat;
for, like other supporters of our peculiar institution, he de-
cidedly disliked agitation.

But the woman she did not scream. The shot had
passed too straight and direct through the heart, for cry
or tear.

Dizzily she sat down. Ter slack hands fell lifeless by
her side. Her eyes looked straight forward, but she saw
nothing. All the noise and hum of the boat, the groan-
ing of the machinery, mingled dreamily to her bewildered
ear; and the poor, dumb-stricken heart had neither cry
nor tear to show for its utter misery. She was quite
calm.

The trader, who, considering his advantages, was al-
most as humane as some of our politicians, seemed to feel
called on to administer such consolation as the case admit-
ted of.

*T know this yer comes kinder hard, at first, Lucy,”
said he; “but such a smart, sensible gal as you are, won’t
give way to it. You see it’s necessary, and can’t be
helped!”

“OQ! don’t, mas’r, don’t!” said the woman, with a voice
like one that is smothering.

“You’re a smart wench, Lucy,” he persisted; ‘«I mean
to do well by ye, and get ye a nice place down river; and
you'll soon get another husband—such a likely gal as

ou——”
: “OQ! mas’r, if you only won’t talk to me now,” said the


216 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

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. THe got up and the
woman turned away, and buried her head in her cloak.

The trader walked up and down for a time, and occa-
sionally stopped and looked at her

«Takes it hard, rather,’ he soliloquized, ‘‘ but quiet,
tho’—let her sweat a while; she’ll come right, by and
b Hi)

Uo 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
generalize, 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 ‘‘ 20 evils but suchas are inseparable from any other
relations in social and domestic life.” But 'l'om, as we see,
being a poor, ignorant fellow, whose reading had been con-
fined entirely to the New Testament, could not comfort
and solace himself with views like these. His very soul
bled within him for what seemed to him the wrongs of the
poor suffering thing that lay like a crushed reed on the
boxes; the feeling, living, bleeding, yet immortal thing,
which American state law coolly classes with the bundles,
and bales, and boxes, among which she is lying.

Tom drew 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 pity-
ing 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 nospeech
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 were 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

* Dr. Joel Parker, of Philadelphia.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 217

and anon, a smothered sob or cry from the prostrate creat-
ure—‘‘O! 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 awoke, with a sudden start. Some-
thing 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 gotup, and sought about himinvain. The
poor bleeding heart was still, at last, and the river rip-
pled and dimpled just as brightly as if it had not closed
above it.

Patience! patience! ye whose hearts swell indignant at
wrongs like these. Not one throb of anguish, not one tear
of the oppressed, is 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, in patience,
and labor in love; for sure as he is God, “ the year of his
redeemed shall come.”

The trader awoke bright and early, and came out to
see to his live stock. It was now his turn to look aboutin
perplexity.

“¢ Where alive is that gal?” he said to Tom.

Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel,
did not feel called on to state his observations and suspi-
cions, 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, when-
ever 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 barrels, around the machinery, by the
chimneys, in vain. .

‘* Now, Isay, Tom, be fair about this yer,” he said, when,
after a fruitless search, he came where Tom was standing.
«You know something about it, now. Don’t tell me—I
know you do. I saw the gal stretched out here about ten
o’clock, and ag’in at twelve, and ag’in between one and
two; and then at four she was gone, and you was asleeping
right there all the time. Now you know something—you
can’t help it.”
218 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

«Well, mas’r,” said Tom, ‘toward mornin’ something
brushed by me, and J 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 toa great many things that you
are not used to. ven 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 embarrassed 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 giveupa fugitive—not even at the de-
mand of the whole glorious Union. The trader, therefore,
sat discontentedly down, with his little account-book, and
put down the missing body and soul under the head of
losses!

‘« He’s a shocking creature, isn’t he—this trader? so un-
feeling! It’s dreadful, really!” °

“OQ, but nobody thinks anything of these traders! They
are universally despised—never received into any decent
society.”

But who, sir, makes the trader? Whois most to blame?
The enlightened, cultivated, intelligent man, who supports
the system of which the trader is the inevitable result, or
the poor trader himself? You make the public sentiment
that calls for his trade, that debauches and depraves him,
till he feels no shame in it; and in what are you better
then he?

Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he
toy, you refined and he coarse, you talented and he sim-

ef

In the day of a future Judgment, these very considera-
tions 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 cfforts made in our na-
pone body to protect and perpetuate this species of

raffic.
UNCLE TOM’S CABLYN. 219

Who does not know how our great men are outdoing
themselves, in declaiming against the foreign slave-trade.
There are a perfect host of Clarksons and Wilberforces
risen up among us on that subject, most edifying to hear
and behold. ‘Trading negroes from Africa, dear reader, is
£0 horrid! It is not to be thought of! But trading them
from Kentucky—that’s quite another thing!

CHAPTER XIII.
THE QUAKER SETTLEMENT.

A QUIET scene now rises before us. A large, roomy,
neatly painted kitchen, its yellow floor glossy and smooth,
and without a particle of dust; a neat, well-blacked cook-
ing-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 colored woollen goods, and a larger sized one,
motherly and old, whose: wide arms breathed hospitable in-
vitation, seconded by the solicitation of its feather cushions
—a real, comfortable, persuasive old chair, and worth, in
the way of honest, homely enjoyment, a dozen of your
plush or brochetelle drawing-room gentry; and in the chair
gently swaying back and forward, her eyes bent on some
line 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 eye-
lashes, and marking the outline of her gentle mouth. It
was plain to see how old and firm the girlish heart had
grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow; and when,
anon, her large dark eye was raised to follow the gambols
of her little Harry, who was sporting, like some tropical
butterfly, hither and thither over the floor, she showed a
depth of firmness and steady resolve that was never there
in her earlier and happier days.

By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap,
into which she was carefully sorting some dried peaches.
She might be fifty-five or sixty; but her’s 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
220 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

pattern—the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying in
placid folds across her bosom—the drab shawl and dress—
showed at once the community to which she belonged.
Her face was round and rosy, with a healthful downy soft-
ness, suggestive of a ripe peach. Her hair partially sil-
vered by age, was parted smoothly back from a high placid
forehead, on which time had written no inscription, ex-
cept-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 beau-
tiful young girls, why don’t somebody wake up to the
beauty of old women? If any want to get up an inspira-
tion under this head, we refer them to our good friend
Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in her little rock-
ing-chair. It had a turn for quacking and squeaking—
that chair had—either from having taken cold in early life
or from some asthmatic affection, or perhaps from nervous
derangement;-but, as she gently swung backward and for-
ward, the chair kept up a kind of subdued ‘‘ creechy craw-
chy,” 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 lov-
ing kindness, had come from that chair; head-aches and
heart-aches innumerable had been cured there—difficulties
spiritual and temporal solved there—all by one good lov-
ing 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'll thee do, when thee gets there? Thee
must think about that, my daughter.”

«My daughter,” came naturally from the lips of Rachel
Halliday; for her’s was just the face and form that made
“‘mother” seem the most natural word in the world. :

Hliza’s hands trembled, and some tears fell-on her fine
work; but she answered, firmly:

**T shall do—anything I can find. I hope I can find
something.” : i








It was plain to see how old and firm the girlish heart had grown
under the discipline of heavv sorrow.

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 223

«‘Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,”
said Rachel.

“OQ, 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, ronnd, pin-
cushiony woman stood at the dvor, with a cheery, bloom-
ing face, like a ripe apple. She was dressed, like Rachel,
in sober gray, with the muslin folded neatly across her
round, plump little chest.

“‘ Ruth Stedman,” said Rachel, coming joyfully forward;
**how is thee, Ruth?” she said, heartily taking both her
hands.

“Nicely,” said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet,
and dusting it with her handkerchief, displaying, as she
did so, a round little head, on which the Quaker cap sat
with a sort of jaunty air, despite all the 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 their place again; and then the newcomer,
who might have been five-end-twenty, turned from the
small looking-glass, before which she had been making
these arrangments, and luke well pleased—as most
people who looked at her might have been—for she was
decidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping little
woman, as ever gladdened man’s heart withal.

«‘Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little
boy I told thee of.”

“IT 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.

“OQ, he’s coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came
in, and ran off with him to the barn, to show him to the
children,”


224 UNCLE 10M’S CABIN.

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, and began taking off a little blue silk hood
and various layers and wrappers of outer garments; and
having given a twitch here, and a pull there, and variously
adjusted and arranged him, and kissed him heartily, she
set him on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby seemed
quite used to this mode of proceeding, for he put his
thumb in his mouth (as if it were quite a thing of course),
and seemed soon absorbed in his own reflections, while
the mother seated herself, and taking out a long stocking
of mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit with brisk-
ness.

“Mary, thee’d better fill the kettle, hadn’t thee?” gently
suggested the mother.

Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reappearing,
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 whis-
pers from Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand,
in a stew-pan over the fire.

Rachel now took down a snowy molding-board, and, ty-
ing on an apron, proceeded quietly to making up some bis-
cuits, first saying to Mary—‘‘ Mary hadn’t thee better tell
John to get a chicken ready?” and Mary disappeared ac-
cordingly.

«And how is Abigail Peters?” said Rachel, as she went
on with her biscuits.

“OQ, she’s better,” said Ruth; “I wasin, this morning;
made the bed, tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in,
this afternoon, and baked bread and pies enough to last
some days; and I engaged to go back to get her up, this
evening.”

‘*T 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-morrow,”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 225

“John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs. to
stay all day,” suggested Rachel.

“Thank thee, Rachel; will 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?”

‘QO! 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, on a little back porch.

“‘ Indeed! ” said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glanc-
ing at Eliza.

«Did thee say thy name was Harris?” said Simeon to
Eliza, as he re-entered.

Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremu-
lously answered ‘‘yes;” her fears, ever uppermost, sug-
gesting that possibly there might be advertisements out
for her.

“¢ Mother,” said Simeon, standing on the porch, and call-
ing Rachel out.

“‘What does thee want, father?” said Rachel, rubbing
her floury hands, as she went out on 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
wagon, 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?” said Simeon.

“ Let’s tell Ruth,” said Rachel. ‘‘ Here, Ruth—come
here.”

Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was on the back.
porch in a moment.
226 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

‘Ruth, what does ye 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 curls fell from
under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her white
neckerchief.

“* Hush thee, dear!” said Rachel, gently; ‘* hush, Ruth!
Tell us, shall we tell her now?”

“Now! to be sure—this very minute. Why, now,
suppose *twas my John, how should I feel? Do tell her
right off.”

“Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neigh-
bor, 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 bed-room, there, and let me fry the chicken while thee °
does it.”

Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sew-
ing, and opening the door of a small bed-room, said gently,
ss Come in here with me my daughter; I have news to tell

The blood flushed in Eliza’s pale face; she rose, trem-
bling with nervous anxiety, and looked toward her boy.

“No, no,” said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her
hands. ‘“ Never thee fear; it’s good news, Eliza—go in,.go
in!” And she gently pushed her to the door, which closed
after her; and then, turning round, she caught little Harry
in her arms, and began kissing him.

“ Thee’ll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it?
Thy father is coming,” she said, over and over again, as the
boy looked wonderingly at her.

Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on.
Rachel Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, ‘The
Lord hath had mercy on thee, daughter; thy husband hath
escaped from the house of bondage.”

The blood flushed to Hliza’s cheek in a sudden glow, and
went back to her heart with as sudden arush. She sat down,
pale and faint.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 227

“‘ Have courage, child,” said Rachel, laying her hand on
her head. ‘‘ He is amongfriends, who will bring him here
to-night.”

“‘To-night!” Eliza repeated, “to-night!” The words
lost all meaning 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 little Ruth rubbing
her hands with camphor. She opened her eyes in a state
of dreamy, delicious languor, such as one has who has long
been bearing a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and would
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 security and rest came over her;
and, as she lay, with her large, dark eyes open, she fol-
lowed, as in a quiet dream, the motions of those about her.
She saw the door open into the other room; saw the sup-
per-table, with its snowy cloth; heard the dreamy murmur
of the singing tea-kettle; saw Ruth tripping backward and
forward with plates of cake and saucers of preserves, and
ever and anon stopping to put acake into Harry’s hand, or
pat his head, or twine his long curls round her snowy fin-
gers. She saw the ample, motherly form of Rachel, asshe
ever and anon came to the bed-side, and smoothed and ar-
ranged something about the bed-clothes, and gave a tuck
here and there, by way of expressing her good-will; and
was conscious ofakind of sunshine beaming down upon her
from her lavze, clear, browneyes. 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 the table, and little Harry in a high chair,
under the shadow of Rachel’s ample wiug; there were low
murmurs of talk, gentle tinkling of tea-spoons, and musical
clatter of cups and saucers, and all mingled in adelightful
dream of rest; and Eliza slept, as she had not slept before,
since the fearful midnight hour when she had taken her
child and fled through the frosty starlight.

She dreamed of a beautiful country—a land, it seemed to


of

ETAT CH



by her pillow.

ing

It was no dream—her husband was sobb
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 229

her, of rest—gieen shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully
glittering water; and there, ina house which kind voices
told her was a home, she saw her boy playing, a free and
happy child. She heard her husband’s footsteps; she felt
him coming nearer; his arms were around her, his tears fall-
ing on her face and she awoke! It was no dream. The
daylight had long faded; her child lay ealmly sleeping by
her side; a candle was burning 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 girls and 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 isa thing
complicated and multiform, and, like picking up the rose-
leaves and trimming the bushesin 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 coffee,
Rachei moved gently and quietly about, making biscuits,
cutting up chicken, and diffusing a sort of sunny radiance
over the whole proceeding generally. If there was any
danger of friction or collision from the ill-regulated zeal of
so many young operators, her gentle “‘Come! come!” or
“*T wouldn’t, now,” was quite sufficient to allay the diffi-
culty. Bards have written of the cestus of Venus, that
turned the heads of all the world in successive generations.
We had rather, for our part, have the cestus of Rachel
Halliday, that kept heads from being turned and made
everything go on harmoniously. We think itis more suited
to our modern days, decidedly.

While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the
elder stood in his shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass
in the corner, engaged in the anti-patriarchal operation of
shaving. Everything went on so sociably, 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 fellow-
230 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

ship everywhere—even the knives and forks had a social
clatter as they went on to the table; and the chicken and
ham had a cheerful and joyous fizzle in the pan, as if they
rather enjoyed being cooked than otherwise; and when
George and Eliza and little Harry came out, they met such
a hearty, rejoicing welcome, no wonder it seemed to them
like a dream.

At last, they were all seated at breakfast, while Mary
stood at the stove, baking griddle-cakes, which, as they
gained the true exact golden-brown tint of perfection, were
transfered quite handily to the table,

Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at
the head of her table. There was so much motherliness
and full heartedness even in the way she passed a plate of
cakes or poured a cup of coffee, that it seemed to put a
spirit into the food and drink she offered.

It was the first time that ever George had sat down on
equal terms at any white man’s table; and he sat down, at
first, with some constraint and awkwardness; but they all
exhaled and went off like fog, in the genial morning rays of
this simple, overflowing kindness.

This, indeed, was a home—home—a word that George
had-never yet known-a meaning for; and a belief in God,
and trust in his providence, began to encircle his heart, as,
with a golden cloud of protection and 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 unconscions acts
of love and good will, which, like the cup of cold water
given in the name of a disciple, shall never lose their re-
ward.

“‘ Father, what if thee should get found out again?” said
Simeon second, as he buttered his cake.

“T 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 re-
quire a price of us for it, we must deliver it up.”
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 231

‘‘ Well, I hate those old slaveholders! ” said the boy,
who felt as unchristian as became any modern reformer.

‘*T am surprised at thee, son,” said Simeon; “ thy mother

never taught thee so. I would do even the same for the
slaveholder as for the slave, if the Lord brought him to my
door in affliction.”
_ Simeon second blushed scarlet; but his mother only
‘ smiled, and said: “‘Simeon is my good boy; he will
grow older by and by, and then he will be like his good
father.”

“T hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any
difficulty on our account,” said George, anxiously.

«Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into
the world. If we would not meet trouble for a good cause
we were not worthy of 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 doit,” said Simeon. ‘And now
thou must lie by quietly this day, and to-night, at ten
o'clock, Phinaes Fletcher will carry thee onward to the
next stand—thee and the.rest of thy company. The pur-
suers are hard after thee; we must not delay.”

“Tf that is the case, 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. It has been
found safer to travel by night.”

CHAPTER XIV.
EVANGELINE,

“A young star? which shone

O’er life--too sweet an image for such glass?
A lovely being, scarcely formed or molded;

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.”

THE Mississippi! How, as by an enchanted wand, have
its scenes been changed, since Chateaubriand wrote his
prose-poetic description of it, as a river of mighty, unbroken
solitudes, rolling amid undreamed wonders of vegetable
and animal existence.

But, asin an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance
282. UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

has emerged toa reality scarcely less visionary and splen«
did. What other river of the world bears on its bosom to
the ocean the wealth and enterprise of such another coun-
try? a country whose products embrace all between the
tropics and the poles! Those turbid waters, hurrying,
foaming, tearing along, an apt resemblance of that head-
long tide of business which is poured along its wave by a
race more vehement and energetic than any the old world
ever saw. Ah! would that they did not also bear along a
more fearful freight—the tears of the oppressed, the sighs
of the helpless, the bitter prayers of poor, ignorant hearts
to an unknown God—unknown, unseen and silent, but who
will yet ‘come out of his place to save all the poor of the
earth!”

The slanting light of the setting sun 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 sometime among its crowded
decks before we shall find again our humble friend, Tom.
High on the upper deck, in a little nook among the every-
where predominant cotton-bales, at last we may find him.

Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby’s repre-
sentations, and partly from the remarkably inoffensive and
quiet character of the man, Tom had insensibly won his
way far into the confidence even of such a man as Haley.

At first he had watched him narrowly through the day,
and never allowed him to sleep at night unfettered; but
the uncomplaining patience and apparent contentment of
Tom’s manner led him gradually to discontinue these re-
straints, and for sometime Tom had enjoyed a sort of
parole of honor, being permitted 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 work-
men 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

e
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 233

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 traveler 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 toils he saw afar their
villages of huts gleaming out in long rows on many a plan-
tation, 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 com-
rades, 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 and 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
forever.

In such a case, you write to your wife, and send mes-
sages 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
this Bible, as he lays it on the cotton-bale, and, with
patient finger, threading his slow way from word to word
traces out its promises? Having learned late in life, Tom
was but a slow reader, and passed on laboriouslyfrom 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 point-
934 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

ing to each word, and pronouncing each half aloud, he
yeads:

« Let— not— your— heart —be—troubled. In —my —
Father’s— house — are—many— mansions. I— go— to—
prepare—a—place—for—you.” =

Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter,
had a heart as full of honest grief as poor Tom’s—perhaps
no fuller, for both were only men; but Cicero could pause
over no such sublime words of hope, and look to no such
future reunion; 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 from learned commentators, still it had
been embellished with certain way-marks and guide-boards
of Tom’s own invention, and which helped him more than
the most learned expositions could have done. It had
been his custom to get the Bible read to him by his mas-
ter’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 other
with a variety of styles and designations; so he could in a
moment seize upon his favorite passages, without the labor
of spelling out what lay between them; and while it lay
there before him, every passage breathing of some old home-
scene, and recalling some past enjoyment, his Bible seemed
to him all of this life that remained, as well as the promise
of a future one.

Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentle-/
man of fortune 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 relationship to both, and to have the little
one especially under her charge.

Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl—for
she was one of those busy, tripping creatures, that can be


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 235

no more contained in one place than a sunbeam or a sum-
mer 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 aérial grace, such as one might
dream of for some mythic and 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 ex-
actly 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, and made every one turn and look after
her, as she glided hither and thither on the boat. Never-
theless, the little one was not what you would have called
either a grave child or asad 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 undulating and clond-like tread, singing
to herself as she moved asin 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; and as no word of chiding or reproof ever
fell on her ear for whatever she chose to do, she pursued
her own way all over the boat. Always dressed in white,
she seemed to move like a shadow through all sorts of
places, without contracting spot or stain; and there was
not a corner or nook, above or below, where those fairy
footsteps had not glided, and that visionary golden head
with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along.

The fireman as he looked up from his sweaty toil, some-
times found those eyes looking wonderingly into the rag-
ing depths of the furnace, 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.
236 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

and 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 patie.

‘T'om, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly
race, ever yearning toward. the simple and childlike,
watched the little creature with daily increasing interest.
To him she seemed something almost divine; and when-
ever 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 stepped out of his New
Testament,

Often and often she walked mournfully round the place
where Haley’s gang of men and women sat in their chains.
She would glide in among them, and look at them with an
air of perplexed and sorrowful earnestness; and sometimes
she would lift their chains with her slender hands, and
then sigh wofully, as she glided away. Several times she
appeared suddenly among them, with her hands full of
candy, nuts, and oranges, which she would distribute joy-
fully to them, and then be gone again. .

Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he ven-
tured on any overtures toward 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 skillfully. He could cut cunning little
baskets out of cherrystones, could make grotesque faces on
hickory-nuts, or odd-jumping figures out of elder-pith, and
he was a very Pan in the manufacture of whistles of all
sizes and sorts. His pockets were full of miscellaneous
articles of attraction, which he had hoarded in days of old
for his master’s children, and which he now produced,
with commendable prudence and economy, one by one, as
overtures for acquaintance and friendship.

The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in every-
thing going on, and it was not easy to tame her. For a
while, she would perch like a canary-bird on some box or
package near Tom, while busy in the little arts afore-
named, and take from him, with a kind of grave bashful-
ness, the little articles he offered. But at last they got on
quite confidential terms.




i






He saw her strike the water and sink and was after her ina
moment.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 939

«¢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 everybody else call me Eva. Now, what’s your
name?” :

““My name’s Tom; the little chil’en used to call me
Uncle Tom, way back thar in Kentuck.”

«¢Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see,
IT like you,” suid Eva. ‘‘So, Uncle Tom, where are you

oing?”
oe I don’t know, Miss Eva,”

<‘ Don’t know?” said Eva.

“No. I am going to be sold to somebody. I don’t
know who.”

«* My papa can buy you,” said Eva, quickly; ‘‘and if he
buys you, you will have good times. 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 on
wood, and Eva, hearing her father’s voice, bounded nimbly
away. ‘Tom rose up, and went forward to offer his service
in wooding, and soon was busy among the hands.

Eva and her father were standing together by the -rail-
ings to see the boat start from the landing-place,. the
wheel had made two or three revolutions in the water,
when, by some sudden movement, the little one suddenly
lost her balance, and fell sheer over the side of the boat
into the water. Her father, scarce knowing what he did,
was plunging in after her, but was held back by 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 strike the water, and sink, and was
after her in a moment. A broad-chested, strong-armed
fellow, it was nothing for him to keep afloat 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 ont to-receive her. A
few moments more, and her father bore her, dripping .and
senseless, to the ladies’ cabin, where, as is usual in cases
of the kind, there ensued a very well meaning and kind-
240 UNOLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 pos-
sible.

It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamer
drew near to New Orleans. A general bustle of expectation
and preparation was spread through the boat; in the cabin,
one and another were gathering their things together, and
arranging them preparatory to goingashore. ‘The steward
and chambermaid, and all, were busily engaged in cleaning,
furbishing, and arranging the splendid boat, preparatory
to a grand entree.

On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms
folded, and anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes
toward 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 acci--
dent which had befallen her. A graceful, elegantly-formed
young man stood by her, carelessly leaning one elbow on a
bale of cotton, while a large pocket-book lay open before
him. It was quite evident, at a glance, that the gentle-
man was Eva’s father. There was the same noble cast of
head, the same large blue eyes, the same golden-brown
hair; yet the expression was wholly different. In the large
clear blue eyes, though in form and color exactly similar,
there was wanting that misty, dreamy depth of expression;
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-humored, negligent air, half comic, half contempt-
uous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating on
the quality of the article for which they were bargain-
ing.
** All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black
morocco, complete!” 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 busi-
me How much are you going to cheat. me, now? Out
with it,”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 241

“Wal,” said Haley, “if I should say thirteen hundred
dollars for that ar fellow, I shouldn’t but just save myself;
I shouldu’t, now, re’ly.”

‘Poor fellow,” said the young man, fixing his keen,
mocking blue eye on him; ‘but I suppose ycu’d 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’lly enough.”

“OQ! certainly, there’s a call on your benevolence, my
‘friend. Now, as a matter of Christian charity, how cheap
could you afford to let him go, to oblige a young -lady
that’s particular sot on him?”

“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 calcula-
tin niggers, that'll do any kindo’ 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 oncommon, why, of course,
it makes him come higher. Why, that ar fellow managed
his master’s whole farm. He has a strornary talent for
business.”

“« Bad, bad, very bad; knows altogether too much!” said
the young man, with the same mocking smile playing about
his mouth. ‘Never will doin the world. Your smart
fellows are always running off, stealing horses, and raising
the devil generally. I think you’ll have to take off a couple
of hundred for his smartness.”

“‘ Wal, there might be something in that ar, if it warn’t
for his character; but I can show recommends from his
' master and others, to prove he is one of your real pious—
tbe 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, pos-
sibly,” added the young man, dryly. ‘‘ That’s quite an
idea. Religion is a remarkably scarce article at our
house.”

“ You’re joking, now.”

“‘Howdo you know Iam? Didn’t you just warrant him
fora preacher? Has he been examined by any synod or
council? Come, hand over your papers.”
242 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good
humored twinkle in the large blue eye, that all this banter
was sure, in the long run, to turn out a cash concern, he
might have been somewhat out of 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 him! it’s no matter what you pay,” whis-
pered Hva, 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 fora rat-
tle-box, or a rocking-horse, or what?”

“‘T 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’s being up in the market
just now. Ihave not looked in the papers lately, to see
how it sells, How many hundred dollars, now, do you put
on for this religion?”

“ You like to be a jokin’, now,” said the trader; «but,
then there’s sense under all that ar. I know there’s dif-
ferences in religion. Some kinds is mis’rable; there’s your
meetin pious; there’s your singin, roarin pious; them ar
ain’t no account, in black or white; but these raily is; and
I’ve seen it in niggers as often as any, your rail softly,
quiet, stiddy, honest, pions, that the hull world couldn’t
tempt ’em to do nothing that they thinks is wrong;
ae ye see in this letter what Tom’s old master says about

im.” 5

‘** 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 ac.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 243

count in the book up above, assomething belonging to me,
I wouldn’t care if I did go a little extra for it. How d’ye
say?”

‘© Wal, raily, I can’t do that,” said the trader. “‘ ma
thinkin’ that every man’ll have to hang on his own 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,
ain’t it, now?” said the young man, who had been counting
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.

« All right,” said Haley, his face beaming with delight;
and pulling out an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a
bill of sale, which in a few moments, he handed to the
young man,

«JT wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried,”
said the latter, as he ran over the paper, ‘‘how much I
might bring. Say so much forthe shape of my head, so
much for « high forehead, so much for arms, and hands,
and legs, and then so much for education, learning, talent,
honesty, religion! Bless me! there would be small 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-humoredly, ‘‘ Look up, ‘om, and see how
you like your new master!”

Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that
gay, young, handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure;
and T'om felt the tears start in his eyes as he said, heartily,
“‘God bless you, mas’r!”

‘© Well, I hope he will. What’s your name? Tom!
Quite as likely to do it for your asking as mine, from all
accounts. Can you drive horses, Tom?”

‘‘T’ve been allays used to horses,” said Tom. ‘‘ Mas’r
Shelby raised heaps on ’em.”

“‘ Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition
that you won’t be drunk more than once a week, unless in
cases of emergency, Tom.” |

Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said: “I
never drink, mas’r.”

“‘T’ve heard that story before, Tom; but then we’ll see.
_ It will be a special accommodation to all concerned, if you
244 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

don’t. Never mind, my boy,” he added good-humoredly,
seeing Tom still looked grave; ‘‘I don’t doubt you mean
to do well.”

‘© T sartin do, mas’r,” said Tom.

«* And you shall have good times,” said Eva, ‘Papa
is very good to everybody, only he always will laugh at .

them.” ;
_ € Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation,”
said St. Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and
walked away.

3

CHAPTER XV.
OF TOM’S NEW MASTER AND VARIOUS OTHER MATTERS.

SINcE the thread of our humble hero’s life has now be-
come interwoven with that of higher ones, it is necessary
to give some brief introduction to them.

Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy planter of
Louisiana. The family had its origin in Canada. Of two
brothers, very similiar 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 settle-
ment. Augustine and another brother were the only chil-
dren of their parents. Having inherited from his mother
an exceeding delicacy of constitution, he was, at the in-
stance 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 sensitiveness of character, more akin to the soft-
ness 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 the esthetic, 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
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 245 ©

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

“yose in the horizon—that star that rises so often in vain, to.
be remembered only as a thing of dreams; and it rose for
him in vain. To drop the figure—he saw and won the
love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the
northern states, and they were affianced. He returned
south to make arrangments for their marriage, when, most
unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by mail,
with a short note from her guardian, stating to him that
ere this reached him the lady would be the wife of another.
Stung fo madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has
done, to fling the whole thing from his heart by one des-
perate effort. Too proud to supplicate or seek explanation
he threw himself at once into a whirl of fashionable society,
and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal letter was the
‘accepted lover of the reigning belle of the season; and as
soon as arrangments 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 him a
happy fellow.

The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and
entertaining a brilliant circle of friendsin their splendid villa
near Lake Pontchartrain when, one day, a letter was brought
to him in ¢hat well-remembered writing. It was handed
to him while he was in full tide of gay and successful con-
versation, 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 op-
posite; anda short time after, was missed from the circle.
In his room, alone, he opened and read the letter, now
worse than idle and useless to be read. It was: from her,
giving a long account of a persecution to which she had
been exposed by her guardian’s family, to lead her to unite
herself with their son: and she related how, for a long time,
his letters had 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 discovered the whole fraud which had been practised
on them both, The letter ended with expressions of hope
and thankfulness, and professions of undying affection,
246 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.
which were more bitter than death to the unhappy young
‘man. He wrote to her immediately:

“T have received yours—but too late. I believed all I
heard. I was desperate. J 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 allits company of gliding boats and white-
winged ghips, 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 hearts break, and they die,
and that is the end of it; and in a story this is very con-
venient. But in real life we do not die when all that
makes life bright dies to us. There isa most busy and
important round of eating, drinking, dressing, walking,
visiting, buying, selling, talking, reading, and all that
makes up what is commonly called diving, yet to be gone
through; and this yet remained to Augustine. Had his
wife been a whole woman, she might yet have done some-
thing—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 figure, a pair of

splendid eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and none.

of these items were precisely the ones to minister to a
mind diseased.

When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the
sofa, and pleaded sudden sick-headache as the cause of his
distress, she recommended to him to smell of hartshorn;
and when the paleness and headache came on week after
week, she only said that she never thought Mr. St. Clare
was sickly; but it seems he was very liable to sick-headaches,
and that it was a very unfortunate thing for her, because
he didn’t enjoy going into company with her, and it
seemed odd to go so much alone, when they were just
married, Augustine was glad in his heart that he had
married so undiscerning a woman; but as the glosses and
civilities of the honeymoon wore away, he discovered
that a beautiful young woman, who has lived all her life
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 247

to be caressed and waited on, might prove quite a hard
mistress in domestic life. Marie never had possessed much
eapability of affection, or much sensibility, and the little
that she had, had been merged into a most intense and
unconscious selfishness; a selfishness the more hopeless,
from its quiet obtuseness, its utter ignorance of any claims
but her own. From her infancy, she had been surrounded
with servants, who lived only to study her caprices; the idea
that they had either feelings or rights had never dawned
upon her, even in distant perspective. Her father, whose
only child she had been, had never denied her anything
that lay within thecompass 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, andshe had no doubt that Augus-
tine was a most fortunate man in having obtained her.
It is a great mistake to suppose that a woman with no heart
will be an easy creditor in the exchange of affection. There
is not on earth a more merciless exactor of love from others
than a thoroughly selfish woman; and the more unlovely
she grows, the more jealously and scrupulously she exacts
love, to the uttermost farthing. When, therefore, St.
Clare began to drop off those gallantries and small atten-
tions which flowed at first through the habitude of court-
ship, he found his sultana no way ready to resign her slave;
there were abundance of tears, poutings, and small tem-
pests, there were discontents, pinings, upbraidings. St.
Clare was good-natured and self-indulgent, and sought to
buy off with presents and flatteries; and when Marie be-
came mother to a beautiful daughter, he really felt awak-
ened, for a time, to something like tenderness.

St. Clare’s mother had been a woman of uncommon ele-
vation and purity of character, and he gave to this child
his mother’s name, fondly fancying that she would prove a
reproduction of ber image. The thing had been re-
marked with petulant jealousy by his wife, and she re-
garded her husband’s absorbing devotion to the child with
suspicion and dislike; all that was given to her seemed 80
much taken from herself. From the time of the birth of
this child, her health gradually sunk. A life of con-
stant inaction, bodily and mental—the friction of cease-
less ennui and discontent, united to the ordinary weakness
which attended the period of maternity—in course of a few
248 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

years changed the blooming young belle into a yellow,
faded, sickly woman, whose time was divided among a
variety of fanciful diseases, and who considered herself,
in every sense, the most ill-used and suffering person in
‘existence.

There was no end of her various complaints; but her
principal forte appeared toliein sick-headache, which some-
times 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 com-
fortable. His only daughter was exceedingly delicate, and
he feared that, with no one to look after her and attend to
her, her health and life might yet full a sacrifice to her
mother’s inefficiency. . He had taken her with him on a
tour to Vermont, and had persuaded his cousin, Miss
Ophelia St. Clare, to return with him to his southern resi-
dence; and they are now returning on this boat, where we
have introduced them to our readers.

And now, while the distant domes and spires of New
Orleans rise to our view, there is yet time for an intro-
duction to Miss Ophelia.

Whoever has traveled in the New England States will
remember, in some cool village, the large farm-house,
with its clean-swept grassy yard, shaded by the dense and
massive foliage of the sugar maple; and remember the air
of order and stillness, of perpetuity and unchanging repose,
that seemed to breathe over the whole place. Nothing lost,
or out of order; not a picket loose in the fence, not a par-
ticle of litter in the turfy yard, with its clumps of lilac-
bushes growing up under the windows. Within, he will
remember wide, clean rooms, where nothing ever seems to
be doing or going to be done, where everything is once and
forever rigidly in place, and where all household arrange-
ments 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 “‘ Rollin’s History,” ‘‘Milton’s Paradise
Lost,” “ Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress,” and ‘‘Scott’s Family
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 every afternoon among
her daughters, as if nothing ever had been done, or were
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 249

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 all hours when you would see them
it is “‘doneup.” 'Theold kitchen floor never seems stained
or spotted; the tables, the chairs, and the various cooking
utensils, never seem deraaged 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 and cheese are in some silent
and mysterious manner there brought into existance.

On such a farm, in sucha 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 pro-
posal 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 known at the minister’s, and at the doctor’s, and
at Miss Peabody’s millinary shop, that Ophelia St. Clare
was ‘talking about” going away down to Orleans with
her cousin; and of course the whole village could do noless
than help this very important process of talking about the
matter. The minister who inclined strongly to abolition-
ist views, was quite doubtful whether such a step might
not tend somewhat to encourage the southerners in hold-
ing on to their slaves; while the doctor, who was a stanch
colonizationist, inclined to the opinion that Miss Ophelia
ought to go, toshow 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 neighbors for the space of a fortnight, and
her prospects and plans duly canvassed and inquired into.
250 . UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Miss Moseley, who came into the house to help to do the
dress-making, acquired daily accessious of importance from
the developments with regard to Miss Ophelia’s wardrobe
which she had been enabled to make. It was credibly as-
certained that Squire Sinclare, as his name was commonly
contracted in the neighborhood, had counted out fifty dol-
lars, 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 considered, for once in one’s life, and others stoutly
affirming that the money had better have been sent to the
missionaries; but all parties agreed that there had been no
such parasol seen in those parts as had been sent on from
New York, and that she had one silk dress that might
fairly be trusted to stand alone, whatever might be said of
its mistress. There were credible rumors, also, of a hem-
stitched pocket-handkerchief; and report even went so far
as to state that Miss Ophelia had one pocket-handkerchief
with lace -all around it—it was even added that it was
worked in the corners; but this latter point was never sat-
isfactorily ascertained, and remains, in fact, unsettled to
this day.

Miss Ophelia, as you now behold her, stands before you,
in a very shining brown linen traveling 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 in the habit of making up her mind defi-
nitely on all subjects; while the keen, dark eyes had a pe-
culiarly searching, advised movement, and traveled 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
Sea 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 inevit-
able as a clock, and as inexorable as arailroad engine; and
she held in most decided contempt and abomination any-
thing of a contrary character.

The great sin of sins, in her eyes—the sum of all evils—
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 251

was expressed by one very common and important word in
her vocabulary—‘ shiftiessness.”” Her finale and ulti-
matum of contempt consisted in a very emphatic pronun-
ciation of the word ‘‘ shiftless;” and by this she character-
ized all modes of procedure which had not a direct and in-
evitable relation to accomplishment of some purpose then
definitely had in mind. People who did nothing, or who
did not know exactly what they were going to do, or who
did not take the most direct way to accomplish what they
set their hands to, were objects of her entire contempt—a
contempt shown less frequently by anything she said, than
by a kind of stony grimness, as if she scorned to say any-
thing about the matter.

As to mental cultivation--she had a clear, strong, active
mind, was well and thoroughly read in history and the
older English classics, and thought with great strength
within certain narrow limits. Her theological tenets were
all made up, labeled in most positive and distinct forms,
and put by, like the bundles in her patch trunk; there
were just so many of them, and there were never to be any
more. So, also, were her ideas with regard to most mat-
ters of practical life—such as housekeeping in all its
branches, and the various political relations of her native
village. And, underlaying all, deeper than anything else,
higher and broader, lay the strongest principle of her be-
ing—conscientiousness. Nowhere is conscience so domi-
nant and allabsorbing as with New England women. It is
the granite formation, which lies deepest, and rises out,
even to the tops of the highest mountains.

Miss Ophelia was the absolute bond-slave of the “ oughé.”
Once make her certain that the “path of duty,” as she
commonly phrased it, lay in any given direction, and fire
and water could not keep her from it. She would walk
straight down into a well, orup to aloaded 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 concessions to human frailty, that,
though she strove with heroic ardor to reach it, she never
actually did so, and, of course, was burdened with a con-
stant and often harrassing sense of deficiency—this gave
a severe and somewhat gloomy cast to her religious char-
acter.

But, how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with
252 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Augustine St. Clare—gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical,
skeptical—in short, walking with impudent and nonchalant
freedom over every one of her most cherished habits and
opinions?

To tell the truth, then, Miss Ophelia loved him.
When a boy, it had been her’s to teach him his cate-
chism, mend his clothes, comb his hair, and bring him up
generally in the way he should go; and her heart having a
warm side to it, Augustine had, as he usually did with
most people, monopolized a large share of it for himself,
and therefore it was that he succeeded very easily in per-
suading 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 the reader must
discover by a personal acquaintance.

There sheis, sitting now in her state-room, surrounded by
a mixed multitude of little and big carpet-bags, boxes, bas-
kets, 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 spot-
ted 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.”

ey aunty, we are only going up home; what is the
use f

““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.”


it Mi
ii M

ul lig

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; Pe?
things
f your
‘ou kept count of y
have y
Eva,
“Now,
954 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

*‘ Well, never mind; I’ll look your box over—thimble,
wax, two spools, 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.”

“‘ Well, aunty, I did lose a great many; and then when
we stopped anywhere, papa would buy some more of what-
ever it was.”

“¢ Mercy on us, child—what a way!”

. Tt was a very easy way, aunty,” said Eva,

“It’s a dreadful shiftless one,” said aunty.

““Why, aunty, what'll 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 the 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 be shut and locked—there are no two ways
about it.”

And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute
statement, gave in. The hasp snapped sharply in its
hole, and Miss Ophelia turned the key, and pocketed it in
triumph.

ce Now we're ready. Where’s your papa? I think it
time this baggage was set out. Do look out, Eva, and see
if you see your papa.”-

«O, 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 isin a hurry about anything,” said Eva,
“fand we haven’t come to the landing. Do step on the
guards, aunty. Look! there’s our house, up that street!”

The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast,
tired monster, to prepare to push up among the multiplied
steamers at the levee. Eva joyously pointed out the vari-
ous spires, domes, and way-marks, by which she recog-
nized 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
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 255

running twenty ways at once—men tugging trunks,
carpet-bags, boxes—women anxiously calling to their chil-
dren, and everybody crowding in a dense mass to the plank
toward the landing.

Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the lately van-
quished trunk, and marshaling all her goods and chattels
in fine military order, seemed resolved to defend them to
the last.

‘Shall I take your trunk, ma’am?” ‘Shall I take
your baggage?” ‘* Let me ’tend to your baggage, missis?”
“‘Shan’t I carry out these yer, missis?” rained down upon
her unheeded. She sat with grim determination, upright
as a darning-needle stuck in a board, holding on to her
bundle of umbrella and parasols, and replying with a de-
termination 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 dis-
tress, 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.”

“V’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.”

“‘T’ll go and see to his putting them in,” said Miss
Ophelia.

‘QO, 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 a 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
256 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

more in the carriage with them, in a state of preserva-
tion.

«* Where’s Tom?” said Eva.

“OQ, 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.”

“©O, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know,
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 in-
closing a court-yard, into which the carriage drove through
an arched gateway. The court, in the inside, had evi-
dently been arranged to gratify a picturesque and volupt-
uous ideality. Wide galleries ran all around the four sides
whose Moorish arches, slender pillars, and arabesque orna-
ments, carried the mind back, as in a dream, to the reign
of oriental romance in Spain. In the middle of the court,
a fountain threw high its silvery water, falling in a never-
ceasing spray into a marble basin, fringed with a deep
border of fragrant violets. The water in the fountain,
pellucid as crystal, was alive with myriads of gold and sil-
ver fishes, twinkling and darting through it like so many
living jewels. Around the fountain ran a walk, paved
with a mosaic of pebbles laid in various fanciful patterns;
and this again, was surrounded by turf, smooth as green
velvet, while a carriage-drive inclosed the whole. ‘Two
large orange-trees, now fragrant with 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 pome-
granate trees, with their glossy leaves and flame-colored
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

7

said
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. c 257

drawn down 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 the cage, with the wild eagerness of her de-
light.

20, isn’t it beautiful, lovely! my own dear, darling
pone ” she said to Miss Ophelia. ‘‘Isn’t it beanti-
ful?”

alighted; ‘though it looks rather old and heathenish to
me.

Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with
an air of calm, still enjoyment. The negro, it must be
remembered, -is an exotic of the most gorgeous and superb
countries of the world, and he has, deep in his heart, a
passion for all that is splendid, rich, and fanciful; a pas-
sion which, rudely indulged by an untrained taste, draws
on them the ridicule of the colder and more correct white
race. :

St. Clare, who was in his heart a poetical voluptuary,
smiled as 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 does look about the right thing,” said
Tom.

All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being
hustled off, hackman paid, and while a crowd, of all ages
and sizes—men, women, and children,—came running
through the galleries, both above and below, to see mas’r
come in. Foremost among them was a highly-dressed
young mulatto man, evidently a very distingue personage,
attired in the ultra extreme of the mode, and gracefully
waving a scented 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 veranda.

‘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 first hour of his return?”

All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with
mn SS”
Teel

)











The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 259

quite an air, and stood huddled together at a respectful dis-
tance, except two stout porters, who came up and began
conveying away the baggage.

Owing to Mr. Adolph’s systematic arrangements, when St.
Clare turned round from paying the hackman, there was
nobody in view but Mr. Adolph himself, conspicuous in
satin vest, gold guard-chain, and white pants, and bowing
‘with inexpressible grace and suavity.

«Ah, Adolph, is it you?” said his master, offering his
hand to him; ‘‘ how are you, boy?” while Adolph poured
forth, with great fluency, an extemporary speech, which he
had been preparing, with great care, for a fortnight: be-

ore.

“Well, well,” said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual
air of negligent drollery, “‘ that’s very well got up, Adolpn.
See that the baggage is well bestowed. I’ll come to the
people in a minute;” and, so saying, he led Miss Ophelia to
a large parlor that opened on to the veranda.

While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird,
through the porch and parlor, to a little boudoir opening
likewise on the veranda. 2

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
ss said the mother, after she had languidly kissed
ler.

St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in-true, 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 politeness.
A crowd of servants now pressed to the entry door, and
among them a middle-aged mulatto woman, of very re-
spectable appearance, stood foremost, in a tremor of ex-
pectation and joy, at the door. F |

room; and, throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her
repeatedly. s

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

x
260 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

released from her, Eva flew from one to another, shaking
hands and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia afterward
declared fairly turned her stomach.

“Well!” said Miss Ophelia, ‘‘ you southern children can
do something that J couldn’t.”

“‘ What, now, pray?” said St. Clare.

“’ Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn’t
have anything hurt; but as to kissing 4

eer said St. Clare, ‘‘that you’re not up to—
hey?”

t Yes, that’s it. How can she?”

St. Clare langhed, as he went into the passage. ‘‘ Halloa,
here, what’s to pay out here? Here, you all—Mummy,
Jimmy, Polly, Bikey ala 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 off, like good boys and
girls,”’ he said; and the whole assemblage, dark and light,
disappeared through a door into a large veranda, 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; ‘‘is that the way you treat your company?
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.”

“©Q! 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.


UNCLE T0M’S CABIN. — 261

“So, that’s it, is it?” said St. Clare, carelessly. <* Well,
here, I’m going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then
you take him 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, laugh-
ing.. “I’m delighted tosee master in such spirits.”

“‘Here, Tom,” said St. Clare, beckoning.

Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the
velvet carpets, and the before unimagined splendor of mir-
rors, pictures, statues, and curtains, and, like the Queen of
Sheba before Solomon, there was no more spirit in him.
He looked afraid even to set his feet down.

“© See here, Marie,” said St. Clare to his wife, ‘I’ve
bought you a coachman, at last, toorder. I tell you _he’s
a regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive
you like a funeral, if you want. Open youreyes, now, and
look athim. Now don’t say I never think about you when
I’m gone.”

Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without
rising.

«©T know he'll get drunk,” she said.

‘©No, he’s warranted a pious and sober article.”

‘Well, I hope he may turn out well,” said the lady;
«¢ it’s more than I expect, though.”

“Dolph,” said St. Clare, ‘show Tom down stairs;
and, mind yourself,” he added; ‘“‘remember what I told
you.”

Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with
lumbering tread, went after.

“* He’s a perfect behemoth!” said Marie.

“*Come, now, Marie,” said St. Clare, seating himself on
a stool beside her sofa, ‘‘be gracious, and say something
pretty to a fellow.”

«« You’ve been gone a fortnight beyond the time,” said
the lady, pouting.

«‘ Well, you know I wrote you the reason.”

“«* Such a short, cold letter!” said the lady.

‘Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that
or nothing.” :

«‘That’s just the way, always,” said the lady; “al-
ways something to make your journeys long, and letters
short.
262 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. |

“See here, now,” he added, diawing an elegant velvet
case out of his pocket, and opening it, ‘‘here’s a present I
got for you in New York.

It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engrav-
ing, representing Eya and her father sitting hand in
hand.

Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.

aoa made you sit in such anawkward position?” she
said.

“Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but
what do you think of the likeness? ”

“Tf you don’t think anything of my opinion in one case
T suppose you wouldn’t in another,” said the lady, shut-
ting 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 nonsensical, 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.”

“‘You’re subject to the sick headache, ma’am?” said
Miss Ophelia, suddenly rising from the depthis of the large
arm-chair, where she had sat quietly, taking an inventory
of the furniture, and calculating its expense.

“Yes, I’m a perfect martyr to it,” said the lady.

“‘ Juniper-berry tea is good for sick headache,” said
Miss Ophelia; ‘at least Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry’s
wife, used to say so; and she was a great nurse.”

“Vl have the first juniper berries that get ripe in our
garden by the lake brought in for that especial purpose,”
said St. Clare, gravely pulling the bell as he did so; ‘‘ mean-
while, cousin, you must be wanting to retire to your apart-
ment, and refresh yourself a little, after your journey.
* Dolph,” he added, <‘ tell Mammy to come here.” The
decent mulatto woman whom Eva had caressed so raptur-
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.
UNOLE TOM'S CABIN. 263

CHAPTER XVI.
TOM’S MISTRESS AND HER OPINIONS.

«¢ AND now, Marie,” said St. Clare, ‘your golden days
are dawning. Here is our practical, business-like New
England cousin, who will take the whole budget of cares
off your shoulders, and give you time to refresh yourself,
and grow young and handsome. ‘The ceremony of deliver-
ing the keys had better come off forthwith.”

This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few morn-
ings after Miss Ophelia had arrived.

‘«T’m sure she’s welcome,” said Marie, leaning her head
languidly on her hand. she does, and that is, that it’s we mistresses that are the
slaves, down here.”

“ wholesome truths besides, no doubt,” said St. Clare.

«Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our
convenience,” said Marie. ‘I’m sure, if we consulted
that we might let them all go at once.” ;

Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother’s
face, with an earnest and perplexed expression, and said,
simply, “‘ What do you keep them for, mamma?”

‘¢T don’t know, I’m sure, except for a plague; they are
the plague of my life. I believe that more of my ill health
is caused by them than by any one thing; and ours, I
know, are the very worst that ever anybody was plagued
with.”

said St. Clare. ‘You know ’tisn’t so. There’s Mammy,
ree creature living—what could you do without

er?”

‘Mammy is the best I ever knew,” said Marie; ‘‘ and
yet Mammy, now, is selfish—dreadfully ‘selfish; it’s the
fault of the whole race.”

‘Selfishness is a dreadful fault,” said St. Clare,
gravely.

«Well, now, there’s, Mammy,” said Marie, “I think
it’s selfish of her tosleep so sound nights; she knows I need
little attention almost every hour, when my worst turns are
on, and yet she’s so hard to wake. Iabsolutely am worse,
264 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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?”

“‘ Wow can you propose it?” said Marie. ‘St. Clare,
you really are inconsiderate. So nervous asI 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 ser-
vants; 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 ascer-
certain 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 her’s. You see, when I was married and
came to live here, of course, I had to bring her with me,
and her husband my father couldn’t spare. He was a
blacksmith, and, of course, very necessary; and I thought
and said, at the time, that Mammy 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 fool-
ish and indulgent, and didn’t want to insist. [told Mammy,
at the time, that she musn’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 has a kind ofobstinacy about her,
in spots, that everybody don’t see as I do.”

«« Has she children?” said Miss Ophelia.

“© Yes, she has two.”

*T suppose she feels the separation from them?”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 265

«‘ Well, of course, I couldn’t bring them. They were

little dirty things—I couldn’t have them about; and, be-
sides, they took up too much of her time; but I believe
that Mammy has always kept up a sort of sulkiness about
this. She won’t marry anybody else, and I do believe,
now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and
how feeble my health is, she would go back to her husband
to-morrow, if she only could. I do, indeed,” said Marie;
“* they are just so selfish, now, the best of them.”
_ ¢It’s distressing to reflect upon,” said St. Clare, dryly.
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 some-
times whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her
ready to go to a party. As to abuse, she don’t know what
it is. She never was whipped more than once or twice in
her whole life. She has her strong coffee or her tea every
day, with white sugar in it. It’s abominable, to be sure;
but St. Clare will have high life below-stairs, and they
every one of them live just as they please. Thefactis, our
servantsare over-indulged. I supposeit is. partly our fault
that they are selfish, and act like spoiled children; but I’ve
talked to St. Clare till I am tired.”

«And I, too,” said St. Clare, taking up the morning

aper.
Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother
with that expression of deep and mystic earnestness which
was peculiar to her. She walked softly round to her mother’s
chair, and put her arms round her neck.

«* Well, Eva, what now?” said Marie.

«‘Mamma, couldn’t I take care of you one night—just
one? I know I shouldn’t make you nervous, and
shouldn’t sleep. I often lie awake nights, think-
ing——”

ee O, nonsense, child—nonsense!” said Marie; ‘‘ you are
such a strange child!”

«But may I, mamma? I think,” she said, timidly,
“that Mammy isn’t well. She told me her head ached all
the time, lately.”
266 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“°O, that’s just one of Mammy’s fidgets! Mammy is
just like all the rest of them-—makes such a fuss about
every little headache or finger-ache; it’ll never do fo en-
courage it—never! I’m principled about this matter,” said
she, turning to Miss Ophelia; ‘‘ you’ll find the necessity of
it. Ifyou encourage servants in giving way to every little
disagreeable feeling, and complaining of every little
ailment, you’ll have your hands full. I never complain
myself—nobody knows what I endure. I feel ita duty
to bear it quietly, and I do.”

Miss Ophelia’s round eyes expressed an undisguised
amazement at this peroration, which struck St. Clare as
so supremely ludicrous, that he burst out into a loud
laugh.

“St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion
to my ill-health,” said Marie, with the voice of a suffer-
ing martyr. ‘‘I only hope the day won’t come when
he’ll remember it!” and Marie put her handkerchief 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, with-
drawing her handkerchief with somewhat of a spirited
flourish when the criminal to be affected by it was no longer
in sight. ‘‘ He never realizes, never can, never will, what
I suffer, and, have, for years. IfI was one of the com-
plaining sort, or ever made any fuss about my ailments,
there would be some reason for it. Men do get tired,
naturally, of a complaining wife. But I’ve kept things to
myself, and borne, and borne, till St. Clare has got in the
way of thinking I can bear anything.”

Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected
to answer to this.

While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually
wiped away her tears, and smoothed her plumage in a gen-
eral 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 common understanding, to assume the direction—giv-
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 267

ing her so many cautious directions and charges that a
head less systematic and business-like than Miss Ophelia’s
would have been utterly dizzied and confounded.

‘«* And now,” said Marie, ‘I believe I’ve told you every-
thing; so that, when my next sick turn comes on, you’ll be
able to go forward entirely, without consulting me; only
about Hva—she requires watching.”

“She seems to be a good child, very,” said Miss Ophe-
lia; “‘ I never saw a better child.”

‘¢ Hva’s peculiar,” said her mother, ‘‘ very. There are
things about her so singular; she isn’t like me, now, a par-
ticle;” 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 prudence enough to keep it down.

“Eva always was disposed to be with servants; and I
think that well enough with some children. Now [I al-
ways played with father’s little negroes—it never did me
any harm. But Eva somehow always seems to put her-
self 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, en-
courages her init. The fact is, St. Clare indulges every
creature under this roof but his own wife.”

Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.

« Now, there’s no way with servants,” said Marie, ‘ but
to put them down, and keep them down, It was always
natural to me, from a child. Evais enough to spoil a
whole honse full. What she will do when she comes to
keep house herself, I’m sure I don’t know. I hold to de-
ing kind to servants—I always am; but you must make ’em
know their place.. Eva never does; there’s no getting into
the child’s head the first beginning of an idea what a ser-
vant’s place is! You heard her offering to take care of me

nights, to let Mammy sleep! That’s just a specimen of
fthe 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 servants 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 ail out of the way, you know.
268 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Mammy can make up her sleep, some time or other; there’s
no difficulty about that. She’s the sleepiest concern that
ever I saw; sewing, standing, or sitting, that creature will
go to sleep, and sleep anywhere and-everywhere. No
danger but Mammy gets sleep enough. But this treating
servants as if they were exotic flowers, or china vases, is
really ridiculous,” said Marie, as she plunged languidly
into the depths of a voluminous and pillowy lounge, and
drew toward her an elegant cut glass vinaigrette.

«You see,” she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice
like the last dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or some-
thing equally ethereal, ‘“ you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don’t
often speak of myself. It isn’t my hadi; *tisn’t agreeable
tome. In fact, I haven’t strength todoit. But there are
points where St. Clare and I differ. St. Clare never un-
derstood me, never appreciated me. I°think it lies at
the root of all my ill-health. St. Clare means well, I am
bound to believe; but men are constitutionally selfish
and inconsiderate to woman. That, at least, is my im-
pression.”

Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine
New England caution, and a very particular horror of be-
ing drawn into family difficulties, now began to foresee
something of this kind impending; so, composing 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 sympathizing
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 vinaigrette, she went on:

“You see I brought my own property and servants into
the connection, when I married St. Clare, and I am legally
entitled to manage them my own way. St. Clare had his
fortune and his servants, and I’m well enough content he
should manage them his way; but St. Clare will be inter-
fering. He has wild, extravagant notions about things,
particularly about the treatment of servants. He really
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 269

does act as if he set his servants before me, and before him-
self, too; for he lets them make him all sorts of trouble,
and never lifts a finger. Now, about some things, St.
Ciare 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.”

“7 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 knowsomething, and know
it to your cost, if you stay here. You don’t know what a
provoking, stupid, careless, unreasonable childish, ungrate-
ful 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. Hesays we have made them what they
are, and ought to bear with them. Hesays their faults are
all owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the
fault and punish it too. He says we shouldn’t do any
better, in their place; just as if one could reason from them
to us, you know.”

“Don’t you believe that the Lord made them of one
blood with us?” said Miss Ophelia, shortly.

“No, indeed, not I! A pretty story, truly! They are
a degraded race.”

“Don’t you think they’ve gotimmortal souls?” said Miss
Ophelia, with increasing indignation.

““O, well,” said Marie, yawning, “that, of course—no-
body 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 keep-
ing me from mine. ‘There’s no comparing in this way.
270 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Mammy couldn’t have the feelings that Ishould. It’s a
different thing altogether—of course, it is—and yet St.
Clare pretends not to see it. And just as if Mammy could
love her little dirty babies as I love Eva! Yet St. Clare
once really and soberly tried to persuade me that it was my
duty, with my weak health, and all I suffer, to let Mammy
go back, and take somebody else in her place. That wasa
little too much even for me to bear. I don’t often show my
feelings. I make it a principle to endure every thing in
silence; it’s a wife’s hard lot, and I bear it. ButI did
break out, that time; so that he has never alluded to the
subject since. But I know by his looks, and little things
that he says, that he thinks so, as much asever; and it’s so
trying, so provoking!”

Miss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she
should say something; but she rattled away with her
needles in a way that had volumes of meaning in it, if
Marie 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 theirown 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, anc
sometimes I do lay it on; but the exertion is always too much
‘forme. If St. Clare would only have this thing done as
others do “

“Aud how’s that’s?”

“‘ 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 afraid of it, myself; and the
servants know they must mind. I couldn’t do as much by
a regular storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn
of his eye, if once he is in earnest. O, 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.” .


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 271

“The old tune,” said St. Clare, sauntering in. ‘ What
an awful account these wicked creatures will have to settle,
at last, especially for being lazy! You see, cousin,” said he,
as he stretched himself at full length on a 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.

“°O, I must have been mistaken then. Thank you, my
dear, for setting me right.”

“You do really try to be provoking,” said Marie.

«*Q, 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 let 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 undis-
puted management of hima while. I’d bring him down!”

‘* What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual
acuteness and good sense,” said St. Clare. ‘‘ As to Dolph,
the case is this; that he has so long been engaged in imitat-
ing 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 doz3n of my cambric handkerchiefs.
Dolph was particularly huffy about it, and I had to talk to
him like a father, to bring him round.”

“QO! 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 want-
ing to be like his master; and if I haven’t brought him up
any better than to find his chief good in cologne and cam-
bric handkerchiefs, why shouldn’t I give them to him?”
272 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.

«* And why haven’t you brought him up better?” said
Miss Ophelia, with blunt determination.

“‘Too much trouble—laziness, cousin, Jaziness—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.”

‘“‘T think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility
upon you,” said Miss Ophelia. ‘‘I wouldn’t have it, fora
thousand worlds. You ought to educate your slaves, and
treat them like reasonable creatures—like immortal creat-
ures, that you have 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.

“©Q, come, come,” said St. Clare, getting up quickly;
‘what do you know about us?” And he sat down to the
piano, and rattled a lively piece of music. St. Clare hada
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 humor. After pushing the music aside, he rose up,
and said, gayly: ‘Well, now, cousin, you’ve given us a
good talk, and done your duty; on the whole, I think bet-
ter of you forit. 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 appre-
ciated, 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’ema
bit good—not a particle—they get worse and worse. As to
talking to them, or anything like that, ’'m sure I have talked
till Iwas tired and hoarse, telling them their duty, and all
‘that; and I’m sure they can go to church when they like,
though they don’t understand a word of the sermon, more
than so many pigs—soit isn’t of any great nse for them to go,
asIgee; but they do go, and so they have every chance; but,
as I said before, they are a degraded race, and always will
be, and there isn’t any help for them; you can’t make


“O, Tom, you look so funny!”

UNCLE '0M’S CABIN. 275

anything of them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia,
I’ve tried, and you haven’t; I was born and bred among
them, and I know.” :

Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and there-
fore sat silent. St. Clare whistled a tune.

“St. Clare, I wish you wouldn’t whistle,” said Marie ;
<‘it makes my head worse.”

“IT won’t,” said St. Clare, ‘‘ Is there anything else you
wouldn’t wish me to do?”

“T wish you would have some kind of sympathy for my
trials ; you never have any feeling for me.”

“* My dear accusing angel,” said St. Clare.

“‘Tt’s provoking to be talked to in that way.”

‘© Then, how will you be talked to? Vl talk to order—
any way you'll mention—only to give satisfaction.”

A gay langh from the court rang through the silken
curtains of the veranda. St. Clare stepped ont, and lifting
up the curtain, langhed too.

‘‘ What is is?” 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 full of Cape jessamines, and
Eva, gayly laughing, was hanging.a wreath of roses round
lis neck ; and then she sat down on his knee, like a chip-
sparrow, still laughing.

*©Q, 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 lit-
tle mistress. He lifted 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.

~* Why, 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 isimmortal, you shudder at; con-
fess it, cousin. I know the feeling among some of you
northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle of
virtue in our not having it; but custom with us does what
Christianity ought to do—obliterates the feeling of per-
sonal prejudice. I have often noticed, in my travels north
how much stronger this was with you than with us. You
loathe them as‘you would a snake ora toad, yet you are
indignant at their wrongs. You would not have them
276 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

abused; but you don’t want to have anything to do with
them yourselves. You would send them to Africa, out of
your sight and smell, and then send a missionary or two
to do up all the self-denial of elevating them compendi-
ously. 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 chil-
dren?” said St. Clare, leaning on the railing, and watch-
ing Eva, as she tripped off, 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 mine of jewels,
and he the most wonderful 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.”

“*Tt’s strange, cousin,” said Miss Ophelia; ‘one might
almost think you were a professor, to hear you talk.”

“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 practicer,
either.”

“« What makes you talk so then?”

‘‘ Nothing is easier than talking,” said St. Clare. I
believe Shakespeare makes somebody say: ‘I could sooner
show twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the
twenty to follow my own showing.’ Nothing like division
of labor. My forte lies in talking, and your’s, cousin, lies
in doing.”

In Tom’s external situation, at this time, there was, as
the world says, nothing tocomplain of. J.ittle 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 walks or rides; and Tom had gen-
eral orders to let everything else go, and attend to Miss
Eva whenever she wanted him, orders which our readers
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 277

may fancy were far from disagreeable to him. He was kept
well dressed, for St. Clare was fastidiously particular on
this point. Hisstable services were merely asinecure, and
consisted simply in a daily care and inspection, and directing
an under-servant in his duties; for Marie St. Clare declared
that she could not have any smell of the horses about
him when he came near her, and that he must positively
not be put to any service that would make him unpleasant
to her, as her nervous system was entirely inadequate to
any trial of that nature; one snuff of anything disagreeable
being according to her account, quite sufficient to ‘close the
scene, and put an end to all her earthly trials at once.
Tom, therefore, in his well-brushed broadcloth 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 color
were, in other ages,

‘Then, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to
which his 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 court, the silken
hangings, and pictures, and lusters, and statuettes, and
gilding, that made the parlors 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 will awake there
with a gorgeousness and splendor of which our cold west-
ern tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-off mystic
land of gold, and gems, and spices, and waving palins, and
wondrous flowers, and miraculous fertility, will awake new
forms of art, new styles of splendor; and the negro race,
no longer despised and trodden down, will, perhaps, show
forth some of the latest and most magnificent revelations
of human life. Certainly they will, in their gentleness,
their lowly docility of heart, their aptitude to repose on a
superior mind and rest on a higher power, their childlike
simplicity of affection, and facility of forgiveness, In all
these they will exhibit the highest form of the peculiarly
Christian life, und, perhaps, as God chasteneth whom he
loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnace of afflic-
tion, to make her the highest and noblest in that kingdom
which he will set up, when every other kingdom hag
278 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

been tried, and failed; for the first shall be last, and
the last first.

Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she
stood, gorgeously dressed, on the veranda, on Sunday morn-
ing, clasping a diamond bracelet on her slender wrist?
Most likely it was. Or, if it wasn’t that, it was something
else; for Marie patronized good things, and she was going
now, in full foree—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 undulat-
ing 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 thatshe had not as
handsome a silk dressand shawl, and as fine a pocket-hand-
chief; but stiffness and squareness, and bolt-uprightness,
enveloped her with as indefinite yet appreciable a presence
as did grace her elegant neighbor; not the grace of God,
however—that is quite another thing!

‘* Where’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 dread-
ully.’

“‘ Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately.
You don’t need to worry.”

“Weil, I’m glad you’re going out; and here,” and the
little girl threw her-arms round her, ‘‘ Mammy, you shall
take my vinaigrette.”

«What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them dia-
monds! Lor, Miss, *twouldn’t be proper, no ways.”

“‘Why not? You need it, and I don’t. Mamma always
uses it for headache, and it’ll make you feel better. No,

‘you shall take it, to please me, now.”
_ ‘Do hear the darlin’ talk!” said Mammy, as Eva thrust
it into her bosom, and, kissing her, ran down stairs to her
mother.

saris were you stopping for?”

“*T was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to
take to area ai ner : age! : :
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 279

“‘Hva!” said Marie, stamping impatiently, “ your gold
vinaigrette to Mammy! When will you learn what’s pro-
per? Go right and take it back, this moment!” ‘

Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly.

“‘T gay, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as she
pleases,” said St. Clare.

«St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?”
said Marie.

«The Lord knows,” said St. Clare; ‘but she ‘ll get
along in heaven better than you or I.”

“OQ, papa, don’t,” said Eva, softly touching his elbow ;
“it troubles mamma,”

‘* Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?” said
Miss Ophelia, turning square about on St. Clare.

“
‘Ido 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.”

“T know it,” said St. Clare. ‘* You ladies go to church
to learn how to get along in the world, I suppose, and your
piety sheds respectability on us. If I did go at all, I
would go where Mammy goes; there’s something to keep
a fellow awake there, at least.”

«What! those shouting Methodists? Horrible,” said
Marie.

«Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches,
Marie. Positively it’s too much to ask of a man.
Eva, do you like to go? Come, stay at home and play
with me.”

«Thank you, papa, but I’d rather go to church.”

«Isnt it dreadful tiresome?” said St. Clare.

“‘T 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
bid me that God wants to have us; and He gives us every-
thing, you know; and it isn’t much to do it, if He wants
us to. It isn’t so very tiresome, after all.”

<‘ You sweet, little obliging soul,” said St. Clare, kissing
her, “ go along, that’s a good girl, and pray for me.”

“Certainly, I always do,” said the child, as she sprang
after her mother into the carriage.

St. Clair stood on the steps and kissed his hand to ler,
as the carriage drove away ; large tears were in his eyes.
280 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“QO, 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?

“‘ You see, Evangeline,” said her mother, ‘it’s always
right and proper to be kind to servants, but it isn’t proper
to treat them just as we would our relations, or people in
our own class of life. Now, if Mammy was sick, you
wouldn’t want to put her in your own bed?” =

“ T should feel just like it, mamma,” said Eva, ‘* because
then it would be handier to take care of her, and because,
you know, my bed is better than her’s.”’

Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral
perception evinced in this reply.

«What can I do to make this child understand me?” she
said.

** Nothing,” said Miss Ophelia, significantly.

Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment; but
children, luckily, do not keep to one impression long, and
in a few moments she was merrily laughing at various
things which she saw from the coach-windows, as it rattled
along.

‘Well, ladies,” said St. Clare, as they were comfortably
seated at the dinner-table, ‘‘and what was the bill of fare
at church to-day?”

O, Dr. G preached asplendid sermon,” said Marie.
“Tt was just such asermon as you ought to hear; it ex-
pressed 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 season;’ and he showed how all
the orders and distinctions in society came from God; and
that it was so appropriate, you know, and beautiful that
some should be high and some low, and that some were born
to rule and some to serve, and all that, you know; and he
applied it so well to all this ridiculous fuss that is made
about slavery, and he proved distinctly that the Bible was


UNOLE TOM’S CABIN. 281

on our side, and supported all our institutions so convinc-
ingly. I only wish you’d heard him.”

“°O, I didn’t need it,” said St. Clare. ‘I can learn
what does me as much good as that from the Picayune,
any time, and smoke a cigar besides; which I can’t do, you
know, in a church.”

*‘Why,” said Miss Ophelia, ‘‘ don’t you believe in these
“views?”

*‘“Who—I? You know I’m such a graceless dog that
these religious aspects of such subjectsdon’t edify me much.
If I was to say anything on this slavery matter, I would
say out, fair and square, ‘ We’re in for it; we’ve got ’em,
and mean to keep ’em—it’s for our convenience and our
interest;’ for that’s the long and short of it—that’s just
the whole of what all this sanctified stuff amounts to, after
all; and I think that will be intelligible to everybody,
everywhere.”

*“T do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent!” said
Marie. ‘I think it’s shocking to hear you talk.”

‘* Shocking! it’s the truth. This religious talk on such
matters—why don’t they carry it a little further, and show
the beauty, in it’s season, of a fellow’s taking a glass too
much, and sitting a little too late over his cards, and vari-
ous 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 youthink slavery right
or wrong?”

*‘T’m not going to have any of your horrid New Eng-
land directness, cousin,” said St. Clare, gayly. “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 nota
going to define my position.: I am one of the 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 run-
ning 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 hear at
church religion? Is that which can bend and turn, and
descend and ascend, 1. “t every crooked phase of selfish,
282 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

worldly society, religion? Is that religion which is less
scrupulous, less generous, less just, less considerate for
man, than even my own ungodly, worldly, blinded nature?
No! When I look fora religion, I must look for some-
thing above me, and not something beneath.”

«Then you don’t believe that the Bible justifies slavery,”
said Miss Ophelia.

“The Bible was my mother’s book,” said St. Clare.
‘«‘By itshe lived and died, and I would be very sorry to
think it did. J’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 atall more satisfied with these things
in myself, and it would take from me the comfort of re-
specting 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 dif-
ferent things be kept in different 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 un-
derstood that men don’t aspire after the absolute right, but
only to do about as well as the rest of the world. Now,
when anyone speaks up, like a man, and says slavery ig
necessary to us, we can’t get along without it, we should
be beggared if we give it up, and, of course, we mean to
hold on to it—this is strong, clear, well-defined language;
it has the respectability of truth to it; and if we may judge
by their practice, the majority of the world will bear us
out in it. But when he begins to put on a long face, and
snuffle, and quote Scripture, I incline to think he isn’t much
better than he should be.”

“You are very uncharitable.” said Marie.

“‘ Well,” said St. Clare, ‘‘ suppose that something should
bring down the price of cotton once and forever, 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? Whata flood of light wonld pour into the church
all at once, and how immediately it would be discovered
that everything in the Bible and reason went the other
way.”

‘¢ Well, at any rate,” said Marie, as she reclined her-
self on a lounge, ‘I’m thankful I’m born where slavery
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 283

exists; and_I believe it’s right—indeed, I feel it must be;
and, at any rate, ’m sure I couldn’t get along without
it.”

“‘T say, what do you think, Pussy?” said her father to
ae who came in at this moment, with a flower in her
hand.

‘‘ 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?”

*©O, of course, our way is the pleasantest,” said Eva.

«‘ Why so,” 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.”

“Ig it an odd speech, papa?” said Eva, whisperingly, as
she got upon his knee.

“¢ Rather, as this world goes, Pussy,” said St Clare. ‘* But
where has my little Eva been, all dinner-time?”

“OQ, Pve been up in Tom’s room, hearing him sing, and
Aunt Dinah gave me my dinner.”

‘“¢ Hearing ‘om sing, hey?”

“©O, yes! he sings such beautiful things about the New

_Jerusalem, and bright angels, and the land of Canaan.”

“‘T dare say; it’s better than the opera, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and he’s going to teach them to me.”

«Singing lessons, hey? you ave 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 lates’
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, thin
morning, and I stole up to Tom’s cubiculum there, over the -
stables, and there I heard him holding a meeting by him-:
self, and in fact, I haven’t heard anything quite so savory

* as Tom’s prayer, this some time. He put in for me, with
a zeal that was quite apost« sic.”

<* Perhaps he guessed ycu were listening. I’ve heard of
that trick before.”

‘ 934 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

his opinion of me, pretty freely. Tom seemed to think
there was decidedly room for improvement in me, and
seemed very earnest that I should be converted.”

«J hope you'll lay it to heart,” said Miss Ophelia.

««T suppose you are much of the same opinion,” said St.
Clare. ‘* Well, we shall see—shan’t we, Eva?”

CHAPTER XVII.
THE FREEMAN’S DEFENSE.

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 need-
fuls as could be arranged in the smallest compass, for the
wanderers who were to go forth that night. The afternoon
shadows stretched eastward, and the round red sun stood
thoughtfully on the horizon, and his beams shone yellow
and calm into the little bed-room where George and his
wife were sitting. He was sitting with his child on his
knee, and his wife’s handin his. Both looked thoughtful
and serious, and traces of tears were on their cheeks.

‘Yes, Eliza,” said George, ‘ You are a good child—a great deal better than lam; and
I will try to do as you say. Wl try to act worthy of a free
man. I'll try to feel like a Christian. Gcd Almighty
knows that I’ve meant to do well—tried hard to do well—
when everything has been against me; and now I’ll forget
all the past, and put away every hard and bitter feeling,
dnd read my Bible, and learn to be a good man.”

«« And when we get to Canada,” said Eliza, ‘I can help
you. I can do dress-making very well; and I understand
fine washing and ironing; and between us we can find
something to live on.”

‘© Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy.
O! 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 frettin, and worrying about any-
thing else. Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have
nothing but our bare hands. I feel as if I could scarcely
ask God for any more. Yes, though Dve,worked hard
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 285

every day, till 1 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 forme. I
don’t owe him anything.”

“But yet we are not quite out 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 apart-
ment, in earnest conversation, and very soon a rap was
heard on the door. Eliza started and opened it.

Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker
brother, whom he introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas
was tall and lathy, red-haired, with an expression of great
acuteness, and shrewdness in his face. He had not the
placid, quiet, unworldly. air of Simeon Halliday; on the
contrary, a particularly wide-awake and aw fait appear-
ance, like a man who rather prides himself on knowing
what he is about, and keeping a bright look-out ahead;
peculiarities which sorted rather oddly with his broad brim
and formal phraseology.

“Our friend, Phineas, hath discovered something of im-
portance to the interests 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 ata little lone
tavern, back on the road. Thee remembers the place,
Simeon, where we sold some apples, last year, to that fat
woman with the great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with
hard driving; and, after my supper, I stretched myself
down on a pile of bags in the corner, and pulled a buffalo
over me, to wait till my bed was ready; and what does I
do, but get fast asleep.”

«* With one ear open, Phineas?” said Simeon, quietly.

“No, I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was
pretty well tired; but when I came to myself a little, I
found that there were 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,
986 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

especially as I heard them say something about the Quak-
ers. ‘So,’ says one, ‘they are up in the Quaker settle-
ment, 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. ‘This
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 away; and his wife two
of them were going to run down to New Orleans to sell,
on their own account, and they calculated to get sixteen or
eighteen hundred dollars for her; and the child, they said,
was going to a trader, who had bought him; and then
there was the boy, Jim, and his mother, they were to go
back to their masters in Kentucky. They said that there
were two constables, ina 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 fel-
lows, 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 com-
munication, were worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday,
who had taken her hands out of a batch of biscuit, to hear
the news, stood with them upraised and floury, and with a
face of the deepest concern. Simeon looked profoundly
thoughtful; Eliza had thrown her arms around her hus-
band, and was looking up to him. George stood with
clinched 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 Chris-.
tian nation’s laws.

“‘ What shall we do, George?” said Eliza, faintly.

“‘I know what I shall do,” said George, as he stepped
into the little room, and began examining his pistols.

“Ay, ay,” said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon;
**thou seest, Simeon, how it will work.”

“‘T see,” said Simeon, sighing; ‘‘I pray it come not to
that.”

“*T don’t want to involve any one with or for me,” said
George. ‘If you will lend me your vehicle and direct me,
I will drive alone to the next stand. Jim is a giant in
strength, and brave as death and despair, and so am I.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 287

«Ah, well, friend,” said Phineas, ‘‘ but thee’ll need a
driver, for all that. Thee’s quite welcome to do all the
fighting, thee knows; but I know a thing or two about the
road, that thee doesn’t.” i.

“But I don’t want to involve you,” said George.

‘« Involve,” said Phineas, with a curious and keen expres-
sion of face. ‘‘When thee does involve me, please to let
me know.”

‘¢ Phineas is a wise and skillful 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.”

‘*T 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 Orleans
market. I know what they are sold for; and am I going
to stand by and see them take my wife and sell her, when
God has given me a pair of strong arms to defend her?
No; God help me! Pll fight tothe 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 offenses, but woe unto them through
whom the offense cometh.” :

“‘ Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?”

“I pray that 1 be not tried,” said Simeon; ‘the flesh is
weak,”

“I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in
such a case,” suid Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms
like the sails of a windmill. ‘‘I ain’t sure, friend George,
that I shouldn’t hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any
accounts to settle with him.”

“Tf 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; for the wrath of man
worketh not the righteousness of God: but it goes sorely
against the corrupt will of man, and none can receive it save
they to whom itisgiven. Let us pray the Lord that we be
not tempted.”

“And so J do,” said Phineas; ‘‘ but if we are tempted too
much——why, let them look out, that’s all.”
288 _ UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“It’s quite plain thee wasn’t born a Friend,” said Sim.
eon, smiling. ‘‘ The old nature hath its wayin thee pretty
strong as yet.”

To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted
backwoodsman, 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 thesociety in his
neighborhood; and though he was an honest, sober, and
efficient member, and nothing particular could be alleged
against him, yet the more spiritual among them could
not but discern an exceeding lack of savor in his develop-
ments. ;

‘‘ Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own,” said
Rachel Halliday, smiling; ‘‘ but weall think that his heart
is in the right place, after all.”

‘‘ Well,” said George, “isn’t it best that we hasten our
flight?” ¢

“T got up at four o’clock, and came on with all speed,
full two or three hours ahead of them, if they start at the
time they planned. It isn’t safe to start till dark, at any
rate; for there are some evil persons in the villages ahead,
that might be disposed to meddle with us, if they saw our
wagon, and that would delay us more than the waiting;
but in two hours I think we may venture. I will go over
to Michael Cross, and engage him to come behind on his ~
swift nag, and keep a bright lookout on the road, and
warn us if any company of men come on. Michael keeps
* a horse that can soon get ahead of most other horses; and
he could shoot ahead and let us know, if there were any
danger. I am going out now to warn Jim and the old
woman to be in readiness, and to see about the horse. We
have a pretty fair start, and stand a good chance to get to
the stand before they can come up with us. So have good
courage, friend. George; thisisn’t the first ugly scrape that
Bie been in with thy people,” said Phineas, as he closed the

oor.

“« Phineas is pretty shrewd,” said Simeon. ‘‘ He will do
the best that can be done for thee, George,”

ss All Iam sorry for,” said George, “is the risk to

ou.

**Thee’ll much oblige us, friend George, to say no more
about that. _What we do we are conscience bound to do;
we can do no other way. And now, mother,” said he turn-
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 289

ing 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 ef ceteras of the evening meal, George and his wife sat
in their little room, with their arms folded about each other
in such talk as husband and wife have when they know
that a few hours may part them forever.

“‘ Hliza,” said George, ‘people that have friends, and
houses, and lands, and money, and all those things, can’t
love as we do, who have nothing but each other. Till I
knew you, Eliza, no creature ever had loved me, but my
poor, 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, ’l] give my last drop of blood, but they shall not
take you from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my
dead body.”

‘ will only let us get out of this country together, that is all
we ask.”

«Ts 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 ison theirside; certainly all
the power is. They are rich, and healthy, and happy; they
are members of churches, expecting to go to heaven; and
they get along so easy in the world, and have it all their
own way; and poor, honest, faithful Christians—Christians
as good or 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 God
lets them.”

‘Friend George,” said Simeon, from the kitchen, “ listen
to this psalm; it may do thee good.”

George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping
290 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

her tears, came forward also to listen, while Simeon read
as follows:

‘But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps
had well-nigh slipped. For I was envious of the foolish,
when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. They are not
in trouble like other men, neither are they plagued like
other men. ‘Therefore, pride compasseth them as a chain;
violence covereth them as a garment. Their eyes-stand
out with fatness; they have more than heart could wish.
They are corrupt, and speak wickedly concerning oppres-
sion; 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?” ;

“Tg not that the way thee feels, George?”

“Tt is so, indeed,” said George; ‘‘ as well as I could
have written it myself.”

“Then, hear,” said Simeon: “When I thought to know
this, it was too painful for me until I went unto the sanctu~
ary of God. Then understood I their end. Surely thou
-didst set them in slippery places, thou casted’st them down
to destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, so, oli
Lord, when thou awakest, thou shalt despise their image.
Nevertheless, I amcontinually with thee; thou hast holden
me by my right hand. Thou shalt guide me by thy coun-
sel, and afterward receive me to glory. It is good for me
2 draw near unto God. Ihave put my trust in the Lord

od.”

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.

“Tf this world were all, George,” said Simeon, ‘‘ thee
might, indeed, ask, where is the Lord? But it is often
those who have least of all in this life whom he chooseth
for the kingdom. Put thy trust in him, and, no matter
what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter.”

If these words had. been spoken by some easy, self-indul-
gent exhorter, 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
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 291

had a weight that could not but be felt, and both the poor
desolate fugitives found calmness and strength breathing
into them from it. :

“And now Rachiel took Eliza’s hand kindly, and led the
way to the supper-table. As they were sitting down, a
light tap sounded at the door, and Ruth entered.

“‘T 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 round to Eliza’s side
of the table, and shaking her warmly by the hand, and
slipping a seed-cake into Harry’s hand. ‘I brought a lit-
tle parcel of these for him,” she said, tugging at her
pocket to get out the package. ‘Children, thee knows,
will always be eating.”

**Q, thank you; you are too kind,” said Eliza.

“Come, Ruth, sit down to supper,” said Rachel.

“T couldn’t, any way. I left John with the baby, and
some biscuits in the oven; and I can’t stay a moment, else
John will burn up all the biscuits, and give the baby all
the sugar in the bowl. That’s the way he does,” said the
little Quakeress, laughing. So, Good-by, Eliza; good-by,
George; the Lord grant thee a safe journey;” and, with a
few tripping steps, Ruth was out of the apartment.

A little while after supper, a large covered wagon drew
up before the door; the night was clear starlight; and Phin-
eas jumped briskly down from his seat to arrange his pas-
sengers, 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 wagon, there, for the wo-
men folks and the boy.”

«* Here are the two buffaloes,” said Rachel. ‘‘ Make the.
seats as comfortable 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 pursuer 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 shall do, if they
come? ”
292 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“T rather think I haven’t,” said Jim, throwing open his
broad chest, and taking a deep breath. ‘Do you think I’ll
let them get mother again?”

During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her
leave of her kind friend, Rachel, and was handed into the
carriage by Simeon, and creeping into the back part with
her boy, sat down among the buffalo skins. The old wo-
man 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 friends,” said Simeon, from without.

‘God bless you!” answered all from within.

And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the
frozen road.

There was no opportunity for conversation, on the ac-
count of the roughness of the way and the noise of the
wheels. ‘'he vehicle, therefore rumbled on, through long,
dark stretches of woodland—over wide, dreary plains—up
hills, and down valleys—and on, on, on they jogged, hour
after hour. The child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in
his mother’s lap. The poor, frightened.old woman at last
forgot her fears; and, even Eliza, as the night waned,
found all her anxieties insufficient to keep her eyes from
closing. Phineas seemed, on the whole, the briskest of the
company, and beguiled his long drive with whistling cer-
tain very unquaker-like songs, as he went on.

But about three o’clock George’s ear caught the hasty
.and decided click of a korse’s hoof coming behind them at
some distance, and jogged Phineasby the elbow. Phineas
pulled up his horses, and listened.

“*That must be Michael,” he said; ‘‘I think I know the
sound of his gallop; ” and he rose up and stretched his head
anxiously back over the road.

A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the
top of a distant hill.

‘« There he is, I do believe,” suid Phineas. George and
Jim both sprang out of the wagon, before they knew what
they were doing. All stood intensely silent, with their
faces turned toward the expected messenger. 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,
diene ihe halted |
\ WSS
we SI



eS £efiga”

A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the top of a distant hill.
294 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“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 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 toward them.

“Tn with you—quick boys, in/” said Phineas. ‘‘ If
you must fight, wait till I get you a piece ahead.” And,
with the word, both jumped in, and Phineas lashed the
horses to a run, the horseman keeping close beside them.
The wagon rattled, jumped, almost flew, over the frozen
ground; but plainer, and still plainer, came the noise of
pursuing horsemen behind. ‘The women heard it, and
looking anxiously out, saw, far in the rear, on the brow of
a distant hill, a party of men looming up against the red-
streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their pur-
suers had evidently caught sight of their wagon, whose
white cloth-covered top made it conspicuous at some dis-
tance, 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 clinched their pistols with the grasp of despair.
The pursuers gained on them fast; the wagon 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 clear and
smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose up
black and heavy against the brightening sky, and seemed
to promise shelter and concealment. It was a place well
known to Phineas, who had been familiar with the spot in
his hunting days; 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 twinkling, every one, and up into these rocks
with me. Michael, thee tie thy horse to the wagon, and
drive ahead to Amariah’s, and get him and his boys to
come back and talk to these fellows.”

In a twinkling they were all out of the wagon.

«‘ There,” said Phineas, catching up Harry, “ you, each
of you, see to the women; and run, now, if you ever did
run.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 295

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, throwing himself from
his horse, and fastening the bridle to the wagon, 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 foot-path leading up
among them; ‘‘ this is one of ourold hunting dens. Come
up!

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a
goat, with the boy in hisarms. Jim camesecond, bearing
his trembling old mother over his shoulder, and George
and Eliza brought up the rear. The party of horsemen
came up to the fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths
were dismounting, to prepare to follow them. A few
moments scrambling brought them to the top of the ledge;
the path then passed between a narrow defile, where only
one could walk at a time, till suddenly they came to a rift
or chasm more than a yard in breadth, and beyond which
lay a pile of rocks, separate from the rest of the ledge,
standing full thirty feet high, with its sides steep and
perpendicular as those of a castle. Phineas easily leaped
the chasm, and sat down the boy on a smooth, flat plat-
form of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the
rock.

“Over with you!” he called; “spring, now, once, for
your lives!” said he, as one after another sprang across.
Several fragments of loose stone formed a kind of breast-
work, 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 be-
tween those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys,
d’ye see?”

‘‘T do see,” said George; “and now, as this matter is
ours, let us take all the risk, and do all the fighting.”

“ Thee’s quite welcome to do the fighting, George,” said
Phineas chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke;
“but I may have the fun of looking on, I suppose. But
see, these fellows are kinder debating down there, and look-
296 - UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

ing up, like hens when they are going to fly up on to the
roost. Hadn’t thee better give em a word of advice, be-
fore 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, consisted of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker
and Marks, with two constables, aud 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 coonsare 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,” gaid- Marks. ‘That would be very ugly, you
know.” |

“Ugh!” said Tom, with a sneer.‘ Always for saving
your skin, Marks! No danger! Niggers are too plaguy
scared! 7”

“Tdon’t know why I shouldn’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 wanta party of runaway niggers,” said Tom Loker.

“‘One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and
Jim Selden, and an old women. We’ve got the officers,
here, and a warrant to take ’em; and we’re going to have
em, too. D’ye hear? Ain’t you George Harris, that be-
longs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?”
. “Tam 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 doit. 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.”

“OQ, come! come!” said a short, puffy man, ‘stepping
UNOLE TOM’S CABIN. — 297

forward, and blowing his nose as he did so. ‘‘ Young man,
this ain’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 yon’d better give up peaceably,
you see; for you'll certainly have to give up, at last ”

<°T 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 calfin a trader’s pen, and send Jim’s old mother to the
brute that whipped and abused her before, because 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’town your laws; we don’t
own your country; we stand hereas free, under God’s sky,
as you are; and, by the great God that made us, we'll fight
for our liberty till we die.”

George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, as
he made his declaration of independence; the glow of dawn
gave a flush to his swarthy cheek, and bitter indignation
and despair gave fire to his dark eye; and, as if appealing
from man to the justice of God, he raised his hand to
heaven as he spoke.

If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now bravely
defending in some mountain fastness the retreat of fugi-
tives escaping from Austria into America, this would have
been sublime heroism; but as it was a youth of African de-
scent, defending the retreat of fugitives through America
into Canada, of course we are too well instructed and pa-
triotic 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 make their way,
against all the search-warrants and authorities of their law-
ful government, to America, press and political cabinet
‘ring with applause and welcome. When despairing Afri-
can fugitives do the same thing—it is—what 7s it?

Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice,
manner, of the speaker, for a moment struck the party
below to silence. There is something in boldness and de-
termination 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 momen-
998 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

tary 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 said, coolly, as he wiped his 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.

“‘Tt’s nothing, Eliza,” said George, quickly.

«‘Thee’d better keep out of sight, with thy speech-
ifying,” said Phineas; ‘‘ they’re mean scamps.”

«‘Now, Jim,” said George, ‘‘look that. your pistols are
all right, and watch that pass with me. The first man
that shows himself I fire 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?”

**T shall hit,” said George, coolly.

“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.

«JT think you must have hit some on ’em,’
the men. ‘I heard a squeal!”

“Tm going right up for one,” sail Tom. ‘I never was
afraid of niggers, and I ain’t going to be now. Who goes
after?” he said, springing up the rocks,

- George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his
pistol, examined it, pointed it toward that point in the
defile where the first man would appear.

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom,
and, the way being thus made, the whole party began
pushing up the rock—the hindermost pushing the front
ones faster than they would have gone of themselves. On
they came, and ina moment the burly form of Tom ap-
peared 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 bull, he was leaping right across the chasm 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 down among

2

said one of


rge fired.

Geo

~

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 301

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 puffing in a very energetic manner.

“Tsay, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and
pick up Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse,
to go back for help—that’s 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 he clear out and leave
us this yer way!”

“Well, we must pick up that feller,” said another.
“‘Quss me if I much care whether he is dead or alive.”

The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and
crackled through stumps, logs and bushes, to where that
hero lay groaning and swearing, with alternate vehemence.

“« Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom,” said one. ‘Ye
much hurt?”

“Don’t know. Get me up, can’t ye? Blast that in-
fernal Quaker! If it hadn’t been for him, I’d a pitched
some on ’em down here, to see how they liked it.”

With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was as-
sisted to rise; and, with one holding him up under each
shoulder, they got him as far as the horses.

«Tf you could only get mea mile back to that ar tavern.
Give me a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place
and stop this infernal bleeding.”

George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift
the burly form of Tom intothesaddle. After two or three
ineffectual attempts, he reeled, and fell heavily to the

ground.

«°O, I hope he isn’t killed,” said Eliza, who, with all the
party, stood watching the proceeding.

«Why not?” said Phineas; ‘‘ serves him right.”

i. “Because, after death comes the judgment,” said
liza.

>
302 UNCLE T0M’S CABIN.

“© Yes,” said the old woman, who had been groaning
and praying, in her Methodist fashion, during all the
encounter, “it’s an awful case for the poor critter’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.
**T told Michaelto go forward and bring help, and be along
back here with the wagon; but we shall have to walk a
piece along the road, I reckon, to meet them. The Lord
‘grant he be along soon! It’s early in the day; there won’t.
be much travel afoot yet awhile; we ain’t much more
than two miles from our stopping place. If the road
hadn’t been so rough last night, we could have outrun ’em
entirely.” :

As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the dis-
tance, along the road, their own wagon coming back, ac-
companied by some men on horseback.

«* Well, now, there’s Michael, and Stephen, and Ama-
riah,” exclaimed Phineas, joyfully. ‘‘ Now weare madeas
safe as if we’d got there.”

“Well, do stop, then,” said Eliza, “and do something
for that poor man; he’sgroaning dreadfully.”

“‘Tt 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 Phin-
eas; “‘pretty well, that! Well, I don’t care if we do.
Here, let’s have a look at him;” and Phineas, who, in the
course of his hunting, and backwoods life, had acquired
some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down by the
wounded man, and began a careful examination of his con-
dition.

“* Marks,” said Tom, feebly, ‘is that you, Marks?”

**No; 1 reckon ’tain’t, friend,” said Phineas. ‘‘ Much
Marks cares for thee, if his own skin’s safe. He’s off long

“‘T 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 critter. He’s got a
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. ' 308

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 surgi-
cal arrangements with his own pocket handkerchief, and
such as could be mustered in 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 band-
age. ‘* There, there—let me fix this bandage. We mean
well to thee; we bear no malice. Thee shall be taken toa
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,
vigor and resolution are entirely a physical matter, and
ooze out with the flowing of the blood; and the gigantic
fellow really looked piteous in his helplessness.

' The other party now came up. The seats were taken
out of the wagon. ‘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 gotten in, he fainted entirely. The old negress, in the
abundance of her compassion, sat down on the bottom, and
took his head in her lap. Eliza, George and Jim, bestowed
themselves, as well as they could, in the remaining space,
and the whole party set forward. .

«¢ What do you think of him?” said George, who sat by
Phineas in front.

‘* Well, it’s only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but, then,
tumbling and scratching down that place didn’t help him
much. It has bled pretty freely—pretty much dreaned
him out, courage and all—but he’ll get over it, and may
be learn a thing or two by it.”

“‘T am glad to hear you say so,” said George. ‘It would
always be a heavy thought to me, if I’d caused his death
even in a just cause.”

«¢ Yes,” said Phineas, “killing is an ugly operation, any
way they’ll fix it—man or beast. I’ve beena great hunter,
in my day, and I tell thee I’ve seen a buck that was shot
down, and a dying, look that way on a feller with his eye,
that it reely most made a feller feel wicked for killing on
304 UNCLE TOM’S UABIN.

him; and human creatures is a more serious consideration
yet, bein’, 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 toostrict; and, considerin’ how I was raised
I fell in with them pretty considerably.”

‘‘What shall you do with this poor fellow?” said
George.

«QO, carry him along to Amariah’s. There’s old Grand-
mam Stephens there—Dorcas, they call her—she’s most an
amazin’ nurse. She takes to nursing real natural, and
ain’t never better suited than when she gets a sick body to
tend. We may reckon on tnrning him over to her for a
fortnight or so.”

A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat
farm-house, where the weary travelers were received to an
abundant breakfast. Tom Loker was soon carefully de-
posited in a much cleaner and softer bed than he had ever
been in the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully
dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and
shutting his eyes on the white window-curtains and gently-
gliding figures of his sick room, like a weary child.
And here, for the present, we shall take our leave of one
party.

CHAPTER XVIII.
MISS OPHELIA’S EXPERIENCES AND OPINIONS.

Our friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often com-
pared his more fortunate lot, in the bondage into which
he was cast, with that of Joseph in Egypt; and, in fact,
as time went on, and he developed more and more un-
der the eye of his master, the strength of the parallel in-
creased.

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. Accustomed,
for many years, to regard his master’s property as his own
care, Tom saw, with an uneasiness he could scarcely re-
press, the wasteful expenditure of the establishment;
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 305

and, in the quiet, indirect way which his class often acquire
would sometimes make his own suggestions.

St. Clare at first employed him. occasionally; but, struck
with his soundness of mind and good business capacity,
he confided in him more and more, till gradually all the
HS ne and providing for the family were intrusted to
iim.

“No, no, Adolph,” he said one day, as Adolph was
deprecating the passing of power out of his hands; “let
Tom alone. You only understand what you want; Tom
understands cost and come to; and there may be some
end to money, bye and bye 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 impreg-
nable simplicity of nature, strengthened by Christian faith
could have kept him from it. But, to that nature, the
very unbounded trust reposed in him was bond and seal for
the most scrupulous accuracy.

With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless
and self-indulgent, and unrestrained by a master who
found it easier to indulge than to regulate, he had fallen
into an absolute confusion as to mewm 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 indulgence. He
ee lightly over the most serious faults, because he told

imself 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 solici-
tude. That he never read the Bible; never went to church;
that he jested and made free with any and everything that
came in the way of his wit; that he spent his Sunday eve-
nings at the opera or theater; 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 conviction that ‘‘mas’r wasn’t
306 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

a Christian; ” a conviction, howeyer, which he would have
been very slow to express to any one else, but on which he
founded many prayers, in hisown simple fashion, when
he was by himself in his little dormitory. Not that Tom
had his own way of speaking his mind occassionally,
with something of the tact often observable in his class; as,
for example, the very day after the Sabbath we have de-
scribed, 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 condition when the physical had de-
cidedly 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 atthe rusticity of Tom’s
horror, who really was simple enough to lie awake most of
the rest of the night, praying for his young master.

‘*Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?” said St. Clare,
the next day, as he sat in his library, in his dressing-gown
and slippers. St. Clare had just been intrusting Tom with
some money, and various commissions. ‘‘Isn’t it all right
there, Tom?” he added as Tom stood waiting.

“T’m ’fraid not, mas’r,” said Tom, with a grave face.

St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-
cup, and looked at Tom.

“‘Why, Tom, what’s the case? You look as solemn asa
coffin.”

“‘T feel very bad, mas’r. I allays have thought that
mas’r would be good to everybody.”

“‘ Well, Tom, haven’t I been? Come, now, what do you
want? 'There’s something you haven’t got, I suppose, and
this is the preface.”

“¢ Mas’r allays been good to me. I haven’t nothing to
complain of, on that head. But there is one that mas’r
isn’t good to.”

** Why, Tom, what’s got into you? Speak out; what do
you mean?”

“Last night, between one and two, I thought so. [|
oe upon the matter then. Mas’r isn’t good to him-
self.

‘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.

“°O, that’s all, is it?” he said gayly.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 307

‘« All!” said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling
on his knees. ‘*O, my dear young mas’! I’m ’fraid it
will be loss of all—ali—body and soul. ‘The good Book
says, ‘it biteth like aserpent 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
owneyes. ‘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 non-
sense, ‘'om,” said St. Clare, ‘on my honor, I won’t. I
don’t know why I haven’t stopped long ago. I’ve always
despised 7#, 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 honor to you, Tom, you don’t see me so again,”
he said; and Tom went off, wiping his eyes, with great
satisfaction. :

“‘T’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 nature. ;

But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulations mani-
fold of our friend Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labors
of a southern housekeeper?

There is all the difference in the world in the servants of
southern establishments, according to the character and
capacity of the mistresses who have brought them up.

South as well as north, there are women who have an
extraordinary talent for command, and tact in educating.
Such are enabled, with apparent ease, and without severity,
to subject to their will, and bring into harmonious and
systematic order, the various members of their small estate
—to regulate their peculiarities, and so balance and com-
pensate the deficiencies of one by the excess of another, as
to produce a harmonious and orderly system.

' Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have
already described; and such our readers may remember to
have met with. If they are not common at the south, it
is because they are not common in the world. They are to
be found there as often as anywhere; and, when existing,
find in that peculiar state of society a brilliant opportunity
to exhibit their domestic talent,
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“Get up,
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 809

‘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 con-
fusion she would find in the family, though she had not as-
cribed 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 chamber-maid, she
prepared for a vigorous onslaught on the eupboards and
closets of the establishment of which she had the keys.

The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, the
kitchen and cellar, that day, all went under an awful re-
view. Hidden things of darkness were brought to light to
an extent that alarmed all the principalities and powers of
kitchen and chamber, and caused many wonderings and
murmurings 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
ofher. She wasa native 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 per-
fectly scorned logic and reason in every shape, and always
took refuge in intuitive certainty; and here she was per-
fectly impregnable. No possible amount of talent, or au-
thority, or explanation, could ever make her believe that
any other way was better than her own, or that the course
she had pursued 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 marriage,
310 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

found it easier to submit than contend; and so Dinah had
ruled supreme. This was the easier, in that she was per-
fect 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 off every sin and frailty, so as
to maintain her 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 unsparing.

zeal.

' But it was very seldom that there was any failure in
Dinah’s last results. ‘Though her mode of doing every-
thing was peculiarly meandering and circuitous, and with-
out-any sort of calculation as to time and place—though
her kitchen generally looked as if it had been arranged by
a hurricane blowing through it, and she had about as many
places for each cooking utensil as there were days in the
year—yet, if one would have patience to wait her own good
time, up would come her dinner in perfect order, and in
a style of preparation with which an epicure could find no
fault.

It was now the season of incipient preparation for din-
ner. Dinah, who required large intervals. of reflection
and repose, and was studious of ease in all her arrange-
ments, 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 give
a poke, or a rap on the head, to some of the young opera-
tors, with the pudding-stick that lay by her side. In fact,
Dinah ruled over the woolly heads of the younger mem-
bers with a rod of iron, and scemed to consider them born
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 311

for no earthly purpose but to ‘‘save her steps,” as she
phrased it. It was the spirit of the system under which
she had grown up, and she carried it out to its full ex-
tent.

Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour
through all the other parts of the establishment, now en-
tered the kitchen. Dinah had heard, from various sources
what was going on, and resolved to stand on defensive and
conservative ground—mentally determined to oppose and
ignore every new measure, without any actual and observ-
able contest.

The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a
great old-fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of it
—an arrangement which St. Clare had vainly tried to per-
suade Dinah to exchange for the convenience of 2 modern
cook-stove.- Not she. No Puseyite, or conservative of any
school, was ever more inflexibly attached to time-honored
inconveniences than Dinah.

When St. Clare had first returned from the north, im-
pressed with the system and order of his uncle’s kitchen
arrangements, he had largely provided his own with an ar-
ray of cupboards, drawers, and various apparatus, to in-
duce systematic regulation, under the sanguine illusion
that it would-be of any possible assistance to Dinah in her
arrangements.. He mightas well 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, rib-
bons, 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 tranquility, 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 be. From the variety it contained, Miss
Ophelia pulled out first a fine damask table-cloth stained
with blood, having evidently been used to envelop some
raw meat.

“‘What’s this, Dinah? You don’t wrap up meat in your
mistress’ best table-cloths?”
312 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“‘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.”

“‘Shif’less!” 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 tobacco and a pipe, a few
crackers, one or two gilded china-saucers with some pomade
in them, one or two thin old shoes, a piece of flannel care-
fully pinned up enclosing some small white onions, several
damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some
twine and darning-needles, and several broken papers, from
which sundry sweet herbs were sifting into the drawer.

“‘ Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?” said Miss
Ophelia, with the air of one who prayed for patience. _

‘* Most anywhar, missis; there’s some in that cracked tea-
cup, up there, and there’s some over in that ar cupboard.”

“« Here are some in the grater,” said Miss Ophelia, hold-
ing them up.

** Laws, yes, I put ’em there this morning—I likes to
keep my things handy,” said Dinah. ‘You, Jake! what
are you stopping for! You'll cotch it! Be still, thar!”
she added, with a dive of her stick at the criminal.

** What’s this?” said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer
of pomade.

‘Laws, it’s my har grease—I put it thar to have it
handy.”

“*Do you use your mistress’ best saucers for that?”

‘Law! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry—I
was gwine to change it this very day.”

“* Here are two damask table-napkins.”

**Them table-napkins I put thar, to get ’em washed out,
some day.”

“Don’t you have some place here on purpose for things
to be washed ?”

“Well, Mas’r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat;
but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some
days, and then it ain’t handy a liftin’ up the lid.”

“Why don’t you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table,
there?” 4

‘‘ Law, missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing
aud another, der ain’t no room, noways.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN, 818

*¢ But you should wash your dishes, and clear them away.’
«* Wash my dishes!” said Dinah, in a high key, as her
- wrath began to rise over her habitual respect of manner;
“‘what does ladies know ’bout work, I want to know?
When’d mas’r ever get his dinner, if I was to spend all my
time a washin’ and a puttin’ up dishes? Miss Marie never
telled me so, nohow.”’.

‘“‘Well, here are these onions.”

*« Laws, yes! "said Dinah, “‘ thar 7s whar I put em, now.
Icouldn’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 papers of sweet herbs.

“T wish missig wouldn’t touch dem ar. I likes 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.”

“« Laws, yes! if missis will go a tumblin’ things all up
so, it will. Missis has spilt lots dat ar way,” said Dinah,
coming uneasily to the drawers. ‘If missis only will go
up stars till my clarin’ up time comes, I’ll have everything
right; but I can’t do nothin’ when ladies is round, a
henderin’, You, Sam, don’t you gib the baby dat ar sugar-
bowl! Tl crack ye over, if ye don’t mind!”

“I’m going through the kitchen, and going to put every-
thing in order, once, Dinah; and then I’ll expect you to
keep it so.”

‘Lor, now! Miss ’Phelia; dat ar ain’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 Miss
Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scatter-
ing bowls of sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins,
table-cloths, and towels, for washing; washing, wiping,
- and arranging with her own hands, and with a speed and
alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.

‘Lor, now! if datar de way dem northern ladies do, dey
ain’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,” ;
314 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

To’ do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, par-
oxysms of reformation 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 discoursing upon them; making all the
young fry scour most vigorously on the tin things, and
keeping up for several hours a most’energetic state of con-
fusion, which she would explain to the satisfaction of all
inquirers, by the remark that she was a ‘‘clarin’ up.”
«She couldn’t hev things a gwine on so as they had been,
and she was gwine to make these yer young uns keep bet-
ter order;” for Dinah herself, somehow indulged the illusion
that she, herself, was the soul of order, and it was only the
young uns, and the everybody else in the house, that were
the cause of anything that fell short of perfection in this
respect. When all the tins were scoured, and the tables
were scrubbed snowy white, and everything that could of-
fend tucked out of sight in holes and corners, Dinah
would dress herself np 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 whole house-
hold; 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 purpose—at least,
till the ardor of the ‘*clarin’ up” period abated.

Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every
department of the house to a systematic pattern; but her
labors in all departments that depended on the co-opera-
tion 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 saw!”

“«T dare say. you didn’t.”

“You would not take it so coolly, if you were house-
keeper,” ,
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. ~ 815

*¢ My dear cousin, you may as well understand, once for
all, that we masters are divided into two classes, oppres-
sors and oppressed. We who are good-natured and hate
severity make up our minds toagood deal of inconvenience.
If we will keep ashambling, loose, untanght set in the com-
munity, for our convenience, why, we must take the con-
sequence. 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 devils thrashed and cut to pieces, and they
know it—and, of course, they know thestaff 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 extravagant 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 to lounge on the sofa and
read, an hour sooner or later in breakfast or dinner isn’t of
much account. Now, there’s Dinah gets you a capital
dinner—soup, ragout, roast fowl, dessert, ice-creams and all
—and she creates it all out ofchaosand 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, and
hurryscurryation of the preparatory process, we should never
eat more! My good cousin, absolve yourself from that!
It’s more than a Catholic penance, and does no more good.
You'll only lose your own 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-five different sugar-bowls, one
in every hole in the house—that she washes dishes with a
dinner-napkin one day, and with a fragment of an old
petticoat the next? But the upshot is, she gets up glori-
ous dinners, makes superb coffee; and you must judge her
as warriors and statesmen are judged, by her success.”

“But the waste—the expense!”

*©O, well! Lock everything you can, and keep the key.
816 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Give out by driblets, and never inquire for odds and ends;
it isn’t best.”

«‘ That trouble’s me, Augustine. I can’t help feeling as
if these servants 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! O, fiddlestick! What instructing do you
think I should do? I look like it! As to Marie, she has
spirit enough, to be sure, to kill off a whole plantation, if
I'd let her manage; but she wouldn’t get the cheatery ont
of them.”

«¢ Are there no honest ones?”

“‘* Well, now and then one, whom Nature makes so
impracticably simple, truthful and faithful, that the worst
possible influence can’t destroy it. But, you see, from the
mother’s breast the colored child feels and_sees that there
are none but underhand ways open to it. It can get along
no other way with its parents, its mistress, it’s young mas-
ter and missie play-fellows. Cunning and deception be-
come 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, if he can get them. For my part, I don’t see
- how they caz 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, how-
ever it may turn out in another.”

“‘This.is perfectly horrible! ” said Miss Ophelia; ‘‘ you
ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

_ T don’t know asIam. Weare in pretty good company
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 317

for all that,” said St. Clare, ‘as people in the broad road
generally are. Look at the high and the low, all the world
over, and it’s the same story—the lower class used up,
body, soul and spirit, for the good of the upper. It is so
in England; it is so everywhere; and yet all Christen-
dom stands aghast, with virtuous indignation, because,
we do the thiug in a little different shape from what they
do it.”

«Tt 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 ont 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! there’s Prue a coming, grunting along like she allers
does.”

A tall bony colored woman now entered the kitchen,
bearing on her head a basket of rusks and hot rolls.

“*Ho, Prue! you’ve come,” said Dinah.

Prue had a peculiar scowling expression of countenance
and a sullen, grumbling voice. She set down her basket,
squatted herself down, and resting her elbows on her knees,
said:

“©Q Lord! I wish’t I’s dead! ”

‘a Why do you wish you were dead?” said Miss Oph-
elia.

“Td be out o? my misery,” said the woman, grufily,
without taking her eyes from the floor.

“What need you getting drunk, then, and cutting up,
Prue?” said a spruce quadroon chambermaid, dangling, as”
she spoke, a pair of coral 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, like
me, to forget your misery.”

“©Come, Prue,” said Dinah, “ let’s look at your rusks,
Here’s missis will pay for them.”

Miss Ophelia took out a couple of dozen.

‘* Thar’s some tickets in that ar old cracked jug on the
top shelf,” said Dinah. ‘‘ You, Jake, climb up and getit
down.”

‘* Tickets—what are they for?” said Miss Ophelia.
318 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

‘“‘ We buys 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 hain’t they half
kills me.”

«« And serves you right,” said Jane, the pert chamber-
maid, “if you will take their money to get drunk on.
That’s what she does, missis.”

«And that’s what I wid? do—I can’t live no other ways;
drink and forget my misery.”

“¢You are very wicked and very foolish,” said Miss
Ophelia, ‘to steal your master’s money to make yourself a
brute with.”

‘It’s mighty likely, missis; but I will do it; yes, I will.
O Lord! I wish I’s dead, I do—I wish I’s dead, and ont
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 thé quadroon girl, who still stood play-
ing with her ear-drops.

“Ye think ye’re mighty fine with them ar, a frolickin’
and a tossin’ your 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; thensee
if ye won’t drink—drink—drink—yerself into torment;
and sarve ye right, too—ugh!” and, with a malignant howl,
the woman left the room.

<¢ Disgusting old beast!” said Adolph, who was getting
his master’s shaving-water. If I was her master, I’d cut
her up worse that 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.”

“‘T think such low creatures ought not be allowed to go
round to genteel families,” said Miss Jane. ‘“‘ What doyou
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 adopt-
ing his name and address; and that the style under which
he moved, among the colored circles of New Orleans, was
that of Mr. St. Clare. :

“Vm certainly of your opinion, Miss Benoir,” said
Adolph.







“(Oh ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart between
you,’’ said Adolph.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 821

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 cer-
tainly bewitching!”

“‘T 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.”

**O, you couldn’t be so eruel, 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 quad-
roon, who came skipping down stairs at this moment.

“Why, Mr. St. Clare’s so impudent! ”

“On my honor,” said Adolph, “I'll leave it to Miss
Rosa, now.”

‘*I know he’s always a saucy creature,” said Rosa, pois-
ing herself on one of her little feet, and looking malicious-
ly 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! Ican’t have you cluttering up
the kitchen,” said Dinah; ‘“‘in my way, foolin’ round
here.”

** Aunt Dinah’s glum, because she can’t go to the ball,”
said Rosa. ae

“‘Dou’t want none o’ your light-colored balls,” said
Dinah; ‘‘ cutting round, makin’ b’ieve you’s white folks.
Arter all, you’s niggers, much as I am.”

-* Aunt Dinah greases her wool stiff, every day, to make
it lie straight,” said Jane.

«And it will be wool, after all,” said Rosa, maliciously,
shaking down her long, silky curls.

“Well, in the Lord’s sight, ain’t wool as good as har,
any time?” said Dinah. ‘I’d like to have missis say
which is worth the most—a couple such as you, or one like
me. Getout wid ye, ye trumpery—I won’t have ye
round! ”
899 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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 all night with
his shaving-water; and Miss Ophelia, coming out of the
dining-room, said:

«‘ Jane and Rosa, 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 ina while 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 I'll carry your basket-a piece,” said ‘Tom, compassion-
ately.

“ivy should ye,” said the woman. ‘‘I don’t want no
help.”

€¥ou seem to be sick, or in trouble, or somethin’,”
said Tom.

“
“JT wish,” said Tom, looking at her earnestly, “I wish
I could persuade you to leave off drinking. Don’t you
know it will be the ruin of ye, body and soul?”

lenly. ‘Ye don’t need to tell me that ar. Vs ugly—l’s
wicked—I’s gwine straight to torment. O, Lord! I wish
T’s thar.”

Tom shuddered at these frightful words, spoken with a
sullen, impassioned earnestness. =

“ never heard of Jesus Christ?”

“¢ Jesus Christ—who’s he?”

“Why, he’s the Lord,” said Tom.

‘I think I’ve hearn tell o’ the Lord, and the judgment
and torment. I’ve heard o’ that.”

‘‘But didn’t anybody ever tell you of the Lord Jesus,
that loved us poor sinners, and died for us?”

“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout that,” said the woman; “ no-
body hain’t never loved me, since my old man died.”

«Where was you raised?” said Tom.

“¢Up in Kertuck. A man kept me to breed chil’en for
market, and sold ’em as fast as they got big enough; last of
all, he sold me toa speculator, and my mas’r got me o’ him.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. _ 828

** 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 fitst; it
never cried—it was likely and fat. But missis tuck sick,
and I tended her; and I tuck the fever, and my milk all
left me, and the child it pined to skin and bone, and
missis wouldn’t buy milk for it. She wouldn’t hear to me
when I telled 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
gotall gone to skin and bones, and missis got sot agin it,
aud she said ’twan’t nothin’ but crossness. She wished it
was dead she said; and she wouldn’t let me have it o’ nights,
cause, she said it kept me awake, and made me good for noth-
ing. 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 will
drink! JI will, if I do go to torment for it! Mas’r says
I shall go to torment, and I tell him [ve got thar now.”

“°Q, ye poor critter!” said Tom, ‘‘ hain’t nobody never
telled ye how the Lord Jesus loved ye, and died for ye?
Hain’t they telled ye that he'll help ye, and yecan go to
heaven, and have rest, at last?”

“‘T looks like gwine to heaven,” said the woman; “’ain’t
thar where white folks is gwine? S’pose they’d have me
thar? Id rather go to torment, and get away from mas’r
and missis. I had so,” she said, as with her usnal
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.

“0, Tom, here you are. I’m 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.”

“JT feel bad, Miss Eva,” said Tom, sorrowfully. “But
Tl get the horses for you.”

“But do tell me, ‘Tom, what is the matter. Isaw you
talking to cross old Prue.”
824 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

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.

CHAPTER XIX.
MISS OPHELIA’S EXPERIENCES AND OPINIONS, CONTINUED.

«Tom, you needn’t get methe horses. Idon’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. don’t want to go;” and she turned from Tom, and went
into the house.

A few days after, another woman came, in old
Prue’s place, to bring the rusks; Miss Ophelia was in the
kitchen.

‘¢ Lor!” said Dinah, ‘ what’s got Prue?”

“’ Prue isn’t coming any more,” said the woman, mysteri.
ously.

«Why not?” said Dinah. ‘She ain’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 mustn’t tell nobody. Prue, she got drunk
ag’in—and they had her down cellar—and thar they left
her all day—and I hearn ’em saying thatthe fives had got to
her—and she’s dead!”

Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her
side the spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large, mystic
eyes dilated with horror, and every drop of blood driven
from her lips and cheeks.

“Lor bless us! Miss Hva’s gwine to faint away! What
got usall, tolet her har such talk? Her pa’ll be rail mad.”

“T shan’t faint, Dinah,” said the child, firmly; ‘‘and


UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 825

why shouldn’t I hear it? It ain’t so much for me to hear
it, as for poor Prue to suffer it.”

“Lor sakes! it isn’t for sweet, delicate young ladies,
like you—these yer stories isn’t; it’s enough to kill ’*em!”

Eva sighed again, and walked up stairs with a slow and
melancholy step.

Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman’s story.
Dinah gave a very garrulous version of it, to which Tom
added the particulars which he had drawn from her that
morning.

«‘ An abominable business—perfectly horrible!’ she ex-
claimed, as she entered the room where St. Clare lay read-
ing 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 shock-
ing particulars.

“*T thought it would come to that, some time,” said St.
Clare, going on with his paper.

“Thought so! ain’t you going to do anything about it?”
said Miss Ophelia. ‘‘ Haven’t you 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 bedone.
It seems the poor creature wasa thief and a drunkard;
and so there won’t be much hope to get up sympathy
for her.”

“Tt is perfectly outrageous—it is horrid, Augustine! It
will certainly 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 con-
trol; they are irresponsible despots. ‘There would be no
use ininterfering; there isno law that amounts to anything
-practically, for such a case. ‘The best we can do is to shut
our eyes and ears, and let it alone. It’s the only resource
left us.”

‘¢ How can you shut your eyes and ears? How can you
let such things alone?”

“*My dear child, what do you expect? Here is a whole
class, debased, uneducated, indolent, provoking, put, with-
326 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

out any sort of terms and 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, ina
community so organized, what can a man of honorable 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 wrong in such a city as this. The most
I can do is to try and keep out of the way of it.”

St. Clare’s fine countenance was for a moment overcast;
he looked aunoyed, but suddenly calling up a gay smile, he
said:

«Come, cousin, don’t stand there looking like one of the
Fates; you’ve only seen a peep through the curtain—a
specimen of what 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 kitchen;”
and St. Clare lay back on the sofa, and busied himself with
his paper.

Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting-
work, and sat there grim with indignation. She knit and
knit, but while she mused the fire burned; at last she broke
out:

“JT tell you, Augustine, I can’t get over things so, if you
can. It’s a perfect abomination for you to defend such a
system—that’s my mind!”

«What now?’ said St. Clare, looking up. ‘At it again,
ney?”

“T 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 south-
erners. What do you have slaves for, if you don’t?”

“Are you such a sweet innocent, asto 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.
UNOLE TOM'S CABIN. 827

“*So do I,” said St. Clare, peeling his orange; ‘‘ I’m re-
penting of it all the time.”

«¢ What do you keep on doing it for? ”

‘« Didn’t you ever keep on doing wrong, after you'd re-
pented, 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 I try to break off.”

“¢ Well, I have been resolving I won’t, off and on, these
ten years,” said St. Clare; ‘‘but I haven’t, somehow, got
clear. Have you got clear of all your sins, cousin?”

“Cousin Augustine,” said Miss Ophelia, seriously, and
laying down her knitting-work, “1 suppose I deserve that”
you should reprove my short-comings. I know all you say
is true enough; nobody else feels them more than 1 do;
but it does seem to me, after all, there is some difference
between me and you. It seems to me I would cut off my
right hand sooner than keep on, from day to day, doing
what I thought was wrong. But, then, my conduct is so
inconsistent with my profession, I don’t wonder you re-
prove me.” :

<©O, now, cousin,” said Augustine, sitting down on the
floor, and laying 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 desper-
ately, distressingly good; it tires me to death to think of
it

«But this isa 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 mosquitoes
and all, a fellow can’t get himself up to any very sublime
moral flights; and I believe,” said St. Clare, suddenly
rousing himself up, ‘‘there’s a theory, now! I understand.
~ now why northern nations are always more virtuous than
southern ones-—I see into that whole subject.”

“©O, Auguste, you are a sad rattle-brain! ”

« AmI? Well, sol am, I suppose; but for once I will
be serious, now; but you must hand me that basket of
oranges; you see, you’ll have to ‘stay me with flagons and


828 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

comfort me with apples,’ if I am going to make this effort.
Now,” said Augustine, drawing the basket up, ‘ TI’ll be-
gin: When, in the course of human events, it becomes
necessary for a fellow to hold two or three dozen of his fel-
low-worms in captivity, a decent regard to the opinions of
society requires “2
“‘T'don’t see that you are growing more serious,’
Miss Ophelia.
— « Wait—l’m coming 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—politicians, who
want to rule by it—may warp and bend language and ethics
to a degree that shall astonish the world at their ingenuity;
they can press nature and the Bible, and nobody knows
what else, into the service; but, after all, neither they nor
the world believe in it one particle the more. It comes
from the devil, that’s the short of it; and to my mind, 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 will get me fairly at
it, ’ll make a clean breast of it. ‘his cursed business ac-
cursed of God and man, what is it? Strip it of all its or-
nament, run it down to the root and nucleus of the whole,
and what is it? Why, because my brother Quashy is ig-
norant 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 disagree-
able,for me, I may set Quashy to doing. Because I don’t
like work, Quashy shall work. Because the sun burns me,
Quashy shall stay inthe sun. Quashy shall earn the money
and I will spend it. Quashy shall lie down in every
puddle, that I may walk over dry-shod. Qnuashy shall do
my will, and not his, all the days of his mortal life, and
have such chance of getting to heaven, at last, as 1 find
convenient. This I take to be about what slavery 7s. I
defy anybody on earth to read our slave-code as it stands



>

said


E UAT CHER

His large blue eyes flashed and he gestured with an unconscious
eagerness.
880 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

in our law-books, and make anything else of it. Talk of
the abuses of slavery! Humbug! The thing itself is the
essence of all abuse! And the only reason why the
Jand don’t sink under it, like Sodom and Gomorrah, is be-
cause it is wsed 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 say-
age laws putinto ourhands. And he who goes the furthest
and does the worst, only uses within limits the power that
the law gives him.”

St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when
excited, was walking, with hurried steps, up and down the
floor. His fine face, classic as that of a Greek statue,
seemed actually to burn with the fervor of his feelings.
His large blue eyes flashed, and he gestured with an un-
conscious eagerness. Miss Ophelia had never seen him in
this mood before, and she sat perfectly silent.

‘*T declare to you,” said he, suddenly stopping before
his cousin, “‘it’s no sort of use to talk or to feel on this sub-
ject, 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 traveling up
and down on our boats, or about on my collecting tours,
and reflected that every brutal, disgusting, mean, low-
lived fellow I met, was allowed by our laws to become ab-
solute 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 the human
race!”

« Augustine, Augustine,” said Miss Ophelia, ‘‘ ’m sure
you’ve said enough. I never, in my life, heard anything
like this, even at the north.”

«‘ At the north!” said St. Clare, with a sudden change
of expression, and resuming something of his habitual
careless tone. ‘‘Pooh! your northern folks are cold-
blooded; you are cool in everything! You can’t begin
to curse up hill and down as we can, when we get fairly
at it.

“‘ Well, but the question is,” said Miss Ophelia.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 331

“©O, yes tove sure, the question is—and a deuce ofa
question it is! How came you in this state of sin and
misery? Well, Ishall answer in the good old words you
used to teach me, Sundays. I came so by ordinary genera-
tion. My servants were my father’s, and, what is more,
my mother’s; and now they are mine, they and their in-
crease, which bids fair to be a pretty considerable item.
My father, you know, came first from New England; and
he was just such another man as your father—a regular
old Roman—upright, energetic noble-minded, with an iron
will. Your father settled down in New England, to rule
over rocks and stones, and to force an existence out of
Nature; and mine settled in Louisiana, to rule over men
and women, and force existence outofthem. My mother,”
said St. Clare, getting up and walking toa 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 Imean! She probably was of mortal birth;
but, as far as ever I could observe, there was no trace of
any human weakness or error about her; and everybody
that lives to remember her, whether bond or free, servant,
acquaintance, relation, all say the same. Why, cousin,
that mother has been all that has stocd 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 byitstruth. O, mother! mother!” said St. Clare,
clasping his hands, in a sort: of transport; and then sud-
denly checking himself, he came back, and seating him-
self 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 com-
plexion. I had blue eyes, golden hair, a Greek outline.
and fair complexion. He was active and observing, I
dreamy and inactive. 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 generally do—off and on, and in general—he
was my father’s pet, and I my mother’s.
882 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“There was a morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feel-
ing in me on all possible subjects, of which he and my
‘father had no kind of understanding, and with which
they could have no possible sympathy. But mother did;
and so, when I had quarreled with Alfred, and father
looked sternly on me, I used to go off to mother’s room,
and sit by her. Iremember just how she used to look,
with her pale cheeks, her deep, soft, serious eyes, her
white dress—she always wore white; and I used to think
of her whenever I read in Revelations about the saints
that were arrayed in fine linen, clean and white. She had
a great deal of genius of one sort and another, particular-
ly 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 lan-
guage to say!

‘©In those days, this matter of slavery had never been
canvassed as it has now; nobody dreamed of any harm
in it.

‘‘My father was a born aristocrat. I think, in some pre-
existent state, he must have been in the higher circles of
spirits, and brought all his old court pride along with him;
for it was ingrain, bred in the bone, though he was origin-
ally 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 sympathies, beyond acertainlinein society. In Eng-
land the line is in one place, in Burmah in another, and in
America in another; but the aristocrat of all these coun-
tries never goes over it. What would be hardship and dis-
tress and injustice in his own class, is a cool matter of
course in another one. My father’s dividing line was that
of color. Among his equais, never was @ man more just
and generous; but he considered the negro, through all
possible gradations of color, as an intermediate link be-
tween man and animals, and graded all his ideas of justice
or generosity on this hypothesis. Isuppose, to be sure, 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 aman much troubled
with spiritualism; religious sentiment he had none, beyond
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. — 338

apace 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 tomove 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,
twaddling, shiftless laborers, 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
you’ll see that there might naturally be, on 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 ad-
mitted to practice. My mother never could endure him,
nor I; but he obtained an entire ascendency over my
father; and this man was the absolute despot of the estate.

““T 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
would. Iwas found in the cabins and among the field-hands
a great deal, and, of course, was a great favorite; and all
sorts of complaints and grievances were breathed in my
ear; and I told them to mother, and we, between us,
formed-a sort of committee for a redress of grievances.
We hindered and repressed a great deal of cruelty, and
congratulated ourselves on doing a vast deal of good, till,
as often happens, my zeal overacted. Stubbs complained
to my father that he couldn’t manage the hands, and
must resign hig position. Father was a fond, indulgent
husband, but a man that never flinched from anything
that he thought necessary; and so he put down his foot,
like a rock, between us and the field-hands. He told my
mother, in language perfectly respectful and deferential,
but quite explicit, that over the house-servants she should
be entire mistress, but that with the field-hands he could
allow no interference. He revered and respected her above
ul living beings; bnt he would have said it all the same to
the Virgin Mary herself, if she had come in the way of
his system.
884 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN

<‘T used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases
with him—endeavoring to excite his sympathies. He
would listen to the most pathetic appeals with the most
discouraging politeness and equanimity. ‘It all resolves
itself into this,’ he would say; ‘must I part with Stubbs,
or keep him? Stubbs is the soul of punctuality, honesty,
and efficiency—a thorough business hand, and as humane
as the general run. Wecan’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 exceptionable.
All government includes some necessary hardness. Gen-
eral rules will bear hard on particular cases.’ This last
maxim my father seemed to consider a settler in most al-
leged cases of cruelty. After he said that, he commonly
drew up his feet on the sofa, like a man that has disposed
of a business, and betook himself to a nap, or the news-
paper, 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 systemati-
cally as any man living. At last my mother gave up, in
despair. -It uever will be known, till the last account,
what noble and sensitive natures like her’s have felt, cast
utterly helpless, into what seems to them an abyss of in-
justice 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 re-
mained for her, but to train her children in her own views
and sentiments! Well, after all you say about training,
children will grow up substantially what they are by nature
and only that. From the cradle, Alfred wasan aristocrat;
and as he grew up, instinctively, all his sympathies and
all his reasonings were in that line, and ajl mother’s ex-
hortations went to the winds. As to me, they sunk deep
into me. She never contradicted, in form, anything that
my father said, or seemed directly to differ from him; but
she impressed, burnt into my very soul, with all the force
of her deep, earnest nature, an idea of the dignity and
worth of the meanest human soul. JI have looked in her
face with solemn awe, when she wonld point up to the
‘stars in the evening, and say to me: ‘See there, Auguste!
the poorest, meanest soul on our place will be living, when
a ues stars are gone forcver—will live as long as God
ives]
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 335

«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 blind man was a beggar, poor and loath-
some; therefore, He would not heal himayarof'! He calied
him to Him, and put His hands on him. Remember this,
my boy.’ IfI had lived to grow up under her care, she
might have stimulated me to, I know not what, of enthusi-
asm. 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 abolition 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
outin fifty different ways—just that same strong, over-
bearing, dominant spirit. You know very well how im-
possible if is to persuade some of the folks in your village
that Squire Sinclair 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 of an aristocrat,
as much as my father, who ruled over five or six hundred
slaves.”

Miss Ophelia felt rather disposed to cavil at this picture,
and was laying down her knitting to begin, but St. Clare
stopped her.

‘© Now, I know every word you are going tosay. I do
. not say they were alike, in fact. One fell into acondition
where everything acted against the natural tendency, and
the other where everything acted for it; and so one turned
out a pretty willful, stout, overbearing old democrat, and
the other a willful, 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.”
3836 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

*¢ What an undutiful boy you are!” said Miss Ophelia.

“*T don’t mean them any disrespect,” said St. Clare.
«‘-You know reverence is not my forte. But, to go back to
my history:

~ When my father died, he left the whole property to us
twin boys, to be divided as we should agree. ‘There does
not breathe on God’s earth a nobler-souled, more generous
fellow, than Alfred, in all that concerns his equals; and we
got on admirably 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 know personally, or feel any
individual interest in, bought and driven, housed, fed,
worked like so many horned cattle, trained up to military
precision—the question of how little of life’s commonest
enjoyments would keep them in working order being a con-
stantly recurring problem—the necessity of drivers and
overseers—the ever-necessary whip, first, last, and only ar-
gument—the whole thing was insufferably disgusting and
loathsome to me; and when I though of my mother’s esti-
mate of one poor human soul, it became even frightful!

“Trg all nonsense to talk to me about slaves enjoying all
this! To this day, I have no patience with the unutterable
trash that some of your patronizing northerners have made
up, as in tneir zeal to apologize for our sins. We all know
better. ‘Tell me that any man living wants to work all his
days, from day-dawn till dark, under the constant eye ofa
master, without the power of putting forth one irresponsible
volition, on the same dreary, monotonous, unchanging toil,
and all for two pairs of pouia cove anda pair of shoes ayear
with enough food and shelter to keep himin working order!
Any man who thinks that human veinee can, as a ‘general
thing, be made about as comfortable that way as any other,
I wish he might try it. I’d buy thedog, and work him, with
a clear conscience!”

“‘T always havesupposed,” said Miss Ophelia, “‘ that you,
all of you, approved of these things, and thought them righé
—according to Scripture.”

8 Humbug! We are not quite reduced to that yet.
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 3837

Alfred, who is as determined a despot as ever walked, does
not pretend to thiskind of defense; no, he stands, highand
haughty, on that good old respectable ground, the right of
the strongest; and he says, and I think quite sensibly, that
the American planter is ‘ only doing, inanother 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, consistently. He
says that there can be no high civilization without enslave-
ment of the masses, either nominal or real. There must,
he says, be a lower class, given upto physical toil and con-
fined to an animal nature; and a higher one thereby ac-
quires 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 demo-
crat.”

“How in the world can the two things be compared?”
said Miss Ophelia. ‘‘The English laborer is not sold,
traded, parted from his family, whipped.”

“He is as much at the will of his employer asif he were
sold to him. The slave-owner can whip his refractory slave
to death—the capitalist can starve him to death. As to
family security, it is hard to say which is the worst—to
have one’s children sold, or see them starve to death at
home.”

“* But it’s no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it
isn’t worse than some other bad thing.”

“‘T 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, like 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 tang-
ible form, though the thing done be, after all, in its nature
the same; that is, appropriating one set of human beings to
the use and improvement of another, without any regard
to their own.”

“I never thought of the matter in this light,” said Miss
Ophelia.

“* Well, I’ve traveled in England some, and I’ve looked
838 UNCLE TOMS CABIN.

over a good many documents as to the state of their lower
classes; and I really think there isno 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 in 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 have them catechised Sunday,
though, I believe, in his heart, that he thought 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 ani-
malized 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. Yetsomestriking exceptions there are among
us, from the fact that the negro is naturally more impress-
ible to religious sentiment than the white.”

“* Well,” said Miss Ophelia, ‘* how came you to give up
your plantation life?”

“Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred saw
plainly that I was no planter. He thought it absurd, after
he had reformed, and altered, and improved everywhere,
to suit my notions, that I still remained unsatisfied. The
fact was, it was, after all, the ching 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 of the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too
much fellow-feeling for the lazy; and when poor, shiftless
dogs put stones at the bottom of their cotton-baskets to
make them weigh heavier, or filled their sacks with dirt,
with cotton at the top, it 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 to

4
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 339

plantation discipline; and Alf and I came to about the
same point that I and my respected father did, years be-
fore. So he told me that I was a womanish sentimental-
ist, and would never do for business life; and advised me
to take the bank-stock and the New Orleans family man-
sion, and go to writing poetry, and let him manage the
plantation. So we parted, and J 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 at-
tached; and the younger ones were children to the old.
All were well satisfied to be as they were.” He paused,
and walked reflectively up and down the room.

«There was,” said St. Clare, “a time in my life when I
had plans and hopes of doing something in this world,
more than to float and drift. I had vague, indistinct
yearnings to be a sort of emancipator—to free my native
land from this spot and stain. All young men have had
such fever-fits, I suppose, some time, but then——”

‘“Why didn’t you?” said Miss Ophelia; ‘you ought
not to put your hand to the plow, and look back.”

“°O, well, things didn’t go with me as I expected, and I
got the despair of living that Solomon did. I suppose it
was a necessary incident to wisdom in us both; but, some
how or other, instead of being actor and regenerator in
society, I became apiece 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 isa 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 slay-

“ery are peculiar. I find many men who, in their hearts,
think of it just asI 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 capitalist and
340 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

aristocrat of England cannot feel that as we do, because
they do not mingle with the class they degrade as we do.
They are in our houses, they are the associates of our
children, and they form their minds faster than we can;
for they are a race that children always will cling to and
assimilate with. If Eva, now, was not more angel than
ordinary, she would be ruined. We might as well allow

_ the small-pox to run among them, and think our children
would not take it, as to let them be uninstructed and
vicious, and think our children will not be affected by
that. Yet our laws positively and utterly forbid any
efficient general educational system, and they do it wisely,
too; for, just begin and thoroughly educate one genera-
tion, and the whole thing would be blown sky high. Ifwe
did not give them liberty, they would take it.”

** And what do you think will be the end of this?” said
Miss Ophelia.

“TI don’t know. One thing is certain—that there is a
mustering among the masses, the world over; and there is
a dies ire coming on, sooner or later. ‘The same thing is
working in Europe, in England, and in this country. My
mother used to tell me of a millennium that was coming,
when Christ should reign, and all men should be free and
happy. And she taught me, when I was a boy, to pray,
‘Thy kingdom come.’ Sometimes I think all this sighing,
and groaning, and stirring among the dry bones foretells
what she used to tell me was coming. But who may abide
the day of His appearing?” :

“* Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the
kingdom,” said Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting,
and looking anxiously at her cousin.

“‘Thank you for your good opinion; but it’s up and down
with me—up to heaven’s gate in theory, down in earth’s
dust in practice.. But there’s the tea-bell—do let’s go—
and don’t say, now, I haven’t had one downright serious —
talk, for once in my life.”

At table, Marie alluded to the incident of Prue. ‘I
suppose you’ll think, cousin,” she said, “that we are all
barbarians.”

“‘T think that’s a barbarous thing,” said Miss Ophelia,
«but I don’t think you are all barbarians.”

_ © Well, now,” said Marie, ‘‘ I know it’s impossible to get
along with some of these creatures. ‘They are so bad they
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. — 341

ought not to live. I don’t feel a particle of sympathy for
such cases. If they’d only behave themselves, it would not
happen.”

“But, mamma,” said Eva, “‘the poor creature was un-
happy; that’s what made her drink.”

**Q, fiddlestick! as if that were any excuse! I’m un-
happy, 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, and lie round in the swamps, stealing and doing
all sorts of horrid things. That man was caught and whip-
ped, 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.”

“‘T 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, ’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 free-
dom in him to an uncommon degree. He was a regular
African lion. They called him Scipio. Nobody could do
anything with him; and he was sold round from overseer to
overseer, till at last Alfred bought him, because he thought
he could manage him. Well, one day he knocked down
the overseer, and was fairly off into the swamps. I wagon
a visit to Alf’s plantation, for it was after we had dissolved
partnership. Alfred was greatly exasperated; but I told
him that it was his own fault, and laid him any wager
that I could break the man; and finally it was agegreed that
if I caught him, I'should have him to experiment on. So
they mustered out a party of 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 werode and scamp-
ered, and finally we started him. Heranand bounded like
a buck, and kept us well in the rear for sometime; but at


She suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst into tears and
sobbed convulsively.
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 8438

last he got caught in an impenetrable thicket of cane; then
he turned to bay, and I tell you he fought the dogs right
gallantly. He dashed them to right and left, and actually
killed three of them with only his naked fists, when ashot
from a gun brought him down, and he fell, wounded and
bleeding, almost at my feet. The poor fellow looked up at
me with manhood and despair both inhis 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 per=
sisted in my bargain, and Alfred sold him to me. Well, I
took him in hand, and in one fortnight I had him tamed
down as submissive and tractable as heart could desire.”

‘‘What in the world did you do to him 2?” said Maiie.

“‘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 himhe might go where he liked.”

‘‘And did he go ?” said Miss Ophelia.

‘No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and ab-
solutely refused to leave me. I never had a braver, better
fellow—trusty and true as steel. He embraced Christian-
ity afterward, and became as gentle as a child. He 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
his life forme. or I was sick, almost to death ; and when,
trrough the panic, everybody else fled, Scipio worked for
me like a giant, and actually brought me back into life

‘again. But, poor fellow! he was taken, right after, and
there was no saving him. I never felt anybody’s loss more.”

Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father,
as he told the story— her small lips apart, her eyes wide and
earnest with absorbing 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,” headded, “ought .

not to hear any of this kind of thing— she’s nervous.”

‘* No, papa, I’m not nervous, ” said Eva, controlling her-
self, suddenly, with astrength of resolution singular in such
achild. ‘I’m not nervous, but these things sink into my
heart.”
B44 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“What do you mean, Eva?”

“T can’t tell you, papa. Ithink a great many thoughts.
Perhaps some day I shall tell you.”

“Well, think away, dear—only don’t cry and worry
your papa,” said St. Clare. ‘‘ Look here—see what a beau-
tiful peach I have got for you!”

Eva took it, and smiled, though there was still a nervous
twitching about the corners of her mouth.

“* Come, look at the gold-fish,” said St. Clare, taking her
hand and stepping on to the veranda. Afew 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- neg-
lected amid the adventures of the higher born; but, if our
readers will accompany us up to a little loft over the stable,
they may, perhaps, learn a little of his affairs. It was a
decent room, containing a bed, a chair, and a small rough
stand, where lay Tom’s Bible and hymn-book; and where
he sits, at present, with his slate before him, intent on

something that seems to cost hima great deal of anxious
thought.

The fact was, that Tom’s home-yearnings had become
so strong, that he had begged a sheet of writing-paper of
Eva, and, mustering up all his small stock of literary at-
tainment acquired by Master George’s instructions he con-
ceived the bold idea of writing a letter; and he was busy
now, on his slate, getting out his first draft. Tom was in
a good deal of trouble, for the forms of some of the letters
he had forgotten entirely; and of what he did remember,
he did not know exactly which to use. And while. he was
working, and breathing very hard, in his earnestness, Eva
alighted, like a bird, on the round of his chair behind him
and peeped over his shoulder.

“OQ, Uncle Tom! what funny things you are making,
there!”

“Tm 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.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. i 345

«‘T wish I could help you, Tom! I’ve learned 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 commenced 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 com-
position began, as they both felt very sanguine, to look quite
like writing.

«Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful,”
said Eva, gazing delightedly on it. ‘How pleased your
wife’ll be, and the poor little children! 0, it’sa shame you
ever had to go away from them! I mean to ask papa to
let you go back, some time.”

“* Missis said that she would send down money for me,
as soon as they could 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 drew from under his clothes the precious dollar.

«©O, 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 was, and tell poor Chloe that 1 was well off—
cause she felt so drefful, poor soul.”

“Tsay, Tom,” said St. Clare’s voice, coming in the door
at this moment.

Tom and Eva both started.

“What's here?” said St. Clare. coming up and looking
at the slate.

said Eva; “isn’t it nice?”

“‘T 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. Tl do it, when I come home from my
ride.”

“‘ Tt’s very important he should write,” said Hva, ‘ be-
cause his mistress is going to send down money to redeem

‘him, you know, papa; he told me they told him so.”

St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably
only one of those things which good-natured owners say to
their servants, to alleviate their horror of being sold, with-
out 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,
346 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

Tom’s letter was written in due form for him that even+
ing, and safely lodged in the post-office.

Miss Ophelia stilt persevered in her labors in the house-
keeping line. It was universally agreed, among all the
household, from Dinah down to the youngest trchin, that
Miss Ophelia was decidedly “‘curis,” a term by which a
southern servant implies that his or her betters don’t
exactly suit them.

The higher circle in the family—to wit, Adolph, Jane
and Rosa—agreed that she was no lady; ladies never kept
working about as 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 absolutely
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 till 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 labor to see her.

CHAPTER XX.
TOPSY.

ONE morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some of
her domestic cares, St. Clare’s voice was heard, calling her
at the foot of the stairs.

“Come down here, Cousin; I’ve something to show
you.”

«“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with
her sewing in her hand.

<‘T’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 everything in the room. Her
mouth, half open with astonishment at the wonders of the
new master’s parlor, displayed a white and brilliant set of
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN 847

teeth. Her woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails,
which stuck out in every direction. The expression of her
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. Alto-
gether, there was something odd and goblin-like about her
appearance—something, as Miss Ophelia afterward 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 afunny speci-
men in the ‘Jim Crow’ line. Here, Topsy,” he added,
giving a whistle, as a man would to call the attention of a
dog, ‘‘give usasong, 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 gutteral
sounds which distinguish the native music of her race; and
finally, turning a somersault 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 expres-
sion of meekness and solemnity over her face, only broken
by the cunning glances which she shot askance from the
corners of her eyes.

Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with
amazement.

St. Clare, like a mischievous fellow as he was, appeared
to enjoy her astonishment; and, addressing the child
- again, said:

“Topsy, this is your new mistress. I am going to give
you up to her; see now that you behave yourself.”

«« Yes, mas’r,” said Topsy, with sanctimonious gravity,
her wicked eyes twinkling as she spoke.

“You're going to be good, Topsy; you understand,”
said St, Clare.
348 © UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

“ hands still devoutly folded.

‘*Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for?” said
Miss Ophelia. ‘Your house is so full of these little
plagues, now, that a body can’t set down their foot 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 mopping and mowing and grinning between all
the railings, and tumbling over the kitchen floor! What
on earth did you want to bring this one for?”

«‘ For you to educate—didn’t I tell you? You’re always
preaching about educating. I thought I would make you
a present of a fresh-caught specimen, and let you try your
hand on her, and bring her up in the way she should go.”
_ © T don’t want her, 1am sure; I have more to do with
7em now than I want to.”

‘««That’s you Christians, all over! You'll get up a society,
and get some poor missionary to spend all his days among
just such heathen. But let me see one of you that would
take one into your house with you, and take the labor 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 Miss Ophelia, evidently softening. ‘‘ Well, it
might be a real missionary work,” she said, looking rather
more favorably on the child. :

St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia’s
conscientiousness wasever on thealert. ‘‘ But,” she added,
“‘T really didn’t see the need of buying this one; there are
eoanee now, in your house, to take up all my time and
skill.” E

«Well, then, cousin,” said St. Clare, drawing her aside,
“TI ought to beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing
speeches. You are so good, after all, that there’s no
sense in them. Why, 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 hear-
ing 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
UNCLE TOMS CABIN. 849

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, P’ll do what I can,” said Miss Ophelia ; and she
approached her new subject very much as a person might
be supposed to approach a black spider, supposing them 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 nig-
ger !” said Dinah, surveying the new arrival with no friend-
ly air. ‘¢ Won’t have her round under my feet, Z know !”

“Pah!” said Rosa and Jane, with supreme. disgust ;
“let her keep out of our way! Whatin the world mas’r
wanted another of these low niggers for, I can’t see !”

“You golong! No more nigger dan you be, Miss Rosa,”
said Dinah, who felt this last remark a reflection on herself.
<¢ You seem to tink yourself white folks. You ain’t nerry
one, black 207 white. I’d like to be one or turrer.”

Miss 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 du 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 disgusting
details with heroic thoroughness, though, it must be con-
fessed, with no very gracious air—for~ endurance was the
utmost to which her principles could bring her. When
she saw, on the back and shoulders of the child, great
welts and calloused spots, ineffaceable marks of the system
under which she had grown up thus far, her heart became
pitiful within her. 3

‘*See there!” said Jane, pointing to the marks, ‘don’t
that show she’s alimb? We’ll have fine works with. her,
Ireckon. I hate these nigger young uns! so disgusting!
I wonder that mas’r would buy her!”

The *‘ young un” alluded to heard all these comments
350 UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.

with the subdued 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 yon, Topsy?”

«Dun no, missis,” said the image, with a grin that
showed all her teeth.

“‘ Don’t know how old you are? Didn’t anybody ever
tell you? Who was your mother?”

“Never had none! ” said the child, with another grin.

«* Never had any mother? What do youmean? Where
were you born?”

“* Never was born!” persisted Topsy, with another grin,
that looked so goblin-like, that, if Miss Ophelia had been
at all nervous, she might have fancied that she had got
hold of some sooty gnome from the land of Diablerie; but
Miss Ophelia was not nervous, but plain and business-like,
and she said, with some sternness:

«You mustn’t answer me in that way, child; I’m not
playing with you. ‘Tell me where you were born, and who
your father and mother were.”

«¢ Never was born,” reiterated the creature, more emphati-
cally; ‘never had no father nor mother, nor nothin’. I
was raised by aspeculator, 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
7em up cheap, when they’s little, and gets ’em raised for
market.”

“‘ How long have you lived with your master and mis-
tress?”

“*Dun no, missis.”

“Ts 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.”
UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. 851

«‘ Have you. ever heard anything about God, Topsy?”

The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual.

“‘Do you know who made you?”

56 Nepedy, as I knows on,” said the child, with a short
augh.

‘The idea appeared to amuse her considerably; for her
eyes twinkled, and she added:

“i s’pect 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?”

‘«S’pect they was,” said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia
cunningly.

Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy; St.
Clare was leaning over the back of her chair.

“You'll find virgin soil there, cousin; put in your own
ideas—you won’t find many to pull up.”

Miss Ophelia’s ideas of education, Jike all her other
ideas, were very set and definite; and of the kind that pre-
vailed in New England a century ago, and which are still
preserved in some very retired and unsophisticated parts,
where there are no railroads. As nearly as could be ex-
pressed, they could be comprised in very few words: