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UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Library Edition. Fully Illustrated 
by E. W. KEMBLE. 

THE SAME. Popular Edition. With Introduction, and Portrait 

of " Uncle Tom." 

THE SAME. In Riverside Literature Series, No. 88. 
THE SAME. In the Riverside School Library. 

(Two vols.) 


STORiES. (Two vols.) 


The above 16 vols. make up the new Riverside Edition. 
Printed from new plates. Thoroughly edited and rearranged. 
With a Biographical Sketch, and Notes. With Portraits, 
Views of Mrs. Stowe's Homes, and Other Illustrations on en- 
graved Title-pages. 

A DOG'S MISSION. ETC. Illustrated. 

INGS. In Riverside Literature Series, Extra No. E. 



: '"- :., / ' 


c . ' 

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Or, Life Among the Lowly 








. . . 


























MIND 124 



XIV. EvANGEt/NE. .'.-..:.....--->.., ,.,\.r.*.. 168 

, ', ' > > 


XVI. TOM'S MiSTResft A'5i> unii OPINIONS 198 






XX. TOPSY 278 

























XLV. CONCLUDING liiiiiAUKa ... 6iiO 


HARRIET ELIZABETH, seventh child of Lyman and 
Roxana Foote Beecher, was born at Litchfield, Connecticut- 
June 14, 1811. Her father was a Congregational ministeJ 
at that time settled in Litchfield, which enjoyed the reputa 
tion of being one of the most intellectual communities in 
New England. Her mother died when the child was but 
four years old, but in that time had made so distinct ar 
impression upon her that years afterward she could writu 
her recollections of her and trace the influence of her stron" 


nature. Harriet divided her childhood between Litchfield 
and Nut Plains, near Guilford, Connecticut, where an aunt 
lived ; and it gives some intimation of the strong intellectual 
surroundings in which she lived, that she committed to 
memory an extraordinary number of hymns, poems, and 
pieces of prose, enough to last a life-time, as her frequent 
recourse to these stores afterward shows, that her favorite 
reading was Cotton Mather's Magnolia Chrlsti and The 
Arabian Nights, and that when she was twelve years old 
she Avrote a serious composition, which has been printed 
with the title Can the Immortality of the Soul be proved 
by. the Light <if -Nature ? \ . *-, 

Although uhe <gavo these tsigns o2 ;}?ecocity, there was no 
reaction as sometioieSf h.ijtpeus^and she developed rapidly 
during the next i few years, which she spent in Hartford 
under the immpdi&be^eharg'o of her sister Catherine, ten or 
eleven years hex senior r.nd the oldest of Lyman Beecher's 


children. " In school," she once wrote of this period, "my 
two most intimate friends were the leading scholars. They 
had written to me before I came and I had answered their 
letters, and on my arrival they gave me the warmest wel- 
come. One was Catherine Ledyard Cogswell, daughter of 
the leading and best beloved of Hartford physicians ; the 
other was Georgiana May, daughter of a most lovely Chris- 
tian woman who was a widow. . . . Catherine and Georgiana 
were reading Virgil when I came to school. I began the 
study of Latin alone, and at the end of the first year made 
a translation of Ovid in verse, which was read at the final 
exhibition of the school, and regarded, I believe, as a very 
creditable performance. I was very much interested in 
poetry, and it was my dream to be a poet. I began a drama 
called Cleon. The scene was laid in the court and time of 
the emperor Nero, and Cleon was a Greek lord residing at 
Nero's court, who, after much searching and doubting, at 
last comes to the knowledge of Christianity. I filled blank 
book after blank book with this drama. It filled my 
thoughts sleeping and waking. One day sister Catherine 
pounced down upon me, and said that I must not waste my 
time writing poetry, but discipline my mind by the study of 
Butler's Analogy. So after this I wrote out abstracts from 
the Analogy, and instructed a class of girls as old as myself, 
being compelled to master each chapter just ahead of the 
class I was teaching. About this time I read Baxter's 
Saint's Rest. I do not think any book affected me more 
powerfully. As I walked the pavements I used to wish 
that they might sink beneath me if only I might find my- 
self in heaven." ; ; . ; 

This ardent, imaginative nature -xmld. 'n-qti ;fail to be af- 
fected by the strong religious opinions .which prevailed in 
the circle in which she lived, iicr faiker, though much 
occupied with a system, of . .theology. 'ipjiich he held as a 
physician of souls for,^ of r>;rit\i;4 ailments, was also 


an impassioned, poetic man ; and when Harriet was fourteen 
years old and at home on a visit, he preached a sermon on 
Christ and his love for the human soul, which enraptured 
the child, and for the time overbore her innocent misgivings 
at having no conscious conviction of sin, that indispensa- 
ble condition precedent to conversion in the theological sys- 
tem under which she was trained. 

" I longed to cry out ' I will,' " she writes, " when father 
made his passionate appeal, ' Come, then, and trust your 
soul to this faithful friend.' Like a flash it came over me 
that if I needed conviction of sin, He was able to give 
me even this also. I would trust Him for the whole. 
My whole soul was illumined with joy, and as I left the 
church to walk home, it seemed to me as if Nature herself 
were hushing her breath to hear the music of heaven. As 
soon as father came home and was seated in his study, I 
went up to him and fell in his arms saying, ' Father, I have 
given myself to Jesus, and He has taken me.' I never 
shall forget the expression of his face as he looked down 
into my earnest, childish eyes ; it was so sweet, so gentle, 
and like sunlight breaking out upon a landscape. ' Is it 
so ? ' he said, holding me silently to his heart, as I felt the 
hot tears fall on my head. ' Then has a new flower blos- 
somed in the kingdom this day.' : 

The society in which Harriet Beecher moved in her girl- 
hood was one in which the supremacy of the religious 
nature was recognized implicitly, but the concentration of 
attention upon the emotional side led to an introspection 
and analysis of motive which often passed into morbid self- 
consciousness. There were not many outlets for pietistic 
expression, and the young girl was thrown in upon self- 
communing which sometimes took the form of self-torture. 
Her letters at this time intimate the struggle which was 
going on as she strove after an intellectual sanction for a 
warm emotional attitude, and sought to make a system of 


theology for herself out of the current materials, which 
should not do violence to her instinctive belief in the su- 
premacy of love. It was not altogether an aid to her that 
her occupation was mainly that of a student or pupil-teacher, 
for this brought into constant activity her intellectual fac- 
ulties, and gave little chance for that wholesome social 
absorption which is the safeguard of so many growing girls. 
Nevertheless, her companionship with her father and with 
her brother Edward, who had a strong theological temper, 
was an important factor in her development ; for both of 
these men were not dispassionate scientific theologians, but 
looked steadfastly toward result in conduct and loyalty to 
the highest ideals. The important point to be noted, in 
this stormy experience of Harriet Beecher, is that her nature, 
always liable to gusts of feeling, was made steadfast in its 
devotion to lofty conceptions of divine charity. She was to 
know great currents of feeling in after life, when except for 
some powerful principle controlling her she would be in 
danger of being swept off her feet ; that principle was now, 
in her passage from girlhood to womanhood, taking definite 
form and asserting itself as a ruling force. That it was or- 
dering her life and transforming it from a too self-centred 
character is well illustrated by a letter written to her friend 
Georgiana May, in 1832 : 

" As this inner world of mine has become worn out and 
untenable, I have at last concluded to come out of it and 

live in the external one, and as F S once advised 

me, to give up the pernicious habit of meditation to the first 
Methodist minister that would take it, and try to mix in 
society somewhat as another person would. ... I am trying 
to cultivate a general spirit of kindliness toward everybody. 
Instead of shrinking into a corner to notice how other people 
behave, I am holding out my hand to the right and to the 
left, and forming casual or incidental acquaintances with all 
who will be acquainted with me. In this way I find society 


full of interest and pleasure a pleasure which pleaseth me 
more because it is not old and worn out. . . . This kind of 
pleasure in acquaintanceship is new to me. I never tried it 
before. When I used to meet persons, the first enquiry 
was, l Have they such and such a character, or have they 
anything that might possibly be of use or harm to me ? ' . . . 
The greater part that I see cannot move me deeply. They 
are present, and I enjoy them ; they pass, and I forget them. 
But those that I love differently ; those that I love ; and 
oh, how much that word means ! I feel sadly about them. 
They may change; they must die; they are separated from 
me ; and I ask myself why should I wish to love with all 
the pains and penalties of such conditions ? I check myself 
when expressing feelings like this, so much has been said of 
it by the sentimental, who talk what they could not have 
felt. But it is so deeply, sincerely so in me, that sometimes 
it will overflow. Well, there is a heaven, a heaven, 
a world of love, and love after all is the life-blood, the 
existence, the all in all of mind." 

In any sketch of Mrs. Stowe, however brief, it is needful 
to take account of this spiritual experience, for in the 
character thus forming lies the explanation of the force 
which impelled her throughout her entire career, and with 
this key one is able to unlock her mind as it busied itself 
in varied pursuits. 

Dr. Lymnn Beecher removed from Litchfield to Boston 
in 1826, and for six years was pastor of a church there. He 
had married again, and a younger group of children was 
growing up. Harriet divided her time between her father's 
house and her sister Catherine's school, sometimes paying 
visits to her maternal grandmother. In 1832 a moro 
important change came. Dr. Beecher was invited to the 
presidency of Lane Theological Seminary in Cincinnati, and 
on moving to that place, then the most important Western 
community, he was accompanied by Catherine Beecher, who 


was eager to establish there what would stand for a college 
for women, and with Catherine went Harriet to be her 
principal assistant. The family began their life in Cincin- 
nati under many discomforts, and Harriet suffered much 
from ill health. But she not only aided her sister in the 
ambitious school they had set up, but made her first venture 
in writing with a school geography which was published in 
Cincinnati in 1833. In the winter of 1833-34 she spurred 
herself to further effort, and competed for a prize of fifty 
dollars offered by Mr. James Hall, editor of a newly estab- 
lished magazine, the Western Month/)/, and won it with her 
story Uncle Lot, to be found in the eleventh volume of this 
edition. She joined a literary society, and contributed papers 
to be read at its meetings ; but though she kept up a lively 
correspondence with her former school friends, she does not 
seem at first to have given herself much concern about writ- 
ing for publication. Her interest was in the plans her sister 
and she were forming for an elaborate system of schools in 

The society in which the Beechers moved was naturally 
affected largely by the seminary which had been established, 
and an intimacy existed between the several members which 
resulted, after the death of Eliza Tyler, the wife of one of 
the professors, Calvin E. Stowe, in the marriage of Harriet 
Beecher to the childless widower, January 6, 1836. There 
are one or two passages in letters written at this time which 
give one the impression that however deeply stirred this 
girl of twenty-five may have been over this change in her 
life, there was such a continuity in circumstance and occu- 
pation that she was quickly adjusted to her new relations. 

"Well, my dear G.," she writes to her schoolmate 
Georgiana May, " about half an hour more and your old 
friend, companion, schoolmate, sister, etc., will cease to be 
Hatty Beecher and change to nobody knows who. My 
dear, you are engaged and pledged in a year or two to 


encounter a similar fate, and do you wish to knew how you 
shall feel ? Well, my dear, I have been dreading and 
dreading the time, and lying awake all last week wondering 
how I should live through this overwhelming crisis, and lo ! 
it has come and I feel nothing at all. 

" The wedding is to be altogether domestic ; nobody 
present but my own brothers and sisters, and my old col- 
league, Mary Dutton ; and as there is a sufficiency of minis- 
try in our family, we have not even to call in the foreign 
aid of a minister. Sister Katy is not here, so she will not 
witness my departure from her care and guidance to that of 
another. None of my numerous friends and acquaintance? 
who have taken such a deep interest in making the connec- 
tion for me even know the day, and it will be all done and 
over before they know anything about it. Well, it is really 
Q, mercy to have this entire stupidity come over one at such 
a time. I should be crazy to feel as I did yesterday, or 
indeed to feel anything at all. . . . 

" Three weeks have passed since writing the above, and 
my husband and self are now quietly seated by our own 
fireside, as domestic as any pair of tame fowl you ever saw j 
he writing to his mother and I to you. . . . And now, my 
dear, perhaps the wonder to you, as to me, is how this mo- 
mentous crisis in the life of such a wisp of nerve as myself 
has been transacted so quietly. My dear, it is a wonder io 
myself. I am tranquil, quiet, and happy. I look only on 
the present, and leave the future with Him who has hith- 
erto been so kind to me. ' Take no thought for the mor- 
row ' is my motto, and my comfort is to rest on Him in 
whose house there are many mansions provided when these 
fleeting earthly ones pass away. 

" Dear Georgy, naughty girl that I am, it is a month 
that I have let the above lie by, because I got into a strain 
of emotion in it that I dreaded to return to. Well, so it 
shall be no longer. In about five weeks Mr. Stowe and 


myself start for New England. He sails the first of May, 
I am going with him to Boston, New York, and other 
places, and shall stop finally at Hartford, whence, as soon 
as he is gone, it is my intention to return westward." 

One may read between the lines of this letter the fluctua- 
tions of feeling and the restlessness of an eager nature, affec- 
tionate, demonstrative, swayed by impulse, and yet losing 
itself in large, reverential emotion. A period of hardship 
and strenuous labor under narrow circumstance was before 
her, and for the next thirteen years she was to have that 
discipline through sickness ard struggle with adversity, 
which confirmed her power of sympathy and expression at 
the same time that it strengthened the tendencies to retreat 
within herself and carry on an active commerce with her 
own thought, apparently unobservant of what was going on 
about her. 

The journey to Europe which Mr. Stowe took at this 
time was in the interest of Lane Seminary and also of the 
public school system of Cincinnati. He was absent a little 
over seven months, and Mrs. Stowe lived meanwhile in her 
father's family. She continued the habit of writing she had 
early formed, and besides a daily journal letter to her hus- 
band, contributed stories and essays for journals in Cincin- 
nati and New York. The journal letter gives an animated 
picture of the life which the family led at this time. The 
situation of Cincinnati, a rapidly growing commercial cen- 
tre separated by a river only from a slave-holding commu- 
nity, made it inevitable that the question of slavery should 
be raised in a training-school for ministers such as Lane 
Seminary, and the period was one when the agitation of 
abolition views was increasing and taking the shape of or- 
ganization. The anti-slavery paper The PJManthropist, 
established in Cincinnati by J. G. Birney and Dr. Gamaliel 
Bailey, was suppressed and the office mobbed, and Mrs. Stowe 
found herself in the midst of the excitement caused by this 


and like events. Her brother Henry Ward Beecher was 
editing a small daily paper which stoutly defended Birney, 
and Mrs. Stowe aided him in his work. Lane Seminary 
was threatened by the mob, and in such scenes was Mrs. 
Stowe's married life begun. Her instincts and her principles 
were strongly anti-slavery, though she does not appear at 
this time to have allied herself with the abolitionists. 

A few weeks before the return of Mr. Stowe from Europe, 
Mrs. Stowe gave birth to twin daughters, and early in 1838 
her eldest son was born ; and before she was thirty-seven 
she had a little family of six children. It was to this fam- 
ily that she gave her heart and soul during the years of 
privation and sickness which she endured. Mr. Stowe also 
suffered from ill health, and the father and mother alter- 
nately sought recovery in absence from home, resting or at 
water-cures. The letters which Mrs. Stowe wrote during 
this period bear witness to the struggles which she made foi 
the proper support and training of her children. She wrott 
continually in the midst of distracting duties, and her hus- 
band urged her on, not merely on this account, but because 
he had great faith in her ability. " God has written it in 
his book," he said in one of his letters, " that you must be 
a literary woman, and who are we that we should contend 
against God ? You must therefore make all your calcula- 
tions to spend the rest of your life with your pen." The 
Mayflower, published in 1843, was the first collection of 
her purely literary efforts, but it was merely a convenient 
preservation of her fugitive work, and she kept on with the 
same kind of writing. 

There were in the collection a few sketches which bore 
on slavery, but if one were to judge, from this book, of Mrs. 
Stowe's philanthropic impulses, it would be more to the 
point to say that she used her pen at this time against the 
evils rather of intemperance than of slavery. Nevertheless, 
the contact with slavery during the eighteen years she spent 


in Ohio, a time when the stress and strain of life kept her 
mind alert, and a period too of the rising tide of moral 
opposition, could not fail to make a strong impression upon 
her nature. As an illustration of the undercurrent which 
was running through her mind, we may take the account 
given by Miss Dutton of a visit they made together to a 
Kentucky estate, shortly after the Beechers came to Cin- 
cinnati. " Harriet," she says, " did not seem to notice any- 
thing in particular that happened, but sat much of the time 
as though abstracted in thought. When the negroes did 
funny things and cut up capers, she did not seem to pay the 
slightest attention to them. Afterward, however, in read- 
ing Uncle Tom, I recognized scene after scene of that visit 
portrayed Math the most minute fidelity, and knew at once 
where the material for that portion of the story (the Shelby 
plantation) had been gathered." 

It is most to the point that Mrs. Stowe lived in a family 
circle which was keenly alive to what was going on about 
them. Her father and her most intimate friends were zealous 
advocates of liberty, and from childhood she had lived in an 
atmosphere of earnest thought about the condition of public 
affairs. " I was a child in 1820," she once wrote, " when 
the Missouri question was agitated ; and one of the strongest 
and deepest impressions on my mind was that made by my 
father's sermons and prayers, and the anguish of his soul for 
the poor slave at that time. I remember his preaching draw- 
ing tears down the hardest faces of the old farmers in his 
congregation. I well remember his prayers morning and 
evening in the family for ' poor, oppressed, bleeding Africa,' 
that the time of her deliverance might come ; prayers offered 
with strong crying and tears, and which indelibly impressed 
my heart, and made me Avhat I am from my very soul, the 
enemy of all slavery. Every brother I have has been in his 
sphere a leading anti-slavery man. As for myself and hus- 
band, we have for the last seventeen years lived on the 


border of a slave State, and we have never shrunk from the 
fugitives, and we have helped them with all we had to give. 
I have received the children of liberated slaves into a family 
school, and taught them with my own children, and it has 
Leeu the influence that we found in the church and by the 
altar that has made us do all this." 

In this last sentence may be read the most constant and 
moving power in Mrs. Stowe's life, for she was a deeply 
religious woman, and was stirred by a pity which constantly- 
carried her in thought to Jesus Christ. 

Her experience, as hinted at in the passage just quoted, 
brought her into close contact with victims of the slave 
system. Two or three instances of many may be cited for 
their particular bearing on her later work. As she men- 
tions, she took into her family, to be educated with her chil- 
dren, some who were the children of liberated slaves. One 
day, the mother of one of these, a particularly interesting 
child, rushed in in great alarm with the news that the ex- 
ecutor of a Kentucky estate to which she had belonged be 
fore she was freed had seized upon the child, as one of the 
assets of the estate, and had carried it off to be sold. The 
money for the ransom of the child was raised by subscription 
among the neighbors ; but the incident left a deep mark in 
Mrs. Stowe's mind. Her father's house was more than once 
the refuge of fugitive slaves. She received into her family 
as a servant a colored girl from Kentucky. By the laws of 
Ohio she was free, since she had been brought into the State 
by her mistress, and left there ; but Mr. Stowe learned that 
her former master was laying plans to kidnap her, and was 
likely to succeed by the aid of unscrupulous officers, and in 
the dead of night he and Henry Ward Beecher drove her 
in a covered wagon twelve miles into the country to the 
house of a friendly farmer. This farmer was Mr. Van Zandt, 
a Kentuckian, who had set free his own slaves, and estab- 
lished himself in Ohio. Mrs. Stowe herself, to quote from 


her Introduction, "had been called to write the letters for 
a former slave woman, servant in her own family, to a 
slave husband in Kentucky, who, trusted with unlimited 
liberty, free to come and go on business between Kentucky 
and Ohio, still refused to break his pledge of honor to his mas- 
ter, though that master from year to year deferred the keeping 
of his promise of freedom to the slave. It was the simple 
honor and loyalty of this Christian black man who remained 
in slavery rather than violate a trust, that first impressed 
her with the possibility of such a character as, years after, 
was delineated in Uncle Tom." 

In the early summer of 1849 there was an epidemic of 
cholera in Cincinnati. Both Mr. Stowe and Dr. Beecher 
were absent, the former at the water-cure in Brattleboro, 
Vermont, and Mrs. Stowe saw the scourge fall upon her 
youngest born. The. death of this child came at the end of 
the years of trial in the West. Mr. Stowe had been driven 
to the conclusion that his own health and that of his family 
suffered from the conditions they had been under, and he 
accepted an invitation to the Collins Professorship of Natural 
and Eevealed Keligion at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, 
Maine. He could not leave Lane Seminary until his 
successor had been found, so Mrs. Stowe with three of the 
children went East in April to make ready the Brunswick 
home against occupation by the whole family in the fall. 
It was a trying experience for her, traveling with young 
children, getting established in a new place, and forced at 
every step to count the cost in the most rigid spirit of 
economy, and in the midst of the season came the birth of 
her youngest child. She wrote to a sister at the end of the 
year: "From the time that I left Cincinnati with my chil- 
dren to come forth to a country that I knew not of almost to 
the present time, it has seemed as if I could scarcely breathe. 
I was so pressed with care. My head dizzy with the whir] 
of railroads and steamboats, then ten days' sojourn in Boston, 


and a constant toil and hurry in buying my furniture 
and equipments, and then landing in Brunswick in the 
midst of a drizzly inexorable northeast storm, and beginning 
the work of getting in order a deserted, dreary, damp old 
house. . . . Then came on Mr. Stowe ; and then came the 
eighth of July and my little Charley. I was really glad 
for an excuse to lie in bed, for I was full tired, I can assure 
you. . . . During this time I have employed my leisure hours 
in making up engagements with newspaper editors. I have 
written more than anybody or I myself would have thought. 
I have taught an hour a day in our school, and I have read 
two hours every evening to the children." 

It was in the midst of this incessant activity, and when 
turning to literature not only for the additions it brought 
to a meagre income, but because it was a natural outlet for a 
busy mind, that there came the great occasion when Uncle 
Tom's Cabin found its genesis and execution. The story 
of its production is so fully told by Mrs. Stowe herself that 
it is needless to repeat here the details, yet it should be 
noted that there was a concentration of influences at this time 
leading to her resolution to do something, however slight, 
toward awakening the public conscience. It may reason- 
ably be said that her very removal from Cincinnati had an 
important effect. In the quiet country town of Brunswick, 
remote from the centre of agitation, she was not brought into 
direct contact with the painful scenes which were enacting 
upon the border line of slave territory through the operation 
of the Fugitive Slave Act. All the more did memory and 
imagination have full play. The letters which she received 
from Boston and Cincinnati, and her own vivid recollection 
of the scenes she had witnessed, were fuel upon the flame 
which her moral indignation had kindled. She did not 
need the appeal of others, but such an appeal came in a let- 
ter from a sister-in-law. "If I could use a pen as you can," 


she wrote, " I would write something that would make this 
whole nation feel what an accursed thing slavery is.''' 

" A member of Mrs. Stowe's family well remembers the 
scene in the little parlor in Brunswick when the, letter 
alluded to was received. Mrs. Stowe herself read it aloud 
to the assembled family ; and when she came to the passage, 
'I would write something that would make this whole na- 
tion feel what an accursed thing slavery is,' Mrs. Stowe rose 
from her chair, crushing the letter in her hand, and with 
an expression on her face that stamped itself on the mind 
of her child, said : ' I will write something. I will if I 
live.' " 

Yet fixed as this determination was, it might almost be 
said that she was but the instrument by which this book 
came to be written ; that it owed its origin not so much to 
her resolution as to a flood of conviction and feeling which 
swept her along to the conclusion, and that in the writing 
her whole religious nature found impassioned expression. 
The consecration of her life entered into it, and the book be- 
came in her purpose a Thus saith the Lord. 

The publication of Uncle Tom's Cabin changed the cur- 
rent of Mrs. Stowe's life by giving her at once the position 
of a great public character. With her warm heart and her 
impassioned nature she threw herself into the cause she had 
espoused. She carried on an enormous correspondence with 
friends in America and abroad, she raised money for the 
emancipation of slaves, and she received numberless appeals 
from the unfortunate and oppressed of every kind. Her 
life of poverty was over, but her labor was increased, and 
she gave herself freely and without counting the cost. One 
story of her personal interest may be read partially in the 
chapter of the Key which relates to the Edmondson family. 
Uncle Tom's Cabin was published March 20, 1852, and 
Mrs. Stowe spent the weeks that followed with her brother 
Henry in Brooklyn. During her absence Professor Stowe 


received and accepted a call to the chair of Sacred Literature 
in the Theological Seminary at Andover, Massachusetts, and 
the summer was largely occupied by Mrs. ,Stowe in making 
ready their new home there. She took possession of an 
old stone building which had served successively as a work- 
shop and a gymnasium and transformed it into a dwelling 
which was popularly known as The Cabin, and so long as 
the Stowes remained in Andover was the centre of a busy, 
cheerful life. There was indeed at this time an expansion 
of outward circumstance which had a marked effect on Mrs. 
Stowe's temperament. The immediate large increase of in- 
come, the change to a genial neighborhood, the outlook 
upon a useful future, brought a sense of tranquillity and 

" It seems almost too good to be true," Mrs. Stowe wrote 
from Andover to her husband, " that we are going to have 
such a house in such a beautiful place, and to live here 
among all these agreeable people, where everybody seems to 
love you so much and to think so much of you. I am al- 
most afraid to accept it, and should not, did I not see the 
Hand that gives it all and know that it is both firm and 
true. He knows if it is best for us, and His blessing addeth 
no sorrow therewith. I cannot describe to you the constant 
undercurrent of love and joy and peace ever flowing through 
my soul. I am so happy so blessed ! " 

If she had consulted her own pleasure only, Mrs. Stowe 
would have occupied herself the coming winter with writ- 
ing fiction, for she had already planned a story of New Eng- 
land life ; but the stir which Uncle Tom's Cabin produced 
made this impossible. She was challenged from every 
quarter to prove the truth of the book whose force had be- 
come so overpowering because it was true, and she plunged 
into the labor involved in the writing of A Key to 
Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

" I am now writing a work," she says in a letter to Mrs, 


Follen, dated February 16, 1853, " which will contain, per- 
haps, an equal amount of matter with Uncle Tom's Cabin. 
It will contain all the facts and documents on which that 
story was founded, and an immense body of facts, reports 
of trials, legal documents, and testimony of people now 
living South, which will more than confirm every state- 
ment in Uncle Tom's Cabin. I must confess that till I 
began the examination of facts in order to write this book, 
much as I thought I knew before, I had not begun to meas- 
ure the depth of the abyss. The law records of courts 
and judicial proceedings are so incredible as to fill me 
with amazement whenever I think of them. It seems to 
me that the book cannot but be felt, and, coming upon the 
sensibility awaked by the other, do something." 

When the spring came Mrs. Stowe was sick and ex- 
hausted with her labor, and she and her husband gladly 
accepted an invitation from the friends of emancipation in 
England to cross the water and visit the old country. 
W>th them went the Kev. Charles Beecher, Mrs. Stowe's 
brother; and the record of the journey is contained in 
*jhe two volumes of Sunny Memories prepared by the 
Bister and brother. The journey was like a royal progress, 
<so interested were all, high and low, to see the author of the 
most popular book of the day, and the representative of a 
great moral cause. Professor Stowe was obliged to return 
to his duties in Andover in May, and Mrs. Stowe and Mr. 
Beecher, after a brief tour on the continent, made another 
rou'id of visits in England, and were in Andover once more 
in ^ptember. 

The European experience not only heightened Mrs. 
Stowe's fame, it added to her voluminous correspondence; 
and in the years which intervened before the war, espe- 
cially before the organization of the Republican party in 
1856, she conducted a vigorous campaign, writing letters 
and articles, and giving aid by money and counsel in the 


creation of an anti-slavery sentiment. Especially did she 
ict as spokeswoman in appealing both to her own coun- 
trywomen and to the women of England. But she did not 
neglect her most powerful weapon. A volume of new facts 
regarding slavery had been accumulating, and in 1855 and 
during the spring of 1856 she was engaged upon the con- 
struction of Dred, which she designed as a complement to 
Uncle Tom's Cabin, throwing the weight of her argument 
upon the deterioration of a society resting on a slave basis. 

The completion of Dred left Mrs. Stowe in great need 
of rest and change, and in the early summer of 1856 she 
went again to Europe, accompanied by her husband, her 
two eldest daughters, her son Henry, and her sister Mary, 
Mrs. Thomas Perkins of Hartford. A special purpose of 
the journey was to secure a copyright for an English edi- 
tion of Dred. Mr. Stowe returned to Andover in Septem- 
ber, and the rest of the party, after visiting the Duke of 
Argyll in the Highlands, traveled slowly southward, crossed 
the channel, and leaving Henry Stowe to return to his col- 
lege work at Dartmouth, settled for a while in Paris. 
There the daughters were left to study, and Mrs. Stowe and 
Mrs. Perkins went to Italy, where they passed the remain- 
der of the winter. After a spring in England, Mrs. Stowe 
returned home, reaching Andover in June, 1857. 

The prospect of a happy future was shattered at once 
on her return by the sudden death by drowning of Henry 
Stowe, and the summer was spent at Andover with a week 
or two at Brunswick in slow recovery from the shock 
which this terrible ill had brought. The experience was 
to color some of her after writing, and found at this time 
a reflection in the allegory of The Mourning Veil, which 
she contributed to the first number of The Atlantic 
Monthly. The establishment of that magazine brought 
with it an urgent request to Mrs. Stowe to contribute to 
its pages. Mr. Lowell, its first editor, had a strong respect 


for her dramatic faculty, and he took a very lively interest 
in the serial story The Minister's Wooing, which began 
with the number for December, 1858, and was published as 
a book a year later, after its completion in the magazine. 

A third visit to Europe was undertaken in the summer of 
1859. As before, the completion of a new book was the 
occasion of the journey, since at that time the only security 
for the English publisher lay in the author's being on Eng- 
lish soil when her book was actually published. Mrs. Stowe 
was moved also by considerations of her own health and that 
of her family, and by a desire to avail herself of fresh Euro- 
pean experience for further writing. The youngest child 
remained in America, but all the rest of the family accom- 
panied her, though Professor Stowe returned to Andover 
when his academic duties recalled him in the fall. Mrs. 
Stowe herself did not return until the end of Jime, 1860. 
She had passed the winter in Italy, and out of her life 
there grew Agnes of Sorrento, which appeared first serially, 
and afterward as a book, in 1863. This story, however, 
was in a way preceded by The Pearl of Orr's Island, pro- 
jected long before, though written as a serial after Agnes of 
Sorrento had been begun. These two novels practically 
closed Mrs. Stowe's career as a purely artistic creator of 
fiction ou a broad scale. She was to write much fiction 
^fter this, and some of it was her most characteristic work, 
but for the next few years other interests in literature 
commanded her attention, growing in part out of certain 
changes in her outward circumstances. 

In the year 1863 Professor Stowe retired from his pro- 
fessorship at Andover, and it was decided to make the 
family home in Hartford, so identified in Mrs. Stowe's 
mind with her girlhood and her companions of that time, 
and where two of her own sisters were now living. A 
house was built in the suburbs of the city, and life was 
taken up under conditions less academic and more civilian. 


It was partly on this account, no doubt, that Mrs. Stowe's 
mind was turned toward subjects of social morality ; and 
within the next few years she wrote freely upon topics 
which lend themselves less to the novel than to what may 
be called fictitious essays, and there followed that series of 
books, published first in The Atlantic, which, beginning 
with House and Home Papers, ended with The Chimney 
Corner. She contributed also to magazines for young 
people ; but her most notable essay in pure story-telling was 
in the publication, in 1869, of Oldtown Folks, and, two 
years later, of Oldtoivn Fireside Stories, two books instinct 
with rural New England spirit, and embodying, moreover, 
the racy memories of his youth which Professor Stowe 
enjoyed. These two books were separated by one in a 
wholly different field, Lady Byron Vindicated, which grew 
out of an Atlantic article which she had written in fulfill- 
ment of an obligation which she felt she owed to a valued 
friend, and, as she deemed, a misunderstood and traduced 

Mrs. Stowe's son, Frederick William, had entered the 
army in the war for the Union, and had been promoted for 
bravery to the rank of captain ; but he received serious 
wounds, which so impaired his health that his mother took 
the step not long after the close of the war of buying an 
estate in Florida, hoping that he might there recover his 
shattered health. The plantation at Mandarin became the 
winter home of the family for many years, and Mrs. Stowe, 
with her unfailing interest in the life about her, set about 
various schemes for Christianizing her neighborhood. She 
had herself some time before transferred her connection 
from the Congregational to the Episcopal communion, and 
she was very eager to extend church privileges in the 
locality. The Floridian experience found expression in a 
series of letters afterward published as Palmetto Leaves. 

Meanwhile the establishment of a weekly paper, The 


Christian Union, in which her brother Henry was largely 
interested, led to her resuming serial writing, and she pub- 
lished successively My Wife and I and We and Our Neigh- 
bors, and in 1878 she returned in a manner to her earlier 
interests as well as took the opportunity to write with some 
reference to her own ecclesiastical change, when she pub- 
lished the story of old-fashioned New England life, Poganuc 
People. But for the most part her religious nature domi- 
nated now her intellectual effort, and in short stories, in 
poetry, and in religious meditations, she gave expression to 
an ever deepening sense of the Divine mystery. In writing 
to her son of Poganuc People, on which she was engaged, 
she said with sincerity : " I would much rather have writ- 
ten another such a book as Footsteps of the Master, but all, 
even the religious papers, are gone mad on serials." Her 
strong leaning toward religious subjects was manifest also 
during this period in her correspondence with George Eliot, 
with Mrs. Browning, and others. Her husband had known 
some very unusual psychical experiences, and the current 
phenomena which passed under the name of spiritualism 
attracted the attention of both, and formed a considerable 
element in correspondence. 

Literature was distinctly a means of livelihood, yet her 
waning strength made composition an exertion, and what 
she had once done freely she did now, freely still, yet with 
conscious effort. The interest excited by Dickens' readings 
from his own works led to a more general practice of the 
same form of publication, and Mrs. Stowe resorted with a 
cheerful courage and good humored resolution to this mode 
of support, knowing well that her lack of strength and un- 
familiarity with the task were against her, but that the real 
desire of the public was to come face to face with a cele- 
brated woman. Mrs. Fields, in her Days with Mrs. Stoive, 
has given a graphic account of the plunge into this new 
career : 


" Her first reading actually took place in Springfield, not 
Boston, and the next day she unexpectedly arrived at our 
cottage at Manchester-by-the-Sea. She had read the pre- 
vious evening in a large public hall, had risen at five o'clock 
that morning and found her way to us. Her next readings 
were given in Boston, the first in the afternoon, at the 
Tremont Temple. She was conscious that her efforts at 
Springfield had not been altogether successful, she had 
not held her large audience, and she was determined to 
put the whole force of her nature into this afternoon read- 
ing at the Tremont Temple. She called me into her bed- 
room, where she stood before the mirror with her short 
gray hair, which usually lay in soft curls around her brow, 
brushed erect and standing stiffly. ' Look here, my dear,' 
she said ; ' now I am exactly like my father, Dr. Lyman 
Beecher, when he was going to preach,' and she held up her 
forefinger warningly. It was easy to see that the spirit of 
the old preacher was revived in her veins, and the afternoon 
would show something of his power. An hour later, when 
I sat with her in the anteroom waiting for the moment of 
her appearance to arrive, I could feel the power surging up 
within her. I knew she was armed for a good fight. 

" That reading was a great success. She was alive in 
every fibre of her being : she was to read portions of Uncle 
Tom's Cabin to men, women, and children who could hardly 
understand the crisis which inspired it, and she determined 
to effect the difficult task of making them feel as well as 
hear. With her presence and inspiration they could not fail 
to understand what her words had signified to the genera- 
tion that had passed through the struggle of our war. 
When her voice was not sufficient to make the audience 
hear, men and women rose from their seats and crowded 
round her, standing gladly, that no word might be lost. It 
was the last leap of the flame which had burned out a great 


Mrs. Stowe felt keenly the separation from her husband 
that this venture compelled. He had become weakened by 
disease, and for a long period she devoted herself to his 
care. But through all experiences she kept a brave faith 
and a willing ear for the troubles of others. Her friends 
remained constant to her, and she had resources in sketching 
and reading which were unfailing. Once there was a semi- 
public recognition of her greatness, when, upon her sev- 
entieth birthday, her publishers, in conjunction with her 
old-time friends, Governor and Mrs. Claflin, gave a garden 
party in her honor, and the world stopped for a moment to 
remember one of its great benefactors. But she went back 
to her home and to the domestic care which held her in her 
old age. After her husband's death, in 1886, she relaxed 
something of her hold on life. The seclusion which she had 
fallen into with him remained for herself, and she passed 
her old age in the quiet of her home. There, sheltered 
from the world, she lived, while that world went on its 
way, entering upon new warfares and engaged still in mor- 
tal combat with evil, but strengthened for the encounter by 
the life and work of one woman, who produced a book which 
once set men's souls on fire, and still inflames the imagina- 
tion by the ardor with which it was conceived. 

She died in Hartford, Wednesday, July 1, 1896, and was 
buried by the side of her husband in the Andover cem- 



HE introduction of a new American Edition of " Uncle 
Tom's Cabin " gives an occasion for a brief account of that 
book, how it came to be, how it was received in the 
world, and what has been its history throughout all the 
nations and tribes of the earth, civilized and uncivilized, into whose 
languages it has been translated. 

Its author had for many years lived in Ohio on the confines of a 
slave state, and had thus been made familiar with facts and occur- 
rences in relation to the institution of American slavery. Some of the 
most harrowing incidents related in the story had from time to time 
come to her knowledge in conversation with former slaves now free 
in Ohio. The cruel sale and separation of a married woman from her 
husband, narrated in Chapter XII., "Select Incidents of Lawful 
Trade," had passed under her own eye while passenger on a steam- 
boat on the Ohio Eiver. Her husband and brother had once been 
obliged to flee with a fugitive slave woman by night, as described 
in Chapter IX., and she herself had been called to write the letters 
for a former slave woman, servant in her own family, to a slave 
husband in Kentucky, who, trusted with unlimited liberty, free to 
come and go on business between Kentucky and Ohio, still refused 
to break his pledge of honor to his master, though that master from 
year to year deferred the keeping of his promise of freedom to the 
slave. It was the simple honor and loyalty of this Christian black 
man, who remained in slavery rather than violate a trust, that first 
impressed her with the possibility of such a character as, years after, 
was delineated in Uncle Tom. 

From time to time incidents were brought to her knowledge 
which deepened her horror of slavery. In her own family she had 
a private school for her children, and as there was no provision for 
the education of colored children in her vicinity, she allowed them 


the privilege of attending. One day she was suddenly surprised by 
a visit from the mother of one of the brightest aud most amusing of 
these children. It appeared that the child had never been emanci- 
pated, and was one of the assets of an estate in Kentucky, and had been 
seized and carried off by one of the executors, and was to be sold by 
the sheriff at auction to settle the estate. The sum for the little 
one's ransom was made up by subscription in the neighborhood, but 
the incident left a deep mark in Mrs. Stowe's mind as to the practi- 
cal workings of the institution of slavery. 

But it was not for many years that she felt any call to make use 
of the materials thus accumulating. In fact, it was a sort of general 
impression upon her mind, as upon that of many humane people in 
those days, that the subject was so dark and painful a one. so in- 
volved in difficulty and obscurity, so utterly beyond human hope or 
help, that it was of no use to read, or think, or distress one's sell 
about it. There was a class of professed Abolitionists in Cincinnati 
and the neighboring regions, but they were unfashionable persons 
and few in number. Like all asserters of pure abstract right as 
applied to human affairs, they were regarded as a species of moral 
monomaniacs, who, in the consideration of one class of interests and 
wrongs, had lost sight of all proportion and all good judgment. 
Both in church and in state they were looked upon as " those that 
troubled Israel." 

It was a general saying among conservative and sagacious people 
that this subject was a dangerous one to investigate, and that no- 
body could begin to read and think upon it without becoming prac- 
tically insane ; moreover, that it was a subject of such delicacy that 
no discussion of it could be held in the free States without im- 
pinging upon the sensibilities of the slave States, to whom alone 
the management of the matter belonged. 

So when Dr. Bailey a wise, temperate, and just man, a model of 
courtesy in speech and writing came to Cincinnati and set up an 
antislavery paper, proposing a fair discussion of the subject, there 
was an immediate excitement. On two occasions a mob led by 
slaveholders from Kentucky attacked his office, destroyed his print- 
ing-press, and threw his types into the Ohio River. The most of 
the Cincinnati respectability, in church and state, contented them- 
selves on this occasion with reprobating the imprudence of Dr. 
Bailey in thus " arousing the passions of our fellow-citizens of Ken* 
tucky." In these mobs and riots the free colored people were 
threatened, maltreated, abused, and often had to flee for their lives. 


Even the servants of good families were often chased to the very 
houses of their employers, who rescued them with difficulty, and 
the story was current in those days of a brave little woman who 
defended her black waiter, standing, pistol in hand, on her own 
doorstep, and telling the mob face to face that they should not enter 
except over her dead body. 

Professor Stowe's house was more than once a refuge for fright- 
ened fugitives on whom the very terrors of death had fallen, andthe 
inmates slept with arms in the house and a large bell ready to 
call the young men of the adjoining Institution, in case the mob 
should come up to search the house. Nor was this a vain or im- 
probable suggestion, for the mob in their fury had more than once 
threatened to go up and set fire to Lane Seminary, where a large 
body of the students were known to be abolitionists. Only the fact 
that the Institution was two miles from the city, with a rough and 
muddy road up a long high hill, proved its salvation. Cincinnati 
mud, far known for its depth and tenacity, had sometimes its advan- 


The general policy of the leaders of society, in cases of such dis- 
turbances, was after the good old pattern in Judaea, where a higher 
One had appeared, who disturbed the traders in swine ; " they be- 
sought him that he would depart out of their coasts." Dr. Bailey 
at last was induced to remove his paper to Washington, and to con- 
duct his investigation under the protection of the national Capitol, 
and there for years he demonstrated the fact that the truth may be 
spoken plainly yet courteously, and with all honorable and Christian 
fairness on the most exciting of subjects. In justice to the South it 
must be said, that his honesty, courage, and dignity of character won 
for him friends even among the most determined slaveholders. 
Manly men have a sort of friendship for an open, honest opponent, 
like that of Richard Co3ur de Lion for Salaam. 

Far otherwise was the fate of Lovejoy, who essayed an anti-slavery 
paper at Alton, Illinois. A mob from Missouri besieged the office, 
Bet the house on fire, and shot him at the door. It was for some 
days reported that Dr. Beecher's son, Rev. Edward Beecher, known 
to have been associated with Lovejoy at this period, had been 
killed at the same time. Such remembrances show how well 
grounded were the fears which attended every effort to agitate this 
subject. People who took the side of justice and humanity in those 
days had to count the cost and pay the price of their devotion. In 
t&ose times, when John G. Fee, a young Kentucky student in Lane 


Seminary, liberated his slaves, and undertook to preach the gospel 
of emancipation in Kentucky, he was chased from the state, and dis- 
inherited by his own father. Berea College, for the education of 
Colored and white, stands to-day a triumphant monument of his 
persistence in w^ll-doing. Mr. Van Zandt, a Kentucky farmer, 
set free hia slaves and came over and bought a farm in Ohio. Sub- 
sequently, from an impulse of humanity, he received and protected 
fugitive slaves in the, manner narrated in Chapter IX. of "Uncle 
Tom's Cabin.'' For this he was seized, imprisoned, his property 
attached, and he was threatened with utter ruin. Salmon P. Chase, 
then a rising young lawyer in Cincinnati, had the bravery to appear 
as his lawyer. As he was leaving the court-room, after making his 
plea, one of the judges remarked, " There goes a young man who has 
ruined himself to-day," and the sentiment was echoed by the general 
voice of society. The case went against Van Zandt, and Mr. Chase 
carried it up to the Supreme Court of the United States, which, 
utterly ignoring argument and justice, decided it against him. But 
a few years more, and Salmon P. Chase was himself Chief Justice of 
the United States. It was one of those rare dramatic instances in 
which courage and justice sometimes bring a reward even in this 

After many years' residence in Ohio, Mrs. Stowe returned to make 
her abode in New England, just in the height of the excitement pro- 
duced by the Fugitive Slave Law. Settled in Brunswick, Maine, 
she was in constant communication with friends in Boston, who 
wrote to her from day to day of the terror and despair which that 
law had occasioned to industrious, worthy colored people who had 
from time to time escaped to Boston, and were living in peace and 
security. She heard of families broken up and fleeing in the dead 
of winter to the frozen shores of Canada. But what seemed to her 
more inexplicable, more dreadful, was the apparent apathy of the 
Christian world of the free North to these proceedings. The pul- 
pits that denounced them were exceptions ; the voices raised to re- 
monstrate few and far between. 

In New England, as at the. West, professed abolitionists were a 
small, despised, unfashionable band, whose constant remonstrances 
from year to year had been disregarded as the voices of imprac- 
ticable fanatics. It seemed now as if the system once confined to 
the Southern states was rousing itself to new efforts to extend itseli 
fill over the North, and to overgrow the institutions of free society. 

With, astonishment and distress Mrs. Stowe heard on all sides, 


from Tmmane and Christian people, that the slavery of the blacks 
was a guaranteed constitutional right, and that all opposition to it 
endangered the national Union. With this conviction she saw that 
even earnest and tender-hearted Christian people seemed to feel it a 
duty to close their eyes, ears, and hearts to the harrowing details of 
slavery, to put down all discussion of the subject, and even to assist 
slave-owners to recover fugitives in Northern states. She said tc 
herself, these people cannot know what slavery is ; they do not see 
what they are defending ; and hence arose a purpose to write some 
sketches which should show to the world slavery as she had herself 
seen it. Pondering this subject, she was one day turning over a 
little bound volume of an anti-slavery magazine, edited by Mrs. Dr. 
Bailey, of Washington, and there she read the account of the escape 
of a woman with her child on the ice of the Ohio River from Ken- 
tucky. The incident was given by an eye-witness, one who had 
helped the woman to the Ohio shore. This formed the first salient 
point of the story. She began to meditate. The faithful slave hus- 
band in Kentucky occurred to her as a pattern of Uncle Tom, and 
the scenes of the story began gradually to form themselves in her 

The first part of the book ever committed to writing was the 
death of Uncle Tom. This scene presented itself almost as a tangi- 
ble vision to her mind while sitting at the communion-table in the 
little church in Brunswick. She was perfectly overcome by it, and 
could scarcely restrain the convulsion of tears and sobbings that 
shook her frame. She hastened home and wrote it, and her husband 
being away she read it to her two sons of ten and twelve years of 
age. The little fellows broke out into convulsions of weeping, one 
of them saying, through his sobs, " Oh ! mamma, slavery is the 
most cursed thing in the world ! " From that time the story can 
less be said to have been composed by her than imposed upon her. 
Scenes, incidents, conversations rushed upon her with a vividness 
and importunity that would not be denied. The book insisted upon 
getting itself into being, and would take no denial. After the two 
or three first chapters were written, she wrote to Dr Bailey of the 
" National Era " that she was planning a story that might probably 
run through several numbers of the " Era." In reply she received 
an instant application for it, and began immediately to send oft 
weekly instalments. She was then in the midst of heavy domestic 
cares, with a young infant, with a party of pupils in her family to 
Whom she was imparting daily lessons with her own children, and 


with untrained servants requiring constant supervision, but the 
story was so much more intense a reality to her than any other 
earthly thing that the weekly instalment never failed. It was there 
in her mind day and night waiting to be written, and requiring but 
a few moments to bring it into visible characters. 

The weekly number was always read to the family circle before it 
was sent away, and all the household kept up an intense interest in 
the progress of the story. 

As the narrative appeared in the " Era," sympathetic words began 
to come to her from old workers who had long been struggling 
in the anti-slavery cause. She visited Boston, went to the Anti- 
Slavery rooms, and reinforced her repertoire of facts by such docu- 
ments as Theodore D. Weld's " Slavery As It Is," the Lives of Josiah 
Henson and Lewis Clarke, particulars from both whose lives were 
inwoven with the story in the characters of Uncle Tom and George 

In shaping her material the author had but one purpose, to show 
the institution of slavery truly, just as it existed. She had visited 
in Kentucky, had formed the acquaintance of people who were just, 
upright, and generous, and yet slaveholders. She had heard their 
views and appreciated their situation ; she felt that justice required 
that their difficulties should be recognized and their virtues acknowl- 
edged. It was her object to show that the evils of slavery were the 
inherent evils of a bad system, and not always the fault of those who 
had become involved in it and were its actual administrators. 

Then she was convinced that the presentation of slavery alone, 
in its most dreadful forms, would be a picture of such unrelieved 
horror and darkness as nobody could be induced to look at. Of 
set purpose, she sought to light up the darkness by humorous and 
grotesque episodes, and the presentation of the milder and more 
amusing phases of slavery, for which her recollection of the never- 
failing wit and drollery of her former colored friends in Ohio 
gave her abundant material. As the story progressed, a young 
publisher, J. P. Jewett, of Boston, set his eye upon it, and made 
overtures for the publication of it in book form, to which she con- 
sented. After a while she had a letter from him expressing hia 
fears that she was making the story too long for a one- volume pul> 
lication. He reminded her that it was an unpopular subject, and 
that people would not willingly hear much about it ; that one shor* 
volume might possibly sell, but if it grew to two it might prove a 
fatal obstacle to its success. Mrs. Stowe replied that she did not 


make the story, that the story made itself, and that she could not 
stop it till it was done. The feeling that pursued her increased in 
intensity to the last, till with the death of Uncle Tom it seemed as 
if the whole vital force had left her. A feeling of profound dis- 
couragement came over her. Would anybody read it ? Would any- 
body listen ? Would this appeal, into which she had put heart, 
soul, mind, and strength, which she had written with her heart's 
blood, would it, too, go for nothing, as so many prayers and groans 
and entreaties of these poor suffering souls had already gone ? There 
had just been a party of slaves who had been seized and thrown 
into prison in Washington for a vain effort to escape. They were, 
many of them, partially educated, cultivated young men and women, 
to whom slavery was intolerable. When they were retaken and 
marched through the streets of Washington, followed by a jeering 
crowd, one of them, named Emily Edmonson, answered one man 
who cried shame upon her, that she was not ashamed, that she 
was proud that she and all the rest of them had made an effort 
for liberty! It was the sentiment of a heroine, but she and her 
sisters were condemned no less to the auction-block. 

It was when the last proof-sheet had been sent to the office that 
Mrs. Stowe, alone and thoughtful, sat reading Horace Mann's elo- 
quent plea for those young men and women, then about to be con- 
signed to the slave warehouse of Bruin & Hill in Alexandria, a 
plea eloquent, impassioned, but vain, as all other pleas on that side 
had ever proved in all courts hitherto. It seemed to her that there 
was no hope, that nobody would hear, nobody would read, nobody 
would pity ; that this frightful system, which had already pursued 
its victims into the free states, might at last even threaten them hi 

So, determined to leave nothing undone which remotely could 
help the cause she pleaded, she wrote one letter to Prince Albert 
to accompany a copy of her work ; another to T. B. Macaulay, of 
whose father she had heard in her youth as an anti-slavery laborer ; 
one to Charles Dickens, whose sympathy for the slave had been 
expressed more than once ; one to Charles Kingsley, and one to Lord 
Carlisle. These letters were despatched to their destination with 
early copies of the book, and all in due time acknowledged to th( 

"Uncle Tom's Cabin" was published March 20, 1852. TH, 
despondency of the author as to the question whether anybody 
would read or attend to her appeal was soon dispelled. Ten thou- 


sand copies were sold in a few days, and over three hundred thou- 
sand within a year, and eight power-presses, running day and night, 
were barely able to keep pace with the demand for it. It was read 
'everywhere, apparently, and by everybody, and she soon began to 
hear echoes of sympathy all over the land. The indignation, the 
pity, the distress, that had long weighed upon her soul seemed to 
pass off from her, and into the readers of the book. 

The following note from a lady, an intimate friend, was a speci- 
men of many which the post daily brought her : 

MY DEAR MRS. STOWE, I sat up last night until long after one 
o'clock, reading and finishing "Uncle Tom's Cabin." I could not leave 
it any more than I could have left a dying child; nor could I restrain an 
almost hysterical sobbing for an hour after I laid my head upon my 
pillow. I thought I was a thoroughgoing abolitionist before, but your 
book has awakened so strong a feeling of indignation and of compassion, 
that I seem never to have had any feeling on this subject till now. But 
what can we do ? Alas ! alas ! what can we do ? This storm of feeliiif 


has been raging, burning like a very fire in my bones all the livelong 
night:, and through all my duties this morning it haunts me, I cannot 
away with it. Gladly would I have gone out in the midnight storm last 
night, and, like the blessed martyr of old, been stoned to death, if that 
could have rescued these oppressed and afflicted ones. But that would 
avail nothing. And now what am I doing ? Just the most foolish thing 
in the world. "Writing to you, who need no incitement; to you, who 
have spun from your very vitals this tissue of agony and truths ; for I 
know, I feel, that there are burning drops of your heart's best blood here 
concentrated. To you, who need no encouragement or sympathy of 
mine, and whom I would not insult by praise, no, you stand on too 
high an eminence for praise ; but methinks I see the prayers of the poor, 
the blessings of those who are ready to perish, gathering in clouds about 
you, and forming a halo round your beloved head. And surely the tears 
of gentle, sympathizing childhood, that are dropping about many a 
Christian hearthstone over the wrongs and cruelties depicted by you so 
touchingly, will water the sod and spring up in bright flowers at your 
feet. And better still, I know, I see, in the flushing cheek, the 
clenched hand, and indignant eye of the young man, as he dashes down 
the book and paces the room to hide the tears that he is too proud to 
show, too powerless to restrain, that you are sowing seed which shall yef 
spring up to the glory of God, to the good of the poor slave, to the 
enfranchisement of our beloved though guilty country. 

Mrs. Stowe at this period visited New York. It was just at the 
time of Jenny Lind's first visit to this country, when the young 


Swedish vocalist was the idol of the hour, and tickets to her con- 
certs were selling at fabulous prices. Mrs. Stowe's friends, applying 
for tickets, found all sold ; but, on hearing of the application, the 
cantatrice immediately sent Mrs. Stowe two tickets to two of the 
best seats in the house. In reply to Mrs. Stowe's note of thanka 

came this answer : 

May 23, 1852. 

MY DEAR MADAM, Allow me to express my most sincere thanks for 
your very kind letter, which I was very happy to receive. 

You must feel and know what deep impression "Uncle Tom's Cabin " 
has made upon every heart that can feel for the dignity of human exist- 
ence ; so I, with my miserable English, would not even try to say a word 
about the great excellency of that most beautiful book, but / must thank 
you for the great joy I have felt over that book. 

Forgive me, my dear madam ; it is a great liberty I take in thus ad- 
dressing you, I know, but I have so wished to find an opportunity to pour 
out my thankfulness in a few words to you that I cannot help this in- 
truding. I have the feeling about "Uncle Tom's Cabin" that great 
changes will take place by and by from the impression people receive out 
of it, and that the writer of that book can " fall asleep " to-day or to- 
morrow with the bright sweet conscience of having been a strong, power- 
ful means, in the Creator's hand, of operating essential good in one of the 
most important questions for the welfare of our black brethren. God 
bless and protect you and yours, dear madam, and certainly God's hand 
will remain with a blessing over your head. 

Once more, forgive my bad English and the liberty I have taken, and 
believe me to be, dear madam, 

Yours most truly, 


A more cheering result was in the testimony of many colored 
persons and fugitive slaves, who said to her, " Since that book has 
come out, everybody is good to us ; we find friends everywhere. 
It's wonderful how kind everybody is." 

In one respect, Mrs. Stowe's expectations were strikingly different, 
from fact. She had painted slaveholders as amiable, generous, and 
just. She had shown examples among them of the noblest and 
most beautiful traits of character ; had admitted fully their tempta- 
tions, their perplexities, and their difficulties, so that a friend of 
hers who had many relatives in the South wrote to her in exulta- 
tion : " Your book is going to be the great pacificator ; it will unite 
both North and South." Her expectation was that the professed 
abolitionists would denounce it as altogether too mild in its deal- 


ings with slaveholders. To her astonishment, it was the extreme 
abolitionists who received, and the entire South who rose up 
against it. 

Whittier wrote to Garrison in May, 1852 : 

"It did me good to see thy handwriting, friend William, reminding 
me of the old days when we fought the beasts at Ephesus together in 
Philadelphia. Ah me ! I am no longer able to take active part in the 
conflicts and skirmishes which are preparing the way for the great battle 
of Armageddon, the world- wide, final struggle between freedom and 
slavery, but, sick or well, in the body or out, I shall be no unconcerned 
spectator. I bless God that, through the leadings of his Providence, I 
have a right to rejoice in the certain victory of the right. 

" What a glorious work Harriet Beecher Stowe has wrought ! Thanks 
for the Fugitive Slave Law ! Better for slavery that law had never been 
enacted, for it gave occasion for ' Uncle Tom's Cabin ' ! " 

In a letter from Garrison to Mrs. Stowe, he said that he estimated 
the value of anti-slavery writing by the abuse it brought. " Since 
' Uncle Tom's Cabin ' has been published," he adds, " all the defenders 
of slavery have let me alone, and are spending their strength in 
abusing you." In fact, the post-office began about this time to bring 
her threatening and insulting letters from the Legrees and Haleys 
of the slave-markets, letters so curiously compounded of blas- 
phemy, cruelty, and obscenity, that their like could only be ex- 
pressed by John Bunyan's account of the speech of Apollyon, 
" He spake as a dragon." 

After a little, however, responses began to come from across the 
water. The author had sent copies to Prince Albert, to Charles 
Dickens, to T. B. Macaulay, to Kingsley, and to Lord Carlisle. The 
receipt of the copy sent to Prince Albert was politely acknowledged, 
with thanks, by his private secretary. Her letter is here given : 


The author of this work feels that she has an apology for presenting it 
to Prince Albert, because it concerns the great interests of humanity, and 
from those noble and enlarged views of human progress which she has at 
different times seen in his public speeches, she has inferred that he bar 
an eye and a heart for all that concerns the development and welfare of 
the human family. 

Ignorant of the forms of diplomatic address, and the etiquette of rank, 
may she be pardoned for speaking with the republican simplicity of her 
own country, as to one who possesses a nobility higher than that of rank 
or station. 


This simple narrative is an honest attempt to enlist the -sympathies 
both of England and America in the sufferings of an oppressed race, to 
whom in less enlightened days both England and America were unjust. 

The wrong on England's past has been atoned in a manner worthy of 
herself, nor in all her strength and glory is there anything that adds such 
Justre to her name as the position she holds in relation to human freedom. 
(May America yet emulate her example !) 

The appeal is in greater part, as it should be, to the writer's own 
country, but when fugitives by thousands are crowding British shores, 
sue would enlist for them the sympathy of British hearts. 

We, in America, have been told that the throne of earth's mightiest 
nation is now filled by one less adorned by all this world can gi;e of 
power and splendor, than by a good and noble heart, a heart ever 
ready to feel for the suffering, the oppressed, and the lowly. 

The author is encouraged by the thought that beneath the royal in- 
signia of England throbs that woman's and mother's heart. May she ask 
that he who is nearest to her would present to her notice this simple 
stoiy. Should it win from her compassionate nature pitying thoughts 
tor those multitudes of poor outcasts, who have fled for shelter to the 
shadow of her throne, it were enough. 

May the blessing of God rest on the noble country from which America 
draws her lineage, and on her the Queen of it. Though all the thrones 
be shaken, may hers, founded deep in the hearts of her subjects, be 
established to her and to her children, through all generations ! 

With deep respect, 


BRUNSWICK, ME., March 20, 1852. 

Her letter to Charles Dickens and his reply are as follows : 


The Author of the following sketches offers them to your notice as the 
first writer in our day who turned the attention of the high to the joys 
and sorrows of the lowly. In searching out and embellishing the forlorn, 
the despised, the lonely, the neglected and forgotten, lies the true mis 
sion which you have performed for the world. There is a moral bearing 
in it that far outweighs the amusement of a passing hour. If I may hope 
to do only something like the same, for a class equally ignored and 
despised by the fastidious and refined of my country, I shall be happy. 

Yours very truly, 



DEAR MADAM, I have read your book with the deepest interest and 
sympathy, and admire, more than I can express to you, both the generous 


feeling which inspired it, and the admirable power with which it is eze> 

If I might suggest a fault in what has so charmed me, it would be that 
you go too far and seek to prove too much. The wrongs and atrocities of 
slavery are, God knows ! case enough. I doubt there being any warrant 
for making out the African race to be a great race, or for supposing the 
future destinies of the world to lie in that direction ; and I think this 
extreme championship likely to repel some useful sympathy and support. 

Your book is worthy of any head and any heart that ever inspired a 
book. I am much your debtor, and I thank you most fervently and 


The following is the letter addressed to Macaulay, and his 
reply : - 


One of the most vivid recollections of my early life is the enthusiasm 
excited by reading your review of Milton, an enthusiasm deepened as I 
followed successively your writings as they appeared. A desire to hold 
some communion with minds that have strongly swayed and controlled 
our own is, I believe, natural to every one, and suggested to my mind 
the idea of presenting to you this work. When a child between eight 
and ten years of age, I was a diligent reader of the " Christian Observer," 
and in particular of the articles in which the great battle was fought 
against the slave-trade. An impression was then made on my mind 
which will never be obliterated. A similar conflict is now convulsing 
this nation, an agitation which every successive year serves to deepen 
and widen. In this conflict the wise and good of other lands can materi- 
ally aid us. 

The public sentiment of Christianized humanity is the last court of ap- 
peal in which the cause of a helpless race is to be tried, and nothing oper- 
ates more sensibly on this country than the temperate and just expression 
of the sentiments of distinguished men in your own. Every such ex- 
pression is a shot which strikes the citadel. There is a public sentiment 
on this subject in England which often expresses itself in a way which 
does far less good than it might if those who expressed it had a more 
accurate knowledge and a more skilful touch, and yet even that has done 
good, though it has done harm also. The public sentiment of nations is 
rising to be a power stronger than that of fleets and armies, and it needs 
to be skilfully and wisely guided. He who should direct the feelings of 
England on this subject wisely and effectively might do a work worthy 
of your father, of Clarkson and Wilberforce, and all those brave men who 
began the great conflict for God and humanity. 


1 much misjudge youi mind and heart if the subject is one on which 
you can be indifferent, or can speak otherwise than justly, humanely, and 

Yours with deep respect, 

BRUNSWICK, ME., March 20, 1852. 

THE ALBANY, LONDON, May 20, 1852. 

MADAM, I sincerely thank you for the volumes which you have' 
done ine the honor to send me. 1 have read them I cannot say with 
pleasure ; for no work on such a subject can give, pleasure, but witn high 
respect for the talents and for the benevolence of the writer. 

I have the honor to be, madam, 

Your most faithful servant, 


In October of 1856 Macaulay wrote to Mrs. Stowe : 

" I have just returned from Italy, where your fame seems to throw 
that of all other writers into the shade. There is no place where ' Uncle 
Tom ' (transformed into ' II Zio Tom ') is not to be found. By this time 
I have no doubt he has ' Dred ' for a companion." 

Soon after Macaulay's letter came to her, Mrs. Stowe began to 
receive letters from other distinguished persons expressing a far 
warmer sympathy with the spirit and motive of her work. 


LONDON, July 8, 1852. 

MADAM, I have allowed some time to elapse before I thanked you 
for the great honor and kindness you did me in sending to me from 
yourself a copy of " Uncle Tom's Cabin." I thought it due to the subject 
of which I perceived that it treated not to send a mere acknowledgment, 
as I confess from a motive of policy I am apt to do upon the first arrival 
of a book. I therefore determined to read before I wrote. 

Having thus read, it is not in the stiff and conventional form of com- 
pliment, still less in the technical language of criticism, that I am about 
to speak of your work. I return my deep and solemn thanks to Almighty 
God, who has led and enabled you to write such a book. I do feel, indeed, 
the most thorough assurance that, in his good Providence, such a hook 
cannot have been written in vain. I have long felt that Slavery is by 
far the topping question of the world and age we live in, including all 
that is most thrilling in heroism and most touching in distress, in short, 
the real Epic of the Universe. The self-interest of the parties most nearly 
Concerned on the one hand, the apathy and ignorance of unconcerned ob- 


servers on the other, have left these august pretensions to drop very much 
out of sight, and hence ray rejoicing that a writer has appeared who wil] 
be read and must be felt, and that, happen what may to the transactions 
of slavery, they will no longer be suppressed. 

I trust that what I have just said was not required to show the entire 
sympathy I entertain with respect to the main truth ana leading scope of 
your high argument, but we live in a world only too apt to regard the 
accessories and accidents of a subject above its real and vital essence. 
No one can know so well as you how much the external appearance of 
the negro detracts from the romance and sentiment which undoubtedly 
might attach to his position and to his wrongs ; and on this account it 
does seem to me proportionately important that you should have brought 
to your portraiture great grace of style, great power of language, a play 
of humor which relieves and lightens even the dark depth of the back- 
ground which you were calledupon to reveal, a force of pathos which, to 
give it the highest praise, does not lag behind all the dread reality, and, 
above all, a variety, a discrimination, and a truth in the delineation of 
character which, even to my own scanty and limited experience of the 
society you describe, accredits itself instantaneously and irresistibly. 
There is one point which, in face of all that your book has aimed at and 
achieved, I think of extremely slight importance, but which I will never- 
theless just mention, if only to show that I have not been bribed into this 
fervor of admiration. I think, then, that whenever you speak of England 
and her institutions it is in a tone which fails to do them justice. I do not 
know what distinct charges you think could be established against our 
aristocracy and capitalists ; but you generally convey the impression that 
the same oppressions in degree, though not in kind, might be brought 
home to them which are now laid to the charge of Southern slaveholders. 
Exposed to the same ordeal, I grant they might very probably not stand 
the test better. All I contend for is, that the circumstances in which 
they are placed, and the institutions by which they are surrounded, make 
the parallel wholly inapplicable. I cannot but suspect that your view 
has been in many respects derived from composers of fiction and others 
among ourselves, who, writing with distinguished ability, have been more 
successful in delineating and Dissecting the morbid features of our modern 
society than in detecting the principle which is at fault or suggesting 
the appropriate remedy. My own belief is liable, if you please, to na- 
tional bias that our capitalists are very much the same sort of persons 
as your own in the Northern States, with the same mixtures and inequal- 
ities of motive and action. With respect to our aristocracy, I should 
really be tempted to say that, tried by their conduct on the question of 
Free Trade, they do not sustain an unfavorable comparison with your 
uppermost classes. I need not repeat how irrevelant, after all, I feel what 
1 have said upon this head to be to the main issues included in your work. 


There is little doubt, too, that as a nation we have our special failings, and 
one of them probably is that we care too little about what other nations 
think of us. Nor can I wish my countrymen ever to forget that their 
own past history should prevent them from being forward in casting ac- 
cusations at their transatlantic brethren on the subject of slavery. With 
great ignorance of its actual miseries and horrors, there is also among 
us great ignorance of the fearful perplexities and difficulties with which 
its solution could not fail to be attended. I feel, however, that there is 
a considerable difference between reluctant acquiescence in what you in- 
herit from the past, and voluntary fresh enlargements and reinforcements 
of the system. For instance, I should not say that the mode in which 
euch an enactment as the Fugitive Slave Law has been considered in this 
country has at all erred upon the side of overmuch indignation. 

I need not detain you longer. I began my letter with returning thanks 
to Almighty God for the appearance of your work, and I offer my humble 
and ardent prayer to the same Supreme Source that it may have a marked 
agency in hastening the great consummation, which I should feel it a 
practical atheism not to believe must be among the unfulfilled purposes 
of the Divine Power and Love. 

I have the honor to be, madam, 

Your sincere admirer and well-wisher, 




EVERSLET, August 12, 1852. 

MY DEAR MADAM, Illness and anxiety have prevented my acknowl 
edging long ere this your kind letter and your book, which, if success bs- 
a pleasure to you, has a success in England which few novels, and cer- 
tainly no American book whatsoever, ever had. I cannot tell you how 
pleased I am to see coming from across the Atlantic a really healthy in- 
digenous growth, "autochthones," free from all second and third hand 
Germanisms and Italianisms, and all other unrealisms. 

Your book will do more to take away the reproach from your great and 
growing nation than many platform agitations and speechif'yings. 

Here there is but one opinion about it. Lord Carlisle (late Morpeth) 
assured me that he believed the book, independent of its artistic merit 
(of which hereafter), calculated to produce immense good, and he can 
speak better concerning it than I can, for I pay you a compliment in say- 
ing that I have actually not read it through. It is too painful, I can- 
not bear the sight of misery and wrong that I can do nothing to alleviate. 
But I will read it through and re-read it in due time, though when I hava 
done so, I shall have nothing more to say than what every one says now, 
that it is perfect. 


I cannot resist transcribing a few lines which I received this morning 
from an excellent critic : "To my mind it is the greatest novel ever 
written, and though it will seem strange, it reminded me in a lower 
sphere more of Shakespeare than anything modern I have ever read ; not 
in the, style, nor in the humor, nor in the pathos, though Eva set me a 
crying worse than Cordelia did at sixteen, but in the many-sidedness, 
and, above all, in that marvellous clearness of insight and outsight, which 
makes it seemingly impossible for her to see any one of her characters 
without showing him or her at once as a distinct man or woman different 
from all others." 

I have a debt of personal thanks to you for the book, also, from a most 
noble and great woman, my own mcther, a West-Indian, who in great 
sickness and sadness read your book with delighted tears. What struck 
her was the way in which you, first of all writers, she said, had dived 
down into the depths of the negro heart, and brought out his common 
humanity without losing hold for a moment of his race peculiarities. 
But I must really praise you no more to your face, lest I become rude and 
fulsome. May God bless and prosper you, and all you write, is the ear- 
nest prayer, and, if you go on as you have begun, the assured hope, of 
your faithful and obliged servant, 



LONDON, December 14, 1852. 

MADAM, It is very possible that the writer of this letter may be 
wholly unknown to you. But whether my name be familiar to your ears, 
or whether you now read it for the first time, I cannot refrain from 
expressing to you the deep gratitude that I feel to Almighty God, who 
has inspired both your heart and your head in the composition of "Uncle 
Tom's Cabin." 

It would be out of place here to enumerate the various beauties, singu- 
lar, original, and lasting, which shine throughout the work. One con- 
viction, however, is constantly present to my mind, the conviction 
that the gospel alone can elevate the intellect, even to the highest 
point. None but a Christian believer could have composed "Para- 
dise Lost." None but a Christian believer could have produced such a 
book as yours, which has absolutely startled the whole world, and im- 
pressed many thousands by revelations of cruelty and sin which give us 
an idea of what would be the uncontrolled dominion of Satan on this 
fallen earth. 

Your character of Eva is true. I have, allowing for the difference in 
sex- and the influences of a southern as compared with a northern cli- 

Formerly Lord Ashley. 


mate, seen such myself in zeal, simplicity, and overflowing affection to 
God and man. It pleases God to show, every now and then, such speci- 
mens of his grace, and then remove them before they are tarnished by 
the world. 

You are right, too, about Topsy. Our Eagged Schools will afford you 
many instances of poor children, hardened by kicks, insults, and neglect, 
moved to tears and to docility by the first word of kindness. It opens 
new feelings, develops, as it were, a new nature, and brings the 
wretched outcast into the family of man. I live in hope God grant it 
may rise to faith ! that this system is drawing to a close. It seems aa 
though our Lord had sent out this book as the messenger before his face 
to prepare his way before him. It may be that these unspeakable hor- 
rors are now disclosed to drive us to the only "hope of all the ends of 
the earth," the second advent of our blessed Saviour. Let us continue, 
as St. Paul says, "fervent and instant in prayer," and may we at the 
great day of account be found, with millions of this oppressed race, among 
the sheep at the right hand of our common Lord and Master ! 

Believe me, madam, with deep respect, 

Your sincere admirer and servant, 



About the same time with this, Mrs. Stowe received a letter froai 
Hon. Arthur Helps, accompanying a review of her work, written by 
himself, in a leading periodical. The main subject of Mr. Helps'a 
letter was the one already alluded to in Lord Carlisle's letter, on 
the relation of the capitalists and higher classes of England to the 
working-classes, as compared with the relations of slaveholders and 
slaves in America. Her reply to this letter being shown to Arch- 
bishop Whately, she was surprised by a letter from him to the fol- 
lowing purport : 

MADAM, The writer of the article in " Eraser's Magazine " has favored 
me with a copy of your most interesting letter to him, and from it I 
collect that you will be g]ad to learn that I have been negotiating for the 
insertion of articles by very able hands on your truly valuable work in 
the " Edinburgh Review " and the "North" British," both which are of 
wider circulation and more influence than that magazine. 

The subject was discussed at the Statistical Section, of which I was 
president, of the British Association meeting in Belfast, and I then took 
occasion to call attention to your work. 

It became evident, then, that the book had found powerful sup- 
port and sympathy on English shores. 


Sampson Low, who afterwards became Mrs. Stowe's English pub 
Usher, thus records its success in England : 

" From April to December, 1852, twelve different editions (not reissues) 
at one shilling were published, and within the twelve months of its first 
appearance no less than eighteen different houses in London were engaged 
in supplying the demand that had set in. The total number of editions 
was forty, varying from the fine illustrated edition of 15 s. to the cheap 
popular one at 6 d. 

"After carefully analyzing these editions and weighing probabilities 
with ascertained facts, I am able pretty confidently to say that the aggre- 
gate number circulated in Great Britain and her colonies exceeded one 
million and a half." 

Meanwhile Mrs. Stowe received intelligence of its appearance in. 
Sweden from the pen of the accomplished Fredeiika Bremer. 


STOCKHOLM, January 4, 1853. 

MY DEAREST LADY, How shall I thank you for your most precious, 
dost delightful gift ? Could I have taken your hand many a time, while 
I was reading your work, and laid it on my beating heart, you would 
have known the joy, the happiness, the exultation, it made me experience ! 
It was the work I had long wished for, that I had anticipated, that I 
wished while in America to have been able to write, that I thought must 
come in America as the uprising of the woman's and mother's heart on 
the question of slavery. I wondered that it had not come earlier. I 
wondered that the woman, the mother, could look at these things and be 
silent, that no cry of noble indignation and anger would escape her 
breast, and rend the air, and pierce to the ear of humanity. I wondered, 
and, God be praised ! it has come. The woman, the mother, has raised 
her voice out of the very soil of the new world in behalf of the wronged 
ones, and her voice vibrates still through two great continents, opening 
all hearts and minds to the light of truth. 

How happy you are to have been able to do it so well, to have been 
able to win all hearts while you so daringly proclaimed strong and bitter 
truths, to charm while you instructed, to amuse while you defended the 
cause of the little ones, to touch the heart with the softest sorrow while 
you aroused all our boldest energies against the powers of despotism. 

In Sweden your work has been translated and published, as feuille- 
ton in our largest daily paper, and has been read, enjoyed, and praised 
by men and women of all parties as I think no book here has been 

enjoyed and praised before I look upon you as the heroine who 

has won the battle. I think it is won ! I have a deep unwavering 


faith in the strong humanity of the American mind. It will ever work 
to throw out whatever is at war with that humanity, and to make it 
fully alive nothing is needed but a truly strong appeal of heart to heart, 
and that has been done in "Uncle Tom." 

You have done it, dear, blessed, happy lady. Receive in these poor 
words my congratulations, my expressions of love and joy, my womanly 
pride in you as my sister in faith and love. God bless you forever ! 


The author also received letters from France, announcing the en- 
thusiastic reception of her work there. Madame George Sand, then 
one of the greatest powers of the literary world of France, thus 
introduced it to the public : 

To review a book, the very morrow after its appearance, in the very 
journal where it has just been published, is doubtless contrary to usage, 
but in this case it is the most disinterested homage that can be rendered, 
since the immense success attained by this work at its publication does 
not need to be set forth. 

This book is in all hands and in all journals. It has, and will have, 
editions in every form ; people devour it, they cover it with tears. It is 
no longer permissible to those who can read not to have read it, and one 
mourns that there are so many souls condemned never to read it, helots 
of poverty, slaves through ignorance, for whom society has been unable 
as yet to solve the double problem of uniting the food of the body with 
the food of the soul. 

It is not, then, it cannot be, an officious and needless task to review 
this book of Mrs. Stowe. We repeat, it is a homage, and never did a 
generous and pure work merit one more tender and spontaneous. She is 
far from us ; we do not know her who has penetrated our hearts with 
emotions so sad and yet so sweet. Let us thank her the more. Let the 
gentle voice of woman, the generous voice of man, with the voices of little 
children, so adorably glorified in this book, and those of the oppressed of 
this old world, let them cross the seas and hasten to say to her that she is 
esteemed and beloved ! 

If the best eulogy which one can make of the author is to love her, the 
truest that one can make of the book is to love its very faults. It has 
faults, - - we need not pass them in silence, we need not evade the dis- 
cussion of them, but you need not be disturbed about them, you who 
are rallied on the tears you have shed over the fortunes of the poor vic- 
tims in a narrative so simple and true. 

These defects exist only in relation to the conventional rules of art, 
which never have been and never will be absolute. If its judges, pos- 
sessed with the love of what they call " artistic work," find unskilful 


treatment in the book, look well at them to see if their eyes are dry when 
they are reading this or that chapter. 

They will recall to your mind that Ohio senator, who, having sagely 
demonstrated to his little wife that it is a political duty to refuse asylum 
and help to the fugitive slave, ends by taking two in his own carriage, in 
a dark night, o\ er fearful roads, where he must from time to time plunge 
into mud to his waist to push on the vehicle. This charming episode in 
" Uncle Tom " (a digression, if you will) paints well the situation of most 
men placed between their prejudices and established modes of thought 
and the spontaneous and generous intuitions of their hearts. 

It is the history, at the same time affecting and pleasing, of many in- 
dependent critics. Whatever they may be in the matter of social or lit- 
erary questions, those who pretend always to judge by strict rules are 
often vanquished by their own feelings, and sometimes vanquished when 
unwilling to avow it. 

I have always been charmed by the anecdote of Voltaire, ridiculing and 
despising the fables of La Fontaine, seizing the book and saying, " Look 
here, now, you will see in the very first one" he reads one. ' ; Well, that 
is passable, but see how stupid this is ! " - he reads a second, and finds 
after all that it is quite pretty ; a third disarms him again, and at last he 
throws down the volume, saying, with ingenuous spite, " It 's nothing but 
a collection of masterpieces." Great souls may be bilious and vindic- 
tive, but it is impossible for them to remain unjust and insensible. 

It, however, should be said to people of culture, who profess to be able 
to give correct judgments, that if their culture is of the tiniest kind it will 
never resist a just and right emotion. Therefore it is that this book, de- 
fective according to the rules of the modern French romance, intensely 
interests everybody and triumphs over all criticisms in the discussions it 
causes in domestic circles. 

For this book is essentially domestic and of the family, this book, 
with its long discussions, its minute details, its portraits carefully stud- 
ied. Mothers of families, young girls, little children, servants even, can 
read and understand them, and men themselves, even the most superior, 
cannot disdain them. We do not say that the success of the book is 
because its great merits redeem its faults ; we say its success is because 
of these very alleged faults. 

For a long time we have striven in France against the prolix explana- 
tions of Walter Scott. We have cried out against those of Balzac, but on 
consideration have perceived that the painter of manners and character 
bas never done too much, that every stroke of the pencil was needed for 
the general effect. Let us learn then to appreciate all kinds of treatment, 
tfhen the effect is good, and when they bear the seal of a master hand. 

Mrs. Stowe is all instinst ; it is the very reason that she appears t<r 
4ome not to have talent. Has she not talent ? What is talent ? Nothr 


ing, doubtless, compared to genius ; but has she genius ? I cannot say that 
she has talent as one understands it in the world of letters, but she has 
genius, as humanity feels the need of genius, the genius of goodness, not 
that of the man of letters, but of the saint. Yes, a saint ! Thrice holy 
the soul which thus loves, blesses, and consoles the martyrs. Pure, pene- 
trating, and profound the spirit which thus fathoms the recesses of the 
human soul. Noble, generous, and great the heart which embraces in 
her pity, in her love, an entire race, trodden down in blood and mire 
under the whip of ruffians and the maledictions of the impious. 

Thus should it be, thus should we value things ourselves. We should 
feel that genius is heart, that power is faith, that talent is sincerity, 
and, finally, success is sympathy, since this book overcomes us, since it 
penetrates the breast, pervades the spirit, and fills us with a strange sen- 
timent of mingled tenderness and admiration for a poor negro lacerated 
by blows, prostrate in the dust, there gasping on a miserable pallet, his 
last sigh exhaled towards God. 

In matters of art there is but one rule, to paint and to move. And 
where shall we find creations more complete, types more vivid, situations 
more touching, more original, than in " Uncle Tom," - those beautiful 
relations of the slave with the child of his master, indicating a state 
of things unknown among us ; the protest of the master himself against 
slavery during that innocent part of life when his soul belongs to God 
alone { Afterwards, when society takes him, the law chases away God, 
and interest deposes conscience. In coming to mature years the infant 
ceases to be man and becomes master. God dies in his soul. 

What hand has ever drawn a type more fascinating and admirable than 
St. Clair, this exceptional nature, noble, generous, and loving, but too 
soft and too nonchalant to be really great ? Is it not man himself, human 
nature itself, with its innate virtues, its good aspirations, and its de- 
plorable failures ? this charming master who loves and is beloved, who 
thinks and reasons, but concludes nothing and does nothing ! He spends 
in his day treasures of indulgence, of consideration, of goodness ; he dies 
without having accomplished anything. The story of his precious life is 
all told in a word "to aspire and to regret." He has never learned to 
will. Alas ! is there not something of this even among the bravest and 
best of men ? 

The life and death of a little child and of a negro slave ! that is the 
whole book ! This negro and this child are two saints of heaven ! The 
affection that unites them, the respect of these two perfect ones for each 
other, is the only love-story, the only passion of the drama. I know not 
what other genius but that of sanctity itself could shed over this affection 
and this situation a charm so powerful and so sustained. The child read- 
ing the Bible on the knees of the slave, dreaming over its mysteries and 
mjoying them in her exceptional maturity ; now covering him with flow- 


era like a doll, and now looking to him as something sacred, passing from 
tender playfulness to tender veneration, and then fading away through a 
mysterious malady which seems to be nothing but the wearing of pity in 
a nature too pure, too divine, to accept earthly law ; dying finally in th 
arms of the slave, and calling him after her to the bosom of God, all 
this is so new, so beautiful, that one asks one's self in thinking of it whether 
the success which has attended the work is after all equal to the height 
of the conception. 

Children are the true heroes of Mrs. Stowe's works. Her soul, the most 
motherly that could be, has conceived of these little creatures in a halo of 
grace. George Shelby, the little Harry, the cousin of Eva, the regretted 
babe of the little wife of the Senator, and Topsy, the poor diabolic, excel- 
lent Topsy, all the children that one sees, and even those that one does 
not see in this romance, but of whom one has only a few words from their 
desolate mothers, seem to us a world of little angels, white and black, 
where any mother may recognize some darling of her own, source of her 
joys and tears. In taking form in the spirit of Mrs. Stowe, these children, 
without ceasing to be children, assume ideal graces, and come at last to 
interest us more than the personages of an ordinary love-story. 

Women, too, are here judged and painted with a master hand ; not 
merely mothers who are sublime, but women who are not mothers either 
in heart or in fact, and whose infirmities are treated with indulgence or 
with rigor. By the side of the methodical Miss Ophelia, who ends by 
learning that duty is good for nothing without love, Marie St. Clair is a 
frightfully truthful portrait. One shudders in thinking that she exists, 
thnt she is everywhere, that each of us has met her and seen her, per- 
haps, not far from us, for it is only necessary that this charming creature 
should have slaves to torture, and we should see her revealed complete 
through her vapors and her nervous complaints. 

The saints also have their claw ! it is that of the lion. She buries it 
deep in the conscience, an<\ a little of burning indignation and of terrible 
eareasm docs not, after all, misbecome this Harriet Stowe, this woman so 
gentle, so humane, so religious, and full of evangelical unction. Ah ! 
yes, she is a very good woman, but not what we derisively call " goody 
good." Hers is a heart strong and courageous, which in blessing the 
unhappy and applauding the faithful, tending the feeble and succoring 
the irresolute, does not hesitate to bind to the pillory the hardened tyrant, 
to show to the world his deformity. 

She is, in the true spirit of the word, consecrated. Her fervent Chris- 
tianity sings the praise of the martyr, but permits no man the right to 
perpetuate the wrong. She denounces that strange perversion of Scripture 
which tolerates the iniquity of the oppressor because it gives opportunity 
for the virtues of the victims. She calls on God himself, and threatens in 
his name ; she shows us human law on one side, and God on the other 1 


Let no one say that, because she exhorts to patient endurance of wrong, 
she justifies those who do the wrong. Read the beautiful page where 
George Harris, the white slave, embraces for the first time the shores of 
a free territory, and presses to his heart wife and child, who at last are 
his own. What a beautiful picture, that ! What a large heart-throb ! 
what a triumphant protest of the eternal and inalienable right of man to 
liberty ! 

Honor and respect to you, Mrs. Stowe ! Some day your recompense, 
which is already recorded in heaven, will come also iii this world. 

NOHANT, December 17, 1852. 

Madame L. S. Belioc, also a well-known and distinguished writer, 
the translator of Miss Edgeworth's and of other English works into 
French, says : 

44 When the first translation of ' Uncle Tom ' waspublished in Paris there 
was a general hallelujah for the author and for the cause. A few weeks 
after, M. Charpentier, one of our best publishers, called on me to ask a 
new translation. I objected that there were already so many it might 
prove a failure. He insisted, saying, ' II n'y aura jamais assez de lecteurs 
pour un tei livre,' and he particularly desired a special translation for his 
own collection, ' Bibliotheque Charpentier,' where it is catalogued, and 
where it continues now to sell daily. 'La Case de 1'Oncle Tom' was the 
fifth, if I recollect rightly, and a sixth illustrated edition appeared some 
months after. It was read by high and low, by grown persons and chil- 
dren. A great enthusiasm for the anti-slavery cause was the result. The 
popularity of the work in France was immense, and no doubt influenced 
the public mind in favor ot the North during the war of secession." 

The next step in the history of " Uncle Tom " was a meeting at 
Stafford House, when Lord Shaftesbury recommended to the women, 
of England the sending of an " affectionate and Christian address to 
the women of America." 

This address, composed by Lord Shaftesbury, was taken in hand 
for signatures by energetic canvassers in all parts of England, and 
also among resident English on the Continent. The demand for 
signatures went as far forth as the city of Jerusalem. When all the 
signatures were collected, the document was forwarded to the care 
of Mrs. Stowe in America, with a letter from Lord Carlisle, recom- 
mending it to her, to be presented to the ladies of America in such 
way as she should see fit. 

It was exhibited first at the Boston Anti-slavery fair, and no*, 1 


remains in its solid oak case a lasting monument of the feeling called 
forth by " Uncle Tom's Cabin." 

It is in twenty-six thick folio volumes, solidly bound in morocco, 
with the American eagle on the back of each. On the first page of 
the first volume is the address, beautifully illuminated on vellum, 
and following are the subscribers' names, filling the volumes. There 
are 562,448 names of women of every rank of life, from the nearest 
in rank to the throne of England to the wives and daughters of the 
humblest artisan and laborer. Among all who signed it is fair to 
presume there was not one who had not read the book, and did not, 
at the time of signing, feel a sympathy for the cause of the oppressed 
pejple whose wrongs formed its subject. The address, with its 
many signatures, was simply a relief to that impulsive desire to do 
something for the cause of the slave, which the reading of " Uncle 
Tom's Cabin " appeared to inspire. 

Of the wisdom of this step there have been many opinions. No- 
body, however, can doubt that Lord Shaftesbury, who had spent a 
long life in labors to lift burdens from the working-classes of Eng- 
land, and who had redeemed from slavery and degradation English 
women and children in its mines and collieries, had thereby acquired 
a certain right to plead for the cause of oppressed working-classes in 
all countries. 

The address was received as a welcome word of cheer and encour- 
agement by that small band of faithful workers who for years had 
stood in an unfashionable minority ; but so far as the feeling ex- 
pressed in it was one of real Christian kindliness and humility, it 
was like a flower thrown into the white heat of a furnace. It added 
intensity, if that were possible, to that terrific conflict of forces which 
was destined never to cease till slavery was finally abolished. 

It was a year after the publication of " Uncle Tom," that Mrs. 
Stowe visited England, and was received at Stafford House, there 
meeting all the best known and best worth knowing of the higher 
circles of England. 

The Duchess of Sutherland, then in the height of that majestic 
beauty and that noble grace of manner which made her a fit repre- 
sentative of English womanhood, took pleasure in showing by this 
demonstration the sympathy of the better class of England with that 
small unpopular party in the United States who stood for the rights 
of the slave. 

On this occasion she presented Mrs. Stowe with a solid gold 
bracelet made in the form of a slave's shackle, with the words, " We 


trust it is a memorial of a chain that is soon to be broken." On 
two of the links were inscribed the date of the abolition of the slave- 
trade, March 25, 1807, and of slavery in English territory, August 
1, 1834. On another liiik was recorded the number of signature? 
to the address of the women of England. 

At the time such a speech and the hope it expressed seemed likt 
a Utopian dream. Yet that bracelet has now inscribed upon its 
other links the steps of American emancipation : " Emancipation 
in District of Columbia, April 16, 1862"; "President's proclama- 
tion abolishing slavery in rebel states, January 1, 1863" ; "Mary- 
land free, October 13, 1864"; " Missouri free, January 11, 1865." 
" Constitutional amendment " (forever abolishing slavery in the 
United States) is inscribed on the clasp of the bracelet. Thus what 
seemed the vaguest and most sentimental possibility has become a 
feet of history. 

A series of addresses presented to Mrs. Stowe at this time by 
public meetings in different towns of England, Scotland, and Ire- 
land, still remain among the literary curiosities relating to this 
book. The titles of these are somewhat curious : " Address from 
the Inhabitants of Berwick-upon-Tweed " ; " Address from the In- 
habitants of Dalkeith " ; Address from the Committee of the Glas- 
gow Female Anti-slavery Society " ; " Address from the Glasgow 
University Abstainers' Society"; "Address from a Public Meet- 
ing in Belfast, Ireland " ; " Address from the Committee of the 
Ladies' Anti-slavery Society, Edinburgh " ; " Address from the City 
of Leeds." 

All these public meetings, addresses, and demonstrations of sym- 
pathy were, in their time and way, doubtless of perfect sincerity. 
But when the United States went into a state of civil war, these 
demonstrations ceased. 

But it is due to the brave true working-classes of England to say 
that in this conflict, whenever they thought the war was one of 
justice to the slave, they gave it their sympathy, and even when it 
brought hardship and want to their very doors, refused to lend 
themselves to any popular movement which would go to crush the 
oppressed in America. 

It is but justice also to the Duchess of Sutherland to say that 
although bv the time our war was initiated she had retired from 

O v 

her place as leader of society to the chamber of the invalid, yet her 
sympathies expressed in private letters ever remained true to the 
cause of freedom. 


Her son-in-law, the Duke of Argyll, stood almost alone in the 
House of Lords in defending the cause of the Northern States. It 
is, moreover, a significant fact that the Queen of England, in concur- 
rence with Prince Albert, steadily resisted every attempt to enlist 
the warlike power of England against the Northern States. 

But Almighty God had decreed the liberation of the African race, 
and though Presidents, Senators, and Representatives united in de- 
claring that such were not their intentions, yet by great signs and 
mighty wonders was this nation compelled to listen to the voice 
that spoke from heaven, " Let my people go." 

In the darkest hour of the war, when defeat and discouragement 
had followed the Union armies, and all hearts were trembling with 
fear, Mrs. Stowe was in the Senate-Chamber at Washington, and 
heard these words in the Message of President Lincoln : 

" If this struggle is to be prolonged till there be not a house in the 
land where there is not one dead, till all the treasure amassed by the un- 
paid labor of the slave shall be wasted, till every drop of blood drawn by 
the lash shall be atoned by blood drawn by the sword, we can only bow 
and say, ' Just and true are thy ways, thou King of Saints ! ' ' 

Such words were a fit exponent of the Emancipation Proclama- 
tion, which, though sown in weakness, was soon raised in power, 
and received the evident benediction of God's providence. 

" Uncle Tom's Cabin," in the fervor which conceived it, in the 
feeling which it inspired through the world, was only one of a line 
of ripples marking the commencement of mighty rapids, moving by 
forces which no human power could stay to an irresistible termi- 
nation, towards human freedom. 

Now the war is over, slavery is a thing of the past ; slave-pens, 
blood-hounds, slave-whips, and slave-comes are only bad dreams of 
the night ; and now the humane reader can afford to read " Uncle 
Tom's Cabin " without an expenditure of torture and tears. 

For many years Mrs. Stowe has had a home in the Southern States, 
and she has yet to meet an intelligent southern man or woman who 
does not acquiesce in the extinction of slavery, and feel that the life 
of free society is as great an advantage to the whites as to the blacks. 
Slavery has no mourners ; there is nobody who wishes it back. 

As to the influence of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " in various other 
lands of the earth whither it has been carried, intelligence has some- 
times come to the author through the American missionaries and 
other sources. The three following letters are specimens. 

In a letter from Miss Florence Nightingale, October 26. 1856, she 
lays : 


" I hope it may be some pleasure to you, dear madam, to hear that 
Uncle Tom ' was read by the sick and suffering in our Eastern Military 
Hospitals with intense interest. The interest in that book raised many 
a sull'erer who, while he had not a grumble to bestow upon his own mis- 
fortunes, had many a thought of sorrow and just indignation for those 
which you brought before him. It is from the knowledge of such evils so 
brought home to so many honest hearts that they feel as well as know 
them, that we confidently look to their removal in God's good time." 

From the Armenian Convent in the Lagoon of Venice came a 
most beautiful Armenian translation of " Uncle Torn," with a letter 
from the principal translator. 

Rev. Mr. Dwight thus wrote to Professor Stowe from Constanti- 
nople, September 8, 1855 : - 

" ' Uncle Tom's Cabin ' in the Armenian language ! Who would have 
thought it ? 1 do not suppose your good wife, when she wrote that book, 
thought that she was going to missionate it among the sons of Haig in 
all their dispersions, following them along the banks of the Euphrates, 
sitting down with them in their towns and villages under the shade of 
hoary Ararat, travelling with them in their wanderings even to India 
and China. But 1 have it in my hands ! in the Armenian of the present 
day, the same language in which I speak and think and dream. Now 
do not suppose this is any of my work, or that of any missionary in the 
field. The translation has been made and book printed at Venice by a 
fraternity of Catholic Armenian Monks perched there on the Island of 
St. Lazarus. It is in two volumes, neatly printed and with plates, I 
think translated from the French. It has not been in any respect ma- 
terially altered, and when it is so, not on account of religious sentiment. 
The account of the negro prayer and exhortation meetings is given in 
full, though the translator, not knowing what we mean by people's becom- 
ing Christians, took pains to insert at the bottom of the page that at 
these meetings of the negroes great effects were sometimes produced by 
the warm-hearted exhortations and prayers, and it often happened that 
heathen negroes embraced Christianity on the spot. 

One of your former scholars is now in my house, studying Armenian, 
and the book which I advised him to take as the best for the language is 
this ' Uncle Tom's Cabin.'" 

Two or three other letters will conclude this repertoire. 


16th April, 1853. 

MADAM, When persons of every rank in this country are almost 
vying with each other who is to show you most respect, you might per- 


haps think but little at being addressed by an exile, who. offers you hit 
heartfelt thanks, not for the mere gratification which the reading of 
" Uncle Tom's Cabin " afforded, but for the services you have rendered 
to the cause of humanity and of my country. You may be surprised at 
hearing of services rendered to my country (Poland) ; yet so it is. The 
unvarnished tale you published cannot fail to awaken the nobler feeling? 
of man in every reader, it instils into their minds that fundamental 
Christian precept to love our fellow-beings, and it is by the spread of 
universal benevolence and not by revolutions that the cause of humanity 
is best promoted. 

But you have done more than that, although you may be unconscious 
of it. A mother yourself, you have given comfort to other mothers. 
That foreign land where such pure benevolence as is taught in " Uncle 
Tom's Cabin " is honored, cannot be a bad land, and though letters from 
their children do not always reach Polish mothers, your book is accessi- 
ble to them, and gives them the conviction that their offspring, far as 
they are from them, are still within reach of maternal feelings. 

A still higher good you have done to many a man by the picture of the 
patient faith of Uncle Tom. It was the custom of some persons to sneer 
at faith, on the supposition that it implied a blind belief in all that the 
clergyman utters. Your book has helped to dispel that delusion, and 
faith begins to be seen by some as something nobler, as the firm convic- 
tion of the mind that higher aims are placed before man than the grati- 
fication of his appetites and desires ; that it is, in short, that strength of 
mind which restrains him from doing evil when his bad passions lead him 
into temptation. 

I cannot address you in the name of a body, but as an exile, as a man 
belonging to the family of mankind, I beg to offer you my thanks and my 
wishes. May God bless you, may your days be many and prosperous, 
and may the noble aim you proposed yourself in writing " Uncle Tom's 
Cabin" be speedily accomplished ! If I may add a request, I would beg 
of you to pray now and then for the poor Polish mothers, a good per- 
son's prayer may be acceptable. 

I am, madam, 

Your most obedient servant, 


WAVERLEY IN BELMONT, October 26, 1860. 

DEAR MADAM, I will not make any apology for the liberty which I 
take of writing to you, although I cannot claim any personal acquaint- 
ance. At any rate, I think you will excuse me. The facts which I wish 
to communicate will, I doubt not, be of sufficient interest to justify me. 

It was my privilege, for such I shall esteem it on many accounts, to 


receive into my family and have under my especial care the young Brah- 
min whose recent visit to this' country you must be acquainted with. I 
mean Joguth Chunder Gangooly, the first and only individual of his 
caste who has visited this country. Being highly intelligent and famil- 
iar with the social and intellectual character of the Hindoos of his native 
land, he gave me much information for which, in my scanty knowledge 
of that country, I was unprepared. Among other things he assured me 
that " Uncle Tom's Cabin " was a book as well known and as much read 
in Bengal among his own people as here in America, that it had been 
translated into their language, and been made a household book. He 
himself showed a familiar acquaintance with its contents, and assured me 
that it had done not a little to deepen the loathing of slavery in the 
minds of the Hindoos, and also to qualify their opinion of our country. 

The facts which he gave me I believe to be substantially true, and 
deemed them such as would have an interest for the author of the book 
in question. Though I grieve for the wrong and shame which disgraces 
my country, I take a laudable pride in those productions of the true- 
hearted that appeal to the sympathies of all nations, and find a ready 
response in the heart of humanity. 

With high respect, 

Yours truly, 


From MRS. LEONOWENS, formerly English Governess in the Family of 

the King of Siam. 


October 15, 1878. 

DEAR MADAM, The following is the fact, the result of the transla- 
tion of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " into the Siamese language, by my friend 
Sonn Klean, a lady of high rank at the court of Siam. I enclose it to 
you here, as related in one of my books. 

" Among the ladies of the harem I knew one woman who more than 
all the rest helped to enrich my life, and to render fairer and more beau- 
tiful every lovely woman I have since chanced to meet. Her name trans- 
lated itself, and no other name could have been more appropriate, into 
' Hidden Perfume.' Her dark eyes were clearer and calmer, her full 
lips had a stronger expression of tenderness about them, and her brow, 
which was at times smooth and open, and at others contracted with pain, 
grew nobler and more beautiful as through her studies in English the 
purposes of her life strengthened and grew deeper and broader each day. 
Our daily lessons and translations from English into Siamese had become 
a part of her happiest hours. The first book we translated was ' Uncle 
Tom's jCabin,' and it soon became her favorite book. She would read it 


over and over again, though she knew all the characters by heart and 
spoke of them as if she had known them all her life. On the 3d of Jan- 
uary, 1867, she voluntarily Unrated all her slaves, men, women, and 
children, one hundred and thirty in all, saying, ' I am wishful to be 
good like Harriet Beecher Stowe, and never again to buy human bodies, 
but only to let them go free once more.' Thenceforth, to express her 
entire sympathy and affection for the author of ' Uncle Tom's Cabin,' 
she always signed herself Harriet Beecher Stowe ; and her sweet voice 
trembled with love and music whenever she spoke of the lovely American 
lady who had taught her as even Buddha had taught kings to respect 
the rights of her fellow-creatures." 

I remain 

Yours very truly, 


The distinctively religious influence of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" has 
been not the least remarkable of the features of its history. 

Among other testimonials in the possession of the writer is a 
Bible presented by an association of workingmen in England on 
the occasion of a lecture delivered to them on " Uncle Tom, as an 
Illustration of Christianity." 

The Christianity represented in the book was so far essential and 
unsectarian, that alike in the Protestant, Catholic, and Greek church, 
it has found sympathetic readers. 

It has indeed been reported that " Uncle Tom's Cabin " has been 
placed in the Index of the Roman Catholic Church, but of this 
there may be a doubt, as when the author was in Rome she saw it 
in the hands of the common people, and no less in those of some of 
the highest officials in the Vatican, and heard from them in conver- 
sation expressions of warm sympathy with the purport of the work. 

In France it was the testimony of colporteurs that the enthusiasm 
for the work awakened a demand for the Bible of Uncle Tom, and 
led to a sale of the Scriptures. 

The accomplished translator of M. Charpentier's edition said to 
the author, that, by the researches necessary to translate correctly 
the numerous citations of Scripture in the work, she had been led 
to a most intimate knowledge of the sacred writings in French. 

The witty scholar and litterateur, Heinrich Heine, speaking of 
his return to the Bible and its sources of consolation in the last 
years of his life, uses this language : 

"The reawakening of my religious feelings I owe to that holy book 
the Bible. Astonishing ! that after I have whirled about all my life 
over all the dance-floors of philosophy, and yielded myself to all th 


orgies of the intellect, and paid my addresses to all possible systems, 
without satisfaction, like Messalina after a licentious night, I now find 
myself on the same standpoint where poor Uncle Tom stands, on. 
that of the Bible. I kneel down by my black brother in the same 
prayer ! What a humiliation ! With all my science I have come 
no farther than the poor ignorant negro who has scarce learned to 
spell. Poor Tom, indeed, seems to have seen deeper things in the 

holy book than I Tom, perhaps, understands them better than 

I, because more flogging occurs in them, that is to say, those ceaseless 
blows of the whip which have a;sthetically disgusted me in reading 
the Gospels and Acts. But a poor negro slave reads with his back, 
and understands better than we do. But I, who used to make cita- 
tions from Homer, now begin to quote the Bible as Uncle Tom 
does." Vermischte Schriften, p. 77. 

The acute German in these words has touched the vital point in 
the catholic religious spirit of the book. " Uncle Tom's Cabin " 
shows that under circumstances of utter desolation and despair 
the religion of Christ can enable the poorest and most ignorant 
human being, not merely to submit, but to triumph, that the 
soul of the lowest and weakest, by its aid, can become strong in 
superhuman virtue, and rise above every threat and terror and 
danger, in a sublime assurance of an ever-present love and an im- 
mortal life. 

It is in this point of view that its wide circulation through all the 
languages of the earth may justly be a source of devout satisfaction. 

Life has sorrows so hopeless, so dreadful, so many drag through 
weary, joyless lives, that a story which carries such a message as 
this can never cease to be a comforter. 

The message is from Christ the Consoler, and too blessed is an* 
one allowed by Him to carry it to the sorrowful children of men. 




BRITISH MUSEUM, September 14, 1878. 

DEAR SIRS, I well remember the interest which the late Mr. 
Thomas Watts took in the story of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," from the 
moment that he had read it. Mr. Watts, besides being an accom- 
plished philologist, and one of the greatest linguists that ever lived, 
never neglected the current literature of his time, including the 
novels and romances of his own country and America. Scott and 
Dickens, Washington Irving and Fenimore Cooper, charmed him 
more than the dull books which great scholars are commonly sup- 
posed to be always reading. In Mrs. Beecher Stowe's work he ad- 
mired not only the powerful descriptions of life in the Slave States, 
the strokes of character, the humor and the pathos ; but above all 
he was impressed with the deep earnestness of purpose in the writer, 
and used to express it as his opinion that it was a work destined 
to prove a most powerful agent in the uprooting of slavery in 
America. No one in this country was better acquainted than Mr. 
Watts with the politics of the United States, and in the war which 
eventually ensued on the subject of slavery, between the Northern 
and Southern States, he was always a consistent supporter of the 
policy of President Lincoln. 

Of the reasons which induced him to prevail upon Mr. (now Sir 
Anthony) Panizzi to make a collection for the Library of the British 
Museum of the different translations of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," the 
extracts given from his letter to Professor Stowe are a sufficient ex- 

At your desire I have the pleasure to forward to you, as a sup- 
plement to Mr. Watts's letter, the accompanying list of editions 
and translations of" Uncle Tom's Cabin," contained in the Library of 


the British Museum, as well as of others which have not yet beer 
obtained. Of the latter there is a Servian translation which has 
been ordered but not yet received. 

When this shall have been added, the various languages into 
which " Uncle Tom's Cabin " has been translated will be exactly 
twenty in number, a copy of each being in the British Museum, 
These several languages, in alphabetical order, are as follows : viz. 
Armenian, Bohemian, Danish, Dutch, Finnish, Flemish (only a 
modification of Dutch, but often treated as a distinct language), 
French, German, Hungarian or Magyar, Illyrian (by Mr. Watt 
called Wendish), Polish, Portuguese, Romaic or Modern Greek, 
Russian, Servian, Spanish, Swedish, Wallachian, Welsh. 

There may still be translations in other languages, of which sure 
intelligence has not yet been obtained. 

In some of the languages mentioned, as, for instance, in French 
and German, there are several distinct versions. A summary of 
these is given at the end of the general Bibliographical List here- 
with appended. 

I remain, dear sirs, 

Yours very truly, 


The letter of Mr. Watts to which Mr. Bullen refers was addressed 
to Professor Stowe about 1860, and is as follows : 

Extract from a Letter from the late THOMAS WATTS, ESQ., Librarian 
of the British Museum, to PROFESSOR STOWE. 

DEAR SIR, It is certainly one of the most striking features of the 
popularity of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " that it has been translated into so 
many languages, and among them into so many obscure ones, languages 
which it has been so hard for popularity to penetrate. Even the master- 
pieces of Scott and Dickens have never been translated into Welsh, while 
this American novel has forced its way, in various shapes, into the lan- 
guages of the ancient Britons. 

There is a complete and excellent translation by Hugh Williams, 
there is an abridged one by W. Williams, and there is a strange incor- 
poration of it, almost entire, into the body of a tale by Rev. W. Ree, 
called " Aclyryd f Errytha " (" Robert or Uncle Robert's Hearth)." 

In the east of Europe it has found as much acceptance as in the west. 
The " Edinburgh Review " mentioned some time ago that there was one 


into Magyar. There are, in fact, three in that language, one by Tringi, 
one by Tarbar, and one (probably an abridged one) for the use of chil 
dren. There are two translations into the Illyrian, and two into the Walla 
chian. There is one Polish translation, and an adaptation by Miss Arabella 
Palmer into Russian. A full translation into Russian appears to have 
been forbidden till lately, lest it might get into circulation among the 
serfs, among whom it might prove as hazardous to introduce it as the 
"Portuguese version published in Paris among the slaves of Brazil. 

Of course the book exists also in Danish, Swedish and Dutch (one 
Dutch edition being published in the island of Batavia). In the great 
literary languages of the Continent the circulation has been immense. In 
the " Bibliographic de la France," at least four versions are mentioned 
which have run through various editions, and in the Leipsic Catalogue 
for 1852 and 1853 the distinct German versions enumerated amounted to 
no less than thirteen. 

In the Asiatic languages the only version I have yet seen is the 
Armenian. Copies of all these versions have been procured or ordered for 
the British Museum. 

It is customary in all great libraries to make a collection of versions 
of the Scriptures in various languages, and dialects, to serve, among other 
purposes, for those of philological study. I suggested to Mr. Panizzi, 
then at the head of the printed book department, that in this point of 
view it would be of considerable interest to collect the versions of " Unclt- 

The translation of the same text by thirteen different translators at 
precisely the same epoch of a language is a circumstance perhaps altogether 
unprecedented, and it is one not likely to recur, as the tendency of modern 
alterations in the law of copyright is to place restriction son the liberty of 
translators. The possession, too, of such a book as "Uncle Tom's Cabin " 
is very different from that of such a book r,s " Thomas a Kempis," in the 
information it affords to the student of a language. There is every 
variety of style, from that of animated narration and passionate wailing 
to that of the most familiar dialogue, and dialogue not only in the lan- 
guage of the upper classes but of the lowest. 

The student who has once mastered " Uncle Tom " in Welsh or Wal- 
lachian is not likely to meet any further difficulties in his progress 
through Welsh or Wallachian prose. These considerations, united to 
those of another character, which had previously led to the collection by 
the Museum of translations of the plays of Shakespeare, the Antiquary, 
the Pickwick Club, etc., led to the adoption of my views, and many of 
these versions have already found their way to the shelves of the Museum, 
while others are on the way. When all are assembled the notes and pref- 
aces of different translators would furnish ample material for an instruc- 
tive article in a review. 


I regret that my account of these versions should be so much less 
extended than I had hoped to make it, hut the duties of an officer in tha 
British Museum, especially at this period of the year, render it almost 
impossible for him to make any use whatever of the treasures committed 
to his charge, which are as a rule as much closed to him as they are open 
to the public. You must excuse on this account all my shortcomings, 
and believe me, dear sir, 

Yours very truly, 


The following is a list of the various editions and translations of 
" Uncle Tom's Cabin," contained in the Library of the British MU-" 
seum : 

I. Complete Texts and abridgments, extracts, and adaptations, ver- 
sified or dramatized, of the original English. 

II. Translations, in alphabetical order, of the languages, nineteen in 
number : viz. Armenian, Bohemian, Danish, Dutch, Finnish, 
Flemish, French, German, Hungarian or Magyar, Illyrian, Ital- 
ian, Polish, Portuguese, Romaic or Modern Greek, Russian, 
Spanish, Swedish, Wallachian, Welsh. 

In these are also comprised abridgments, extracts, and adap- 

III. Appendix. Containing a list of the various works relating to 
" Uncle Tom's Cabin " ; also critical notices of the work, 
whether separately published, or contained in reviews, maga- 
zines, newspapers, etc. 


Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly . . . One hundred and 
tenth thousand. 2 vols. 

Boston, U. S. 1852. 12 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly . . . With introductory 
.remarks by J. Sherman. 

H. G. Bolin. London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave; States of America. 

T. Bosworth (Aug. 14th). London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly. . . . With a Preface by 
the Author, written expressly for this edition. 

T. Bosworth (Oct. 13th). London. 1852. 8 

STncle Tom's Cabin . . . With, twenty-seven Illustrations on wood by G. 
C ruik shaii k, Esq. 

J. Cassell. London. 1852. 8 


tlncle Tom's Cabin. With a new Preface by H. B. Stowe. 

Clarke & (Jo. London. [1852.] 8 

The People's Illustrated Edition. Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life 
in the Slave States of America. With 50 Engravings. 

Clarke & Co. London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America. 
[With a Preface signed U.J 

Clarke & Co. Lmidon. 1852. 12 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America. 
Third edition. [With a Preface by G.] 

Clarke & Co. London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America. (Th 
seventh thousand of tins edition.) 

C. H. Clarke & Co. London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America . . . 
reprinted . . . from the tenth American edition. 

Clarke & Co. London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin, " the Story of the Age." 

J. Gilbert. London. 1852. 18 

Uncle Tom's Cabin : a Tale of Life among the Lowly ; or, Pictures of 
Slavery in the United States of America. Third edition. Embel- 
lished with eight spirited Engravings. 

Ingram, Cooke & Co. London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, the History of a Christian Slave. With an In- 
troduction by E. Burritt. With 16 Illustrations, etc. 

Partridge & Oakey. London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, the History of a Christian Slave . . . With 
[an Introduction and] twelve Illustrations on Wood, designed by 

Partridge & Oakey. Lmidon. 1852. 8 

Another edition. Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, the History of a Christian 
Slave. With an Introduction [and Illustrations by H. Anelay]. 

Partridge and Oakey (Sept. 18th). London. [1852.]' 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America. With 
eight Engravings. [With a Preface signed G.] 

Routledge & Co. London. 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America 
Third edition. With forty Illustrations. 

Routledge <fc Co. & Clarke & Co. London, 1852. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly. With introductory re- 
marks by J. Sherman. 

J. Snow. London. 1852. 8 

Second edition. Complete for seven pence. Uncle Tom's Cabin . . . 
Reprinted verbatim irom the American edition. Fiftieth thousand, 

G. V ulcers. London. [1852.], 4 , 


Uncle Tom's Cabin. Tauchnilz, Leipzig. 1852. 16. Being part ol 
the Collection of " British Authors." Vol. 243, 44. 

Cassell's edition of Uncle Tom's Cabin [by H. E. B. S.]. 

London. 1852. 12 

Uncle Tom's Cabin. London. 1852. 8. Forming Vol. 84 cf the 
" Parlour Library." 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Negro Life in the Slave States of America. Lan~ 
don. 1852. 8. Being No. 121 of the "Standard Novels." 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly. New illustrated edition. 
Adam & Charles Black. Edinburgh. 1853. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin : or, Negro Life in Slave States of America. 

Clarke, Bcdon d; Co. London. [1853.] 16 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly . . . With above one hun- 
dred and fifty Illustrations. 

N. Cookc. London. 1853. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Life among the Lowly. Illustrated edition. 
Designs by Billings, etc. 

S. Low, Son <fc Co. London. 1853. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin ; or, Slave Life in America. [With a Biographical 
Sketch of Mrs. H. E. B. Stowe.] 

T. Nelson & Sons. London, Edinburgh, printed 1853. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin : a Tale of Life among the Lowly. With a Preface 
by the . . . Earl of Carlisle. 

G. Routledgc <L- Co. London. 1853. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin. Adapted for young persons by Mrs. Crowe. With 
8 Illustrations. 

G. Routledgc & Co. London. 1853. 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin : a Tale of Slave Life, etc. 

London. 1853. 8 
forming part of the " Universal Library." Fiction, Vol. I. 

Uncle Tom's Cabin . . . Standard illustrated edition. 

London, Ipswich [printed 1857]. 12 
One of a series called the " Run and Bead Library." 

Uncle Tom's Cabin . . . With a Preface by ... the Earl of Carlisle. A 
new edition. 

Routlcdgc and Sons. London. [1864.] 8 

Uncle Tom's Cabin . . . Standard illustrated edition. London. 187ft 
8. Forming part of the " Lily Series." 

A.11 about little Eva, from Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

London. 1853. 12 

All about little Topsy, from Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

London 1853. 12 


A Peep into Uncle Tom's Cabin. By "Aunt Mary" [i. e. Miss Low]. 
With an Address from Mrs. H. B. Stowe to the Children of England 
and America. 

S. Low and Son. London. (Jewett & Co., Boston, U. S.) 
A selection of passages from Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

Pictures and Stories from Uncle Tom's Cabin (designed to adapt Mrs. 
Stowe's narrative to the understanding of the youngest readers). 

Edinburgh. 1853. 4 

The Juvenile Uncle Tom's Cabin. Arranged for young readers. By 
Mrs. Crowe. 

Routledge & Co. London. 1853. 12 
An abridgment. With four Illustrations. 

Uncle Tom's Cabin for Children. By Mrs. Crowe. 

Routlcdyc <fc Sons. London. 1868. 12 
This is another edition of the preceding abridgment. With two Illustrations. 

Uncle Tom's Cabin. A drama of real life. In three Acts [and in prose]. 
Adapted from Mrs. Beecher Stowe's celebrated Novel. 

London. 1854. 12 
Contained in Vol. XII. of " Lacy's acting edition of Plays." 

Uncle Tom's Cabin. A drama in six Acts, by G. L. Aiken. 

New York. 1868. 12 
Contained in " French's Standard Drama." 


[Brother Thomas' Cabin. A story by H. B. Stowe, an American Lady.] 

Armenian. 2 Vols. (Venice.) 1854. 12 

Stryc Toma's, aneb Obrazy ze zivota cernych otroku v Americe, z an- 
glickeho pane H. B. S. [much abridged]. 

Bohemian. V. Brone. 1854. 8 

Onkel Tomas, eller Negerlivet i Amerikas Slaverstater . . . Oversat fra 
den nordamerikanske original af Capt. Schadtler. 

Danish. Kiobenhavn. 1853. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hytte, eller Negerliv i de amerikanske Slavestater . . . 
Oversat of P. V. Grove. 

Danish. Kiobenhavn. 1856. 8 

De Negerhut. [Uncle Tom's Cabin] . . . Naar den 20 en Amerikaanschen 
druk, uit het Engelsch vertaald door C. M. Mensing. 

Dutch. 2 Deel. Haarlem. 1853. 8 

Beta Tumon Tupa, lyhykaisesti kerottu ja kanniilla kuvanksilla valaistu. 
[Abridged translation into Finnish of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " by Mrs, 
H. E. Beecher Stowe.] Finnish. 

Turussa [Abo.]. 1856. obi. 4 


De Hut van Onkel Tom, cene Slnven-Geschiedenis. Naer het Engelscb. 

Flemish. 3 Deel. Gent. [1852.] S 

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom, ou les noirs en Amerique. Traduction neuve, 
corrigee et accompagnee de notes par L. de Wailly et E. Texier. 
Troisieme edition. 

French. Paris. [1852.] 8 

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom . . . traduction complete par A. Michiels, 
avec une biographic de 1'auteur. 

French. Paris. 1852. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom, ou Sort des Negres Esclaves. Traduction nou- 
velle par M. L. Casion, precedee d'une etude sur 1'ouvrage [by H. 

French. 2 torn. Paris, Cambrai [printed], 1853. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom cu Tableaux de 1'Esclavage dans les Etats-Unia 
d'Amerique . . . Traduction nouvelle par Old Nick [pseud, i. e. 
P. E. Dauran Forgues] et A. Joanne. 

French. Paris. 1853. 8 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom . . . Traduction faite a la demunde de 1'Auteur 
par Madame L. S. Belloc, avec une preface de Madame B. Stowe, 
ecrite par elle pour cette traduction, precedee d'une notice sur sa vie 
par Madame L. S. Belloc, et ornee de sou portrait grave par M. F. 

French. Paris. 1853. 12 

Mme. H. B. S. La Case de 1'Oncle Tom, traduite et accompagnee de no^es 

Sar M. L. Pilatte. Nouvelle edition, revue et corrigee, augmentee 
'une preface de 1'Auteur ecrite specialement pour cette edition, et 
d'une introduction par George Sand. Traduction autorisee . . . par 
Mme. B. Stowe. 

French. Paris. 1853. 12 

Le Pere Tom, ou vie des negres en Amerique. Traduction de la Bedol- 

French. Paris, 1853. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom, ou vie des negres en Amerique . . . Traduction 
de L. Enault. 

French. Paris. 1853. 8 
One of a series called " Bibliotheque des Chemins de Fer." 

La Case du Pere Tom. Traduction de la Bedolliere. Nouvelle edition, 
augmentee d'une notice de G. Sand. Illustrations, etc. 

French. Paris. [1859 ?] 4 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Drame en huit actes. Par MM. Dumanoir et 
D'Ennery. Kepresente pour la premiere fois, a Paris, sur le Theatra 
de l'Ambigue-Comique le 10 Janvier, 1853. 

Paris. 1859. 4 
Contained in the '' The'ltre Contemporain IllustreV' 80e Se>ie. 

l/Oncle Tom. Drame en cinq actes et neuf tableaux. Par M. E. Texier 


et L. de Wailly. Represente pour la premiere fois a Paris, sur le 
Theatre de la Gaite le 23 Janvier 1853. 

Paris. 1853. 8 
Contained in the Bibliotheque Dramatique of Michel Le>y. Tome 49. 

Another Edition. Paris. 1859. 4 
Contained in the " Theatre Contemporain." 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Eiue Negergeschichte. 3 Bdchen. German. 

Berlin, Dessau [printed], 1852. 8 
Forms Bdch. 4-6 Jahrg. 5 of the " Alljjemeine Deutsche Volks-Bibliothek." 

Oheim Tom's Hiitte, oder das Leben bei den Niedrigen . . . Uebersetzt 
von H. R. Hutten. 

German. Boston, U. S. Cambridge, U. S. [printed], 1853. 8 

Qnkel Tom, oder Schilderungen aus dem Leben in den Sklavenstaaten 
Nordamerika's . . . Nach den 35steu englischen Auflage von J. S. 
Lowe. German, 2 Bdc. 

Hamburg, Leipzig [printed], 1853. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Ein Roman aus dem Leben der Sklaven in Amerika. 
(Mit sechs sauberen Holzschuitten geziert. ) German. 2 Bdc. 

Albert Sasco. Berlin. [1853.] 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte oder das Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten des freien 
Nordamerika ... In deutscher Auffassungsweise fiir deutsche Lescr 
bearbeitet von Dr. Ungewitter. Dritte Ausgabe, mit 6 Illustration en. 

Wien [printed] und Leipzig. 1853. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten von Amerika 
. . . Mit der Biographic der Verfasserin, und einer Vorrede von E. 
Burritt. Vollstandige und wohlfeilste Stereotyp- Ausgabe. Neunte 
Auflage. Nebst Portrait. 

German. Leipzig. 1853. 8 
This forms Bd. I of the " Neue Volks-Bibliothek, herausgegeben von A. Schrader." 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Aus dem Englischen. Mit 6 Holzschnitten. 

German. Berlin. 1853. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten Amerika's. 
Aus dem Englischen. Mit funfzig Illustrationen. Vierte Auflage. 

German. Leipzig. 1854. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, nach dem Englischen fur die reifere Jugend bear. 
beitet von M. Cans. Mit einer Abbildung in Farbendruick. 

German. Pest.h. 1853. 8 
Forming Bd. 1 of the " Neues Lesekabinet fur die reifere Jugend." 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Leiden der Negersklaven in Amerika. [By 
Mrs. H. E. B. Stowe.] 1m Auszuge fur das Volk bearbeitet. Mit 
einem Titelbilde. 

German. Berlin. 1853. 16 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Erzahlung fiir Kinder bearbeitet. [From Mrs. 
( Stowe's tale.] Neues Bilder . . . und Lesebuch, etc. 

Nurnberg. [1854?] obi. 4 


Onkel Tom's Hutte, fur Kinder. Nach dem Englischen ['of Mrs. Stowel 
von A. Hartel. 

German. Leipzig. [1854 ?] 16 

Tamas Batya Kunyhoja ; vagy, Neger elet a rabszolga tarto Amerikai 
allamokban. B. S. H. utan Angolbol, Irinyi 

J. Hungarian 4 Kotet. Pesten. 1853. 12 

Tamas Batya. Gyermekek szamara. Kidolgozta M . . . Rokus. [Brother 
Thomas. For Children. Elaborated by Rokus M . . .] 

Hungarian. Pesten. 1856. 8 

Tamas Batya, vagy egy Szerecsen rabszolga tbrtenete. H. B. Stowe utan 
irta Tatar Peter. [Brother Thomas, or story of a Negro Slave. Writ- 
ten by P. Tatar after H. B. Stowe. A versified abridgment.] 

Hungarian. Pest. 1857. 8 

Stric Tomaz ali zivlenje zamorcov v Ameriki . . . Svobodno za Slovence 
zdelal J. B. 

Illyrian. VCelovcn. 1853. 8 

Stric Tomova Koca, ali zivljenje zamozcov v robnih derzavah svobodne 
severne Amerike . . . Iz memskega poslovenil [and abridwd] F. 
Malavasic. S sterimi podobsinami. 

Illyrian. V. Ljubljani. 1853. 8 

la Capanna dello Zio Tommaso ; ossia la vita dei Negri in America. Di 
Enrichetta Beeclier Stowe. 

Italian. Lugano. 1853. 8 C 

Chata Wuja Tomasza, czyli zycie niewolnikow . Przettumaczvt. 

F. Dydacki. 

Polish. 2 torn. Lwow. 1853. 8 

Chatka Ojca Toma, czyli zycie murzynow w stanach niewolniczych 
Ameryki Polnocny : romans . . . 'Przeklad Waclawa P. Tom. 1. 
(Przeklad I. Iwickiego. Tom. 2.) 

Polish. 2 Tom. Warszawa. 1865. 8 

A Cabana do Pai Thomaz, ou a vida dos pretos na America, Romance 
moral escripta em Inglez por Mrs. H. B. S. e traduzido em Portuguez 
por F. L. Alvares d'Andrada, etc. (Jnizo da obra por Mine. George 
Sand [pseud, i. e. Amantine Lucile Aurore Dudevant. With plates]!) 

Portuguese. 2 Tom. Paris. 1853. 12 

H icaXvpT] TOV QW/J.O., T) 6 /3ios TOJV Mai/pwi' (t> 'A/aepj/fa. Mi/^taropta 'Ep/)t 
erras STO/ST/S, fj.era<f>paffdfiffa K rou 'Ayy\iKov viro I. Kapaffovrcra. 
Romaic m Modern Greek. 2 Vols. AQrjvqvi [Athens]. 1860. 8 

Khizhina dyadi Toma : roman. 

Russian. St. Petersburg. 1858. 8 

Khizhina dyadi Toma : povyest, etc. 

Russian. St. Petersburg. 1865. 8 

La Cabana del Tio Tomas. Novela escrita en Ingles. 

Spanish. 2 torn. Mexico. 1853. 12 


La Cabana dei tio Tom, novela . . . traducida al Castellano por A. A. 

Spanish. Bogota. 1853. 8 e 

La Cabana del tio Tomas, i los Negros en Americk. Traducida por los 
Redactores del Clamor Publico, y ilustrada con cinco laminas finas 
grabadas en acero. 

Spanish. Barcelona. 1853. 8 

La Choza del Negro Tomas, o vida de los Negros en el Sur de los Estados- 
Unidos. Novela escrita en Ingles . . . traducida al Castellano. 

Spanish. 2 torn. Madrid. 1853. 8 

La Choza de Tomas Novela . . . traducida al Castellano. Edicion ilus- 
trada con 26 gi-abados aparte del testo. 

Spanish. Madrid, Paris. 1853. 4 

La Cboza de Tom . . . traducida por W. Aygualsde Izco. Segunda 

Spanish. Madrid. 1853. 4 

Onkel Tom's Stuga. Bearbetad for Barn. [An abridgment for chil- 

Swedish. Stockholm. 1868. 16 
Koliba lui Moshu Toma, etc. 

IVallachian. 2 Tom. Jassy. 1853. 8 / 

Bordeiulu Unkiului Tom, etc. 

Wallachian. 2 torn. Jassy. 1853. 8 

Crynodeb o Gaban 'Newyrth Tom ; nan Frywyd Negroaidd yn America 
. . . Cyfiethiedig gau y Lefiad [with a prefatory notice by W. Wil* 

Welsh. Abertawy. [1853.] 12 

Caban f'Ewyeth Twm . . . gyda . . . gerfluniau gan G. Cruikshank. 
Cyheithad H. Williams. 

Welsh. Llundain, 1853. 12 

Caban f'Eurythr Tomu, nen hanes caethwas Cristnogol . . . Crynodeb 
o waith H. B. 

Welsh. Caernarfon. [I860?] 12 


The Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin ; presenting the original facts and docu- 
ments upon which the story is founded. Together with corroborative 
Statements, verifying the truth of the Work. By Mrs. Harriet 
Beecher Stowe. 
Clarke, Bceton & Co. ; and Thomas Bosworth. London. [1853.] 8 

A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin. Tauchnitz, Leipzig. 1853. 16 

Forming Vols. 266-67 of the " Collection of British Authors." 


A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin. Second Edition. 

Sampson Low, Son <k Co. London. 1853. 8 

La Clef de la Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Avec les pieces justificatives. Ou 
vrage traduit par Old Nick [pseud, i. e. Paul Emile Dauran Forgues] 
& A. Joanne. 

Paris. 1853. 8 
La Clef de la Case de 1'Oncle Tom. 

Paris. 1857. 
This is another copy of the preceding, with a new title-page and a different date. 

Schliissel zu Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Enthaltend die urspriinglichen 
Thatsachen und Documente, die dieser Geschichte zu Grunde liegen. 
Zweite Auflage. 

Leipzig. 1853. 8 

Forming End. 5 and 7 of the " Neue Volks-Bibliothek, herausgegeben von At 

La Llave de la Cabana del Tio Tom. Traducida de la ultima edicion por 
G. A. LaiTosa. 

Madrid, Barcelona [printed], 1855. 8 


Adams (F. Colburn). Uncle Tom at Home. A review of the reviewers 
and repudiators of Uncle Tom's Cabin, by Mrs. Stowe. 

Philadelphia. 1853. 12 

Another Edition. London. [1853]. 12 

Brimblecomb (Nicholas) pseud. ? Uncle Tom's Cabin in ruins. Trium- 
phant defence of Slavery : in a series of Letters to H. B. Stowe. 

Boston, U. S. 1853. 8 

Clare (Edward). The Spirit and Philosophy of Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

London, 1853. 12 

Criswell (R.). Uncle Tom's Cabin contrasted with " Buckingham Hall, 
the Planter's Home" ; or, a fair view of both sides of the Slavery 

New York. 1853. 12 

Denman (Thomas) Baron Denman. "Uncle Tom's Cabin," "Bleak 
House," Slavery and Slave Trade. Seven articles by Lord Denman, 
reprinted from the "Standard." With an article containing facts 
connected with Slavery, by Sir G. Stephen, reprinted from the 
" Northampton Mercury." 

London, 1853. 12 

Second Edition. London, 1853. 12 

Helps (Sir Arthur). A letter on Uncle Tom's Cabin. By the author of 
" Friends in Council." 

Cambridge, U. S. 1852. 8 


Henson (Josiah). " Uncle Tom's Story of his Life." An Autobiography 
of J. Henson, from 1789 to 1876. With a Preface by Mrs. H. B. 
Stowe, and an introductory note by G. Sturge and S. Morley. Edited 
by J. Lobb. [With a Portrait.] Fortieth thousand. 

London, 1877. 8 

Senior (Nassau William). American Slavery : a reprint of an article on 

"Uncle Tom's Cabin," of which a portion was inserted in the 206th 

number of the Edinburgh Review ; and of Mr. Sumner's Speech of 

the 19th and 20th of May, 1856. With a notice of the events which 


London, 1856. 8 
Published without the author's name. 

Another Edition. London. [1862.] 8 

Published with the author's name. 

Thompson (George). American Slavery. A lecture delivered in the Music 
Hall, Store St., Deer. 13th, 1852. Proving by unquestionable evi- 
dence the correctness of Mrs. Stowe's portraiture of American Slavery, 
in her popular work, " Uncle Tom's Cabin." 

London. 1853. 12 


Note. Those in the Welsh language are printed together at the end. 

The "Athenaeum." London. 1852, p. 574. Notice. 
1852, p. 1173. Contrast between "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and the 

works by Hildreth and W. L. G. Smith. 
1859, p. 549. Contrasts the literary merits of " Uncle Tom's Cabin" 

and " The Minister's Wooing." 
1863, p. 78. Notice of the Influence of " Uncle Tom's Cabin." 

The "Baptist Magazine." London. 1852. Vol. 44, p. 206. Notice. 

The "Baptist Reporter." London. 1852. N. S. Vol. IX. p. 206. No- 

" Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine." Edinburgh. 1853. Vol. 74, p. 
393. Review of " Uncle Tom's Cabin " and " Key." 

'The Christian Reformer." London. 1852. 3d Series, Vol. 8, p. 472. 

The "Christian Witness." London. 1852. 8. Vol. 9, p. 344. Review. 
"The Critic." London. 1852. fol. p. 293. Notice. 

"Dublin University Magazine." Dublin. Vol. 40, Novr., 1852. 8. 

l "h* Eclectic Review." London. 1852. 8 N. S. Vol. IV. Notice. 
Do. Vol. VII. 1854. Notice. 


"The Edinburgh Review." London. 1855. No. 206. The articls 
"American Slavery," written by N. W. Senior, and twice reprinted 
by the author with additions. 

"Frasers Magazine. London. 1852. 8. Vol.46. A critique by A. H. 

"The Free Church Magazine." Edinburgh. 1852. 8. N. S. Vol. 1. 
p. 359. Notice. 

" The General Baptist Repository" London. 1852. 8. Vol. 31, p. 339. 

"The Inquirer." London. 1852. fol. Vol. II. p. 644. Review. 
11 The Literary Gazette." London. 1852. fol. Notice. 

" The Local Preacher's Magazine." London. 1853. 8. N. S. Vol. 1. 

" The Methodist New Connexion Magazine." London. 1852. 8. 3d Se- 
ries, Vol. 20. Review. 

"The Mother's Magazine." London. 1852. Review. 

"The North British Review" Edinburgh. 1853. 8. Vol.18. Re- 

" The Quarterly Review." London. 1857. Vol.101. Review of "Dred" 
and " Uncle Tom's Cabin." 

" SJiarpe's London Magazine," conducted by Mrs. S. C. Hall. London, 

1852, 1853. 8. N. S. Vol. 1. Review. 

N. S. Vol. 2. Notice, with Miss Bremer's opinion of " Uncle Tom's 

"The Spectator." London. 1852. 8 Notice.. 

" Tail's Edinburgh Magazine." Edinburgh. 1852. 8. 2d Series. 

" The Westminster Review." London. 1853. 8. N. S. Vol. 4. Re- 


Y Cylchgrawn " [The Circulator]. Abertawy. 1853. 8. Vol.3. Re- 
view of Welsh translation. 

YDiwygiwr" [The Reformer]. Llandli. 1852. 8. Vols. 17 & 18. 
Notices of Welsh translations. 

" YDysgedydd" [The Instructor]. Dolgellan. 1853. 8. Notices of 
Welsh translations. 

" Yr Eurgrnwn Wcsleyaidd" [The "Wesleyan Golden Treasury]. Llan- 
idloes. 1853. 8. Vol. 2. Review of Welsh translations. 

M Y Oreal " [The Miscellany]. Llangoller*. 1853. 8. VoL 2. Review. 


Tr Haul " [The Sun]. Llanymddyfri. 18 . Vol. 4. Extracts and 

Y Traethodydd " [The Essayist]. Dinbych. 1853. 8. Vol. 9. No- 


"The Literary World." New York. 1852. fol. Vol.10. Review. 

" Littell's Living Age." Boston. 1852. 8. Reviews from American 
and English Periodicals. 

" The New Englander." New Haven. 1852. 8. Vol.10. Review. 

"The New York Quarterly Review." New York. 1853. Vol.1. Re- 

"The North American Review." Boston. 1853. 8. Vol. 77. Review. 
"The United States Review." New York. 1853. 8 Vol.1. 

A Critique in " Blackwood's Magazine." Article, " Slavery and Slave Power in tha 
United States." The writer speaks of " Uncle Tom's Cabin" as "A romance with* 
out the slightest pretension to truth, and the foundation of a wholesale attack oo 
the institutions and character of the people of the United States." 


" Boekzaal der Geleerde Were Id. Dutch. Amsterdam. 1853. 12. Re- 
view, by "J. J. V. T." 

"De Tijd." Dutch. ' SGravenhage, 1853. 8. Deel 17. Notice, with 
portrait of Mrs. Stowe. 

" Vadcrlandsclie Letteroefcningen." Dutch. Amsterdam. 1853. 8. 

" DcEcndragt." Flemish. Gent. 1853. Jaerzang 7. Review, by " R." 

"fievuc dcs Livres Nouveaux." French. Paris. 1852. 8. Re- 
view, by " H. A. P." 

"Revue Conlcmporaine." French. Paris. 1852. 8. Tome 4. Article, 
' ' Les Negres en Amerique," by Philarete Chasles. 

"Revue dcs Deux Mondcs." French. Paris. 1852. 8. 6th series. 
Tome 16. Article, " Le Roman Abolitioniste en Amerique," by 
Emile Montegnt. 

" Ulatter fur literarische Untcrhaltun." German. Leipzig. 1853. 4*. 
Band 1. Review, by Rudolf Gottschall. 

" Europa." German. Leipzig. 1853. fol. Review and Notices. 
11 Das Pfennig-Magazin." German. Leipzig. 1852- fol. Notices. 

" Unterhaltungen am hduslichen Herd. " German. Leipzig. 1853. 8. 

"IlCimento," Italian. Torino. 1862. 6. Review. 


THE following translations, abridgments, or adaptations in various 
languages have also been published in different editions, but are 
not contained in the Library of the British Museum. 

De Hut van Oom Tom, of het Leven der Negerslaven in Noord-Amerika, 
Naar het Fransch van de la Bedolliere, door W. L. Ritter. 

Dutch. Batavia. 1853. 8 
A copy of this version is in the possession of Professor Stowe. 

De Neger hut, of het Leven der Negerslaven in Amerika. Uit Engelsch 
vertaald door P. Munnich. Eerste Deel. 

Dutch. Soerabaya [at the East End of Java]. 1853. 8 
A copy of this version is also in the possession of Professor Stowe. 

Strejcek Tom, cili : Otrootvi ve svobodne Americe. Povidka pro mlady 
a dospely vek, vzdelana die anglickeho romance od pani Harriet 
Beecher Stowe. 

Bohemian. vPraze. 1853. 12 

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction revue par L. de Wailly et E. 

French. Paris. 1852. 8. 

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction complete par A. Michiels. 2 

French. Paris. 1852. 12. 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par L. Pilatte. 

French. 2 torn. Paris. 1852. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de Labedolliere. Illustrations 

French. Paris. 1852. 4 

Another Edition. Paris. 1852. large 8 



Another Edition. Paris. 1852. sra. 8' 

La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction par A. Michiels. 3 e Edition. 

French. Paris. 1853. 12 
4 e Edition. Paris. 1853. 12 

La Cabaue de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de MM. Wailly et Texier. 

French. Paris. 1853. 4 
2 e Edition. Paris. 1853. 12 

La Case du Pere Tom. Traduction de La Bedolliere. Nouvelle edition, 
augmentee d'une notice de G. Sand. 

French. Paris. 1853. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par L. Enault. 

French. Paris. 1853. foL 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction par MM. C. Rowey et A. Rolet. 

French. Paris. 1853. 12 
Another Edition. Paris. 1853. 8 


La Cabane de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction par Texier et Wailly. 

French. Paris. 1853. 4 
Contained in the " Mus^e Litte'raire du Siecle." 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de L. Enault. 

French. Paris. 1853. 16* 
Contained in the " Bibliotheque des Chemins de Fer." 

Another Edition. Paris. 1853. 12 
Contained in the " Bibliothfeque des meilleurs romans e'trangeres." 

La. Case de 1'Oncle Torn. Traduite par Victor Ratier. Edition revue 
par 1'Abbe Jouhanneaud. 

French. Limoges <k Paris. 1853. 8 
" Edition modifiee 4 1'usage de la Jeunesse." 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Racontee aux enfants, par M me ' Arabella Pal- 
mer. Traduite de 1' anglais, par A. Viollet. [With Illustrations.] 

French. Paris. 1853. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de La Bedolliere. 

French. Paris. 1854. 4 
Contained in the " Panthe'on Populaire." 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de V. Ratier. Revue par 1'Abbe 

French. Limoges & Paris. 1857. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par La Barre. 

French. 3 Vols. Paris. 1861. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction par M. L. S. Belloc. Avec une 
preface de M me Beecher Stowe. Oruee de son Portrait. 

French. Paris. 1862. 12 
Contained in the " Bibliotheque Charpentier." 

Reprinted. Paris. 1872. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par M. L. Pilatte. Nouvelle edition, 
augmentee d'une preface de 1'auteur et d'une introduction par G. Sand. 

French. Paris. 1862. 12 

La Case du Pere Tom. Traduction de La Bedolliere. Notice de G. 
Sand. Illustrations Anglaises. 

French. Paris. 1863. 4 
Contained in the " Pantheon Populaire." 

Reprinted. Paris. 1874. 4 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduite par L. Enault. 

French. Paris. 1864. 12* 
Contained in the " Bibliotheque des meilleurs romaus Strangers. " 

Reprinted. Paris. 1865. 12 

Do. Paris. 1873. 12 

Do. Paris. 1875. 12 

Do. Paris. 1876. 12 


La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction de L. Barre. 

French. Paris. 1865. 11 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Traduction revue par E. au Chatenet. 

French. Limoges. 1876. 8 

Abrege de 1'histoire de 1'Oncle Tom, a 1'usage de la jeunesse. 

French. Leipzig. 1857. 16 
Forming Vol. 24 of the " Petite Bibliotheque FrancjaUe." 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Drame en huit Actes : par MM. Dumanoir et 
d'Ennery. Musique de M. Artus. Theatre de I'Anibigu Comique. 

Paris. 1853. 12 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Romance tiree du roman de ce noin, jouee a 
1'Ambigu, paroles de E. Lecart. 

Paris. 1853. 4 

La Case de 1'Oncle Tom. Chanson nouvelle, d'apres le drame de ce nom. 
[By "L. C."] 

Paris. 1853. 4 

Onkel Torn, oder Sklavenleben in der Republik Amerika. 

German. Berlin. 1852. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten Amerikas. 
Aus dem Englischen. 2 Thle. 

German. Berlin. 1852. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten Amerikas. 
Aus dem Englischen. 

German. 30 Lieferungen. Leipzig. 1852. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte. Uebersetzt von F. C. Nordestern. 

German. 6 Hefte. Wien. 1852. 8 

Onkel Tom, oder Negerleben in den nordamerikanischen Sklavenstaaten. 
Uebersetzt von W. E. Dragulin. 

German. 4 Bde. Leipzig. 1852. 8 
Forming Bd. 9-12 of the " Amerikanische Bibliothek." 

Oukel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sclavenstaaten des freien 
Nordamerika. Frei bearbeitet von Ungewitter. 

German. Leipzig. 1852. 8 
Forming Bd. 317 of the " Belletristisches Lese-Cabinet." 

Bclaverei in dem Lande der Freiheit, oder das Leben der Neger in den 
Sclavenstaaten Nordamerika' s. Nach der 15 Auflage von Onkel 
Tom's Cabin. 

German. 4 Bde. Leipzig. 1852. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder die Geschichte eines christlichen Sclaven von 
H. B. Stowe. 

German. 11 Bdchen. 1852-53. 4 
Forming Bdchen 1871-1881 of "Das Belletristische Ausland." 


Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Sklavenleben in den Freistaaten Amerika'a. 
Aus dem Englischen. Zweite Auflage. 

German. 3 Thle. Berlin. 1853. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder die Geschichte eines christlichen Sklaven. Aus 
dem englischen iibertragen von L. Du Bois. 

German. 3 Thle. Stuttgart. 1853. 16 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten von Amerika. 
Aus dem Englischen . 

German. Leipzig. 1853. 8 
Forming Bd. 1 of the " Neue Volks-Bibliothek." 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in den Sklavenstaaten von Nord- 
amerika. Mit 50 Illustrationen. Zweite Auflage. 

German. Leipzig. 1853. 8 

Dritte, mit Anmerkungen vermehrte Auflage. 

Leipzig. 1853. 8 
Vierte Auflage. Leipzig. 1854. 8 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Sclaverei im Lande der Freiheit. German. 
Dritte Auflage. German. 4 Bde. 

Leipzig. 1853. 16 

Onkel Tom's Hiitte, oder Negerleben in Nordamerika. Im Auszuge be- 

German. Berlin. 1853. 16 

Onkel Tom's Schicksale. Erzahlung fiir die Jugend, von Max Schasler. 

German. 2 Bdchen. Berlin, 1853. 8 

Onkel Tom's Schicksale. Erzahlungen fur die Jugend. Fiir die deutscha 
Jugend bearbeitet von Max Schasler. 

German. 2 Bdchen. Berlin. 1853. 8 
Forming Bdchen 1 of the " Hausbibliothek der Jugend." 

La Capanna di Papa Tom. Libera Versione dal Franchese, etc. 

Napoli. 1853. 8 
A copy of this version is in the possession of Professor Stowe. 

Khizhina dyadi Toma, etc. 

Russian. Moscow. 1858. 8 
Khizhina dyadi Tom, etc. 

Russian. St. Petersburg. 1858. 8 

Dyadya Tom, etc. [Uncle Tom ; or, Life of the Negro-Slaves in America. 
A tale adapted from the English by M. F. Butovich. Abridged.] 

Russian. St. Petersburg. 1867. 8 

Chicha-Tomina Koliba. 

Servian. Belgrade. 1854. 8 

Fyckeln till Onkel Toms Stuga. [Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin.] Werk- 
liga Tilldragelser pa hwilka Romanen af samma mamn hwilar. Uldrag 
fter Mrs. H. Beecher Stowe. Ofwersatt efter Engelska Originalet. 

Swedish. Stockholm. 1853. 16 



FROM the foregoing it will be seen that in the Library of the 
British Museum there are 35 editions of the original English, the 
complete text, and 8 of abridgments or adaptations. 

Of translations in different languages there are 19 : viz. Arme- 
nian, 1 ; Bohemian, 1 ; Danish, 2 distinct versions ; Dutch, 1 ; 
Finnish, 1 ; Flemish, 1 ; French, 8 distinct versions and 2 dramas ; 
German, 5 distinct versions and 4 abridgments ; Hungarian, 1 
complete version, 1 for children, and 1 versified abridgment ; II- 
lyrian, 2 distinct versions ; Italian, 1 ; Polish, 2 distinct versions ; 
Portuguese, 1 ; Romaic or Modern Greek, 1 ; Russian, 2 distinct ver- 
sions ; Spanish, 6 distinct versions ; Swedish, 1 ; Wallachian, 2 
distinct versions ; Welsh, 3 distinct versions. 

Of the " Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin," there are 3 editions in Eng- 
lish, 2 in French, 1 in German, and 1 in Spanish. 

Of works on the subject of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," separately pub- 
lished, there are 9. 

Of Reviews and Notices of it in Periodicals there are 49 : viz. 31 
for the United Kingdom, of which 7 are Welsh ; 6 for the United 
States ; and 12 for other countries. 

This list is, however, by no means complete. 

Of Translations, etc., not in the British Museum there are, Bohe- 
mian 1, a distinct version from that mentioned above ; Dutch, 2 ; 
French, 5 distinct versions, 1 drama, and a chanson ; German, 4 
distinct versions ; Italian, 1 ; Russian, 3 distinct versions and 1 
abridgment ; Servian, 1 ; and Swedish, a translation of the " Key." 

[In addition to the Swedish translation mentioned by Mr. Bullen, 
the following editions appear to have been produced : 

Onkel Tom's Stuga, eller negerlifvet i Amerikanska slafstaterna 
Ofversattning af S. J. Callerholm. Goteborg. 1873. 8. 

Onkel Tom's Stuga. Stockholm. 1882. 8. 

Three editions were also published between 1860 and 1865 by 
Mb, Bonnier, Stockholm.] 


scenes of this story, as its title i 
cates, 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 descendants, 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 con- 

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

The poet, the painter, and the artist now seek out and 
embellish the common and gentler humanities of life, and, 
under the allurements of fiction, breathe a humanizing 
and subduing influence, favorable to the development 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 ia 
remembered ; Africa, who began the race of civilization 
and human progress in the dim, gray dawn of early time, 
but who, for centuries, has lain bound and bleeding at the 
foot of civilized and Christianized humanity, imploring 
compassion in vain. 

But the heart of the dominant race, who have been her 
conquerors, her hard masters, has at length been turned 
towards her in mercy; and it has been seen how far 
nobler it is in nations to protect the feeble than to op- 
press them. Thanks be to God, the world has at last out- 
lived 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 towards 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 knowl- 
edge 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 
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 lie have set judgment in the earth." 
"He shall deliver the needy when he crieth, 

The poor, and him that hath no helper.' 1 
" He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence, 

And precious shall their blood be in his eight." 





; ATE 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 , in Kentucky. There were no servants 

present, and the gentlemen, with chairs closely ap- 
proaching, seemed to be discussing some subject with great 

For convenience' sake, we have said, hitherto, two gentlemen. 
One of the parties, however, when critically examined, did not 
seem, strictly speaking, to come under the species. He was a 
short thick-s-3t man, with coarse commonplace features, and that 
swaggering air of pretension which marks a low man who is 
trying to elbow his way upward in the world. He was much 
overdressed, in a gaudy vest of many colors, a blue neckerchief, 
bedropped gayly with yellow spots, and arranged with a flaunt- 
ing tie, quite in keeping with the general air of the man. His 
hands, large and coarse, were plentifully bedecked with rings ; 
arid he wore a heavy gold watch-chain, 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 flour 
ishing and jingling with evident satisfaction. His conversation 
was in free and easy defiance of Murray's Grammar, and was 
garnished at convenient intervals with various profane expres- 
sions, which not even the desire to be graphic in our account 
shall induce us to transcribe. 


His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gen- 
tleman ; and the arrangements of the house, and the general 
air of the housekeeping, indicated easy, and even opulent cir- 
cumstances. As we before stated, the two were in the midst 
of an earnest conversation. 

" That is the way I should arrange the matter," said Mr. 

" I can't make trade that way, I positively can't, Mr. 
Shelby," said the other, holding up a glass of wine between his 
eye and the light. 

" Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow ; he 
is certainly worth that sum anywhere, steady, honest, capa- 
ble, manages my whole farm like a clock." 

" You mean honest, as niggers go," said Haley, helping him- 
self 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; anu 
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 / do. I 
had a fellow, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans, - 
't 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 'bilged to 
sell out ; so I realized six hundred on him. Yes, I consider 
religion a valeyable thing in a nigger, when it 's the genuine 
article, and no mistake." 

" Well, Tom 's got the real article, if ever a fellow had," re- 
joined the other. "Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati 
alone, to do business for me, and bring home five hundred dol 
lars. ; Tom,' says I to him, ' I trust you, because I thinV 
you 're a Christian, - - I know you would n't cheat.' Tom 
comes back, sure enough ; I knew he would. Some low fel- 
lows, they say, said to him, ' Tom, why don't you make tracks 
for Canada 1 ' ' Ah, master trusted me, and I could n't,' they 
told me about it. I am sorry to part with Tom, I must say. 
You ought to let him cover the whole balance of the debt ; and 
yovi would, Haley, if you had any conscience." 

" Well, I 've got just as much conscience as any man in busi- 
ness can afford to keep, just a little, you know, to 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, have n't you a boy or gal that you could throw in 
with Tom?" 

" Hum ! none that I could well spare ; to tell the truth, it 's 
only hard necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don't 
like parting with any of my hands, that 's a fact." 

Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between 
four and five years of age, entered the room. There was some- 
thing in his appearance remarkably beautiful and engaging. 
His black hair, tine as floss silk, hung in glossy curls about his 
round dimpled face, while a pair of large dark eyes, full of fire 
and softness, looked out from beneath the rich, long lashes, as he 


peered curiously into the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet and 
yellow plaid, carefully made and neatly fitted, set off' to advan- 
tage the dark and rich style 
of his beauty ; and a certain 
comic air of assurance, blend- 
ed with bashfulness, showed 
that he had been not unused 
to being petted and noticed 
by his master. 

" Hulloa, Jim Crow ! " said 
Mr. Shelby, whistling, and 
snapping a bunch of raisins 
towards him, " pick that up, 
now ! " 

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

" Come here, Jim Crow," 
said he. The child came up, 
and the master patted the 
curly head, and chucked him 
under the chin. 

" Now, Jim, show this gen- 
tleman how you can dance 
and sing." The boy com- 
menced 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 or- 


Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe when he has the 
rheumatism," said his master. 

Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed the appear 
ance 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 front 
right to left, in imitation of an old man. 

Both gentlemen laughed uproariously. 

" Now, Jim," said his master, " show us how old Elder Bob- 
bins leads the psalm." The boy drew his chubby face down 


to a formidable length, and commenced toning a psalm tunf 
through his nose with imperturbable gravity. 

" Hurrah ! bravo ! what a young 'un ! " said Haley ; " that 
chap 's a case, I '11 promise. Tell you what," said he, suddenly 
clapping his hand on Mr. Shelby's shoulder, "fling in that 
chap and I '11 settle the business, I will. Come, now, if that 
an'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 percep- 
tible 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 moulded shape ; a delicately formed hand and a trim 
foot and ankle were items of appearance that did not escape the 
quick eye of the trader, well used to run up at a glance the 
points of a fine female article. 

"Well, Eliza 1 ?" said her master, as she stopped and looked 
hesitatingly at him. 

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

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

" By Jupiter," said the trader, turning to him in admiration, 
" there 's an article, now ! You might make your fortune on 
that ar gal in Orleans, any day. I Ve seen over a thousand, in 
my day, paid down for gals not a bit handsomer." 

" I don't want to make my fortune on her," said Mr. Shelby, 
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 
and slapping his hand familiarly on Shelby's shoulder, ht 
added, - 

" Come, how will you trade about the gal ] what shall I 
say for her, what '11 you take ? " 

" Mr. Haley, she is nut to be sold," said Shelby. " My wife 
would not part with her for her weight in gold." 


"Ay, ay! women always say such things, cause they han't 
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, / reckon." 

; I 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 Ye come down pretty handsomely for him." 

" What on earth can you want with the child ] " said Shelby. 

'' Why, I Ye 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 handsome 'uns. It sets off 
one of yer great places, a real handsome boy to open door, 
wait and tend. They fetch a good sum ; and this little devil 
is such a comical, musical concern, he's just the article." 

" I would rather not sell him," said Mr. Shelby, thought- 
fuily ; " the fact is, sir, I 'in a humane man, and I hate to take 
the boy from his mother, sir." 

" O, you do 1 ? La! yes, something of that ar natur. I 
understand, perfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on with 
woiuen, sometimes. I al'ays hates these yer screechin', scream- 
in'' times. They are mighty onpleasant ; but, as I manages 
business, I generally avoids 'em, sir. Now, what if you get 
the girl off for a day, or a week, or so ; then the thing 's done 
quietly, all over before she comes home. Your wife might 
get her some ear-rings, or a new gown, or some such truck, to 
make up with her." 

" I 'm afraid not." 

" Lor bless ye, yes ! These critters an't like white folks, 
you know ; they gets over things, only manage right. Now, 
they say," said Haley, assuming a candid and confidential air, 
" that this kind o' trade is 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. I Ye 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 did n't want her baby ; and she was one 
of your real high sort, when her blood was up. I tell you, she 


squeezed up her child in her arms, and talked, and went on 
real awful. It kinder makes my blood run cold to think on 't ; 
and when they carried off the child, and locked her up, she jest 
went ravin' mad, and died in a week. Clear waste, sir, of 
a thousand dollars, just for want of management, there's 
where 't is. It 's always best to do the humane thing, sir ; 
that 's been my experience." And the trader leaned back in 
his chair, and folded his arm, with an air of virtuous decision, 
apparently considering himself 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' himself ; 
but I say it jest because it 's the truth. I believe I 'm reck- 
oned 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 business. And I 
lays it all to my management, sir ; and humanity, sir, I may 
say, is the great pillar of my management." 

Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said, " In- 
deed ! " 

" Now, I 've been laughed at for my notions, sir, and I 've 
been talked to. They an't pop'lar, and they an't common ; 
but I stuck to 'em, sir ; I 've stuck to 'em, and realized well on 
'em ; yes, sir, they have paid their passage, I may say," and 
the trader laughed at his joke. 

There was something so piquant and original in these elu- 
cidations of humanity, that Mr. Shelby could not help laugh- 
ing in company. Perhaps you laugh too, dear reader ; but 
you know humanity conies 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. 

" It 's strange now, but I never could beat this into people's 
heads. Now, there was Tom Loker, my old partner, down in 
Natchez ; he was a clever fellow, Tom was, only the very devil 
with niggers, on principle '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 o' crackin' on 'em over the head, 


and knockin' on 'em round 1 It 's ridiculous,' says I, < anc 
don't do no sort o' good. Why, I don't see no harm in theii 
cryin',' says I ; ' it 's natur,' says I, ' and if natur can't blo\>, 
off one way, it will another. Besides, Tom,' says I, ' it jes 
spiles your gals ; they get sickly, and down in the mouth ; and 
sometimes 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 ? De- 
pend on it, Tom, a little humanity, thrown in along, goes a 
lieap further than all your jawin' and crackin' ; and it pays 
better,' says I, ' depend on 't.' But Tom could n'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 o' managing do the business 
better than Tom's 1 " said Mr. Shelby. 

" Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any ways 
can, I takes a leetle care about the onpleasaut parts, like selling 
young uns and that, get the gals out of the way, out of 
sight, out of mind, you know, and when it 's clean done, 
and can't be helped, they naturally gets used to it. 'Tan't, 
you know, as if it was white folks, that 's brought up in the 
way of 'spectin' to keep their children and wives, and all that. 
Niggers, you know, that 's fetched up properly han't no kind 
of 'spectations of no kind ; so all these things conies easier." 

" I 'm afraid mine are not properly brought up, then," said 
Mr. Shelby. 

" S'pose not ; .you Kentucky folks spile your niggers. You 
mean well by 'em, but '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 Tom, and Dick, and the Lord knows 
who, 'tan't no kindness to be givin' on him notions and ex- 
pectations, and bringin' on him up too well, for the rough and 
tumble comes all the harder on him arter. Now, I venture tc 
say, your niggers would be quite chop-fallen in a place where 
some of your plantation niggers would be singing and whoop- 
ing like all possessed. Every man, you know, Mr. Shelby, nat- 
urally 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 disagreeable 


" Well," said Haley, after they had both silently picked 
*"/heir nuts for a season, " what do you say 1 " 

" I '11 think the matter over, and talk with my wife," said 
Mr. Shelby. " Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter car- 
ied on in the quiet way you speak of, you 'd best not let your 
business in this neighborhood be known. It will get out 
among my boys, and it will not be a particularly quiet busi- 
ness getting away any of my fellows, if they know it, I '11 
promise you." 

" O, certainly, by all means, mum ! of course. But I '11 
tell you, I 'in 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. 

: ' 1 'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the 
steps," said he to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed, 
"with his impudent assurance; but he knows how much he 
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 should do 
this thing ] ' And now it must come, for aught I see. And 
Eliza's child, too ! I know tbat I shall have some fuss with 
wife about that ; and, for that matter, about Tom, too. So 
much for being in debt, heigh-ho : The fellow sees his advan- 
tage, and means to push it." 

Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to be 
seen in the State of Kentucky. The general prevalence of 
agricultural pursuits of a quiet and gradual nature, not requir- 
ing those periodic seasons of hurry and pressure that are called 
for in the business of more southern districts, makes the task 
of the negro a more healthful and reasonable one ; while the 
master, content with a more gradual style of acquisition, has 
not those temptations to hard-heartedness which always over- 
come frail human nature when the prospect of sudden and 
rapid gain is weighed in the balance, with no heavier counter- 
poise than the interests 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 dreaip 
the oft-fabled poetic legend of a patriarchal institution, and all 


that ; but over and above the scene there broods a portentous 
shadow, the shadow of law. So long as the law considers 
all these human beings, with beating hearts and living affec- 
tions, 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 anything which might 
contribute to the physical comfort of the negroes on his estate. 
He had, however, speculated largely and quite loosely ; had 
involved himself deeply, and his notes to a large amount had 
come into the hands of Haley ; and this small piece of informa- 
tion is the key to the preceding conversation. 

Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the door, 
Eliza had caught enough of the conversation to know that a 
trader was making offers to her master for somebody. 

She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as she 
came out ; but her mistress just then calling, she was obliged 
to hasten away. 

Still she thought she heard the trader make an offer for 
her boy ; could she be mistaken ] Her heart swelled and 
throbbed, and she involuntarily strained him so tight that the 
little fellow looked up into her face in astonishment. 

"Eliza, girl, what ails you to-day]" said her mistress, when 
Eliza had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked down the work- 
stand, and finally was abstractedly offering her mistress a long 
nifhtfown in place of the silk dress she had ordered her to 

~ O i 

bring from the wardrobe. 

Eliza started. " 0, missis ! " she said, raising her eyes ; 
then, bursting into tears, she sat down in a chair, and began 

" Why, Eliza, child ! what ails you?" said her mistress. 

"0, missis, missis," said Eliza, "there's been a trader talk- 
ing with master in the parlor ! I heard him." 

" Well, silly child, suppose there has." 

" 0, missis, do you suppose mas'r would sell my Harry ? " 
And the poor creature threw herself into a chair, and sobbed 



'* Sell him ! No, you foolish girl ! You know your master 
never deals with those southern traders, and never muans to 
sell any of his servants, as long as they behave well. Why, 
you silly child, who do you think would want to buy your 
Harry ? Do you think all the world are set on him as you are, 
you goosie? Come, cheer up, and hook my dress. There 
now, put my back hair up in that pretty braid you learnt the 
other day, and don't go listening at doors any more." 

" Well, but, missis, you never would give your consent 
to to " 

" Nonsense, child ! to be sure I should n't. What do you 
talk so for 1 ? I would as soon have one of my own children 
sold. But really, Eliza, you are getting altogether too proud of 
that little fellow. A man can't put his nose into the door, but 
you think he must be coming to buy him." 

Reassured by her mistress's confident tone, Eliza proceeded 
nimbly and adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her own fears, 
as she proceeded. 


Mrs. Shelby was a woman of a high class, both intellectually 
and morally. To that natural magnanimity and generosity of 
mind which one often marks as characteristic of the women of 
Kentucky, she added high moral and religious sensibility and 
principle, carried out with great energy and ability into prac- 
tical results. Her husband, who made no professions to any 
particular religious character, nevertheless reverenced and re- 
spected the consistency of hers, and stood, perhaps, a little in 
awe of her opinion. Certain it was that he gave her unlim- 
ited scope in all her benevolent efforts for the comfort, instruc- 
tion, 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 efficacy 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 particu- 
lar 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 importuni- 
ties and opposition which he knew he should have reason to 

Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband's em- 
barrassments, and knowing only the general kindliness of his 
temper, had been quite sincere in the entire incredulity with 
which she had met Eliza'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. 





1 LIZA had been brought up by her mistress, from 
girlhood, as a petted and indulged favorite. 

The traveller in the south must often have re- 
marked that peculiar air of refinement, that soft- 
ness of voice and manner, which seems in many 
cases to be a particular gift to the quadroon and mulatto women. 
These natural graces in the quadroon are often united with 
beauty of the most dazzling kind, and in almost every case 
with a personal appearance prepossessing and agreeable. Eliza, 
such as we have described her, is not a fancy sketch, but taken 
from remembrance, as we saw her, years ago, in Kentucky. 
Safe under the protecting care of her mistress, Eliza had 
reached maturity without those temptations which make beauty 
so fatal an inheritance to a slave. She had been married to a 
bright and talented 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 ingenuity caused 
him to be considered the first hand in the place. He had in- 
vented a machine for the cleaning of the hemp, which, consid- 
ering 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 man- 
ners, 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 con- 
trol 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 

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


had been about. He was received with great enthusiasm by 
the employer, who congratulated him on possessing so valuable 
a slave. 

He was waited upon over the factory, shown the machinery 
by George, who, in high spirits, talked so fluently, held him- 
self so erect, looked so handsome and manly, that his master 
began to feel an uneasy consciousness of inferiority. What 
business had his slave to be marching round the country, in- 
venting machines, and holding up his head among gentlemen 1 
He 'd soon put a stop to it. He 'd take him back, and put him 
to hoeing and digging, and " see if he 'd step about so smart." 
Accordingly, the manufacturer and all hands concerned were 
astounded when he suddenl} r demanded George's wages, and 
announced his intention of taking him home. 

" But, Mr. Harris," remonstrated the manufacturer, " is n't 
this rather sudden 1 " 

" What if it is 1 is n't the man mine ? " 

" We would be willing, sir, to increase the rate of conipen* 

" No object at all, sir. I don't need to hire any of my 
hands out, unless I 've a mind to." 

" But, sir, he seems peculiarly adapted to this business." 

" Dare say he may be ; never was much adapted to any- 
thing that I set him about, I '11 be bound." 

" But only think of his inventing this machine," interposed 
one of the workmen, rather unluckily. 

" yes ! a machine for saving work, is it 1 ? He 'd invent 
that, I '11 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 irre- 
sistible. He folded his arms, tightly pressed in his lips, but a 
whole volcano of bitter feelings burned in his bosom, and sent 
streams of fire through his veins. He breathed short, and his 
large dark eyes flashed like live coals ; and he might have 
broken out into some dangerous ebullition, had not the kindly 
manufacturer touched him on the arm, and said, in a low tone, 

" Give way, George ; go with him for the present. We '11 
try to help you, yet." 

The tyrant observed the whisper, and conjectured its import, 
though he could not hear what was said ; and he inwardly 



strengthened himself in his determination to keep the power 
he possessed over his victim. 

George was taken home, and put to the meanest drudgery of 
the farm. He had been able to repress every disrespectful 
word ; but the flashing eye, the gloomy and troubled brow, 
were part of a natural language that could not be repressed, 
indubitable signs, which showed too plainly that the man could 
not become a thing. 

It was during the happy period of his employment in the 
factory that George had seen and married his wife. During 
that period, being much trusted and favored by his employer, 
he had free liberty to come and go at discretion. The mar- 
riage 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 mis 
tress's 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's 
indulgence and liberality. For a year or two Eliza saw her 
husband frequently, and there was nothing to interrupt their 
happiness, except the loss of two infant children, to whom she 
was passionately attached, and whom she mourned with a grief 
so intense as to call for gentle remonstrance from her mistress, 
who sought, with maternal anxiety, to direct her naturally pas- 
sionate feelings within the bounds of reason and religion. 

After the birth of little Harry, however, she had gradually 
become tranquillized and settled ; and every bleeding tie and 
throbbing nerve, once more entwined with that little life, 
seemed to become sound and healthful, 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 need n't trouble yourself to talk any longer," said he, 
doggedly ; " I know my own business, sir." 

" I did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I only thought 
that you might think it for your interest to let your man to ui 
on the terms proposed." 

" 0, I understand the matter well enough. I sa.w your 
winking and whispering, the day I took him out of the fac- 
tory ; but you don't come it over mo that way. It 's 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 
life of toil and drudgery, rendered more bitter by every little 
smarting vexation and indignity which tyrannical ingenuity 
could devise. 

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




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

" George, is it you 1 How you frightened me ! Well ; I am 
so glad you 's come ! Missis is gone to spend the afternoon ; 
BO come into my little room, and we '11 have the time all to 

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

" How glad I am ! -- why don't you smile 1 and look at 
Harry, --how lie grows." The boy stood shyly regarding his 
father through his curls, holding close to the skirts of his 
mother's dress. " Is n't he beautiful 1 " said Eliza, lifting his 
long curls and kissing him. 

" I wish he 'd never been born ! " said George, bitterly. " I 
wish I 'd never been born myself ! " 

Surprised and frightened, Eliza sat down, leaned her head 
on her husband's shoulder, and burst into tears. 

" There now, Eliza, it 's too bad for me to make you feel so, 
poor girl ! " said he, fondly ; " it 's too bad. 0, how I wish 
you never had seen me, you might have been happy ! " 

"George ! George ! how can you talk sol What dreadful 
thing has happened, or is going to happen 1 I 'm sure we 've 
been very happy, till lately." 

" So we have, dear," said George. Then drawing his chila 
on his knee, he gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and 
passed his hands through his long curls. 

" Just like you, Eliza ; and you are the handsomest woman 
I ever saw, and the best one I ever wish to see ; but, 0, I 
wish I 'd never seen you, nor ypu me ! " 



" 0, 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 to do 
anything, trying to know anything, trying to be anything? 
What 's the use of living 1 I wish I was dead ! " 

" 0, now, dear George, that is really wicked ! I know how 
feel about losing your place in the factory, and you have a 
hard master ; but pray be patient, and perhaps something - 

" Patient ! " said he, interrupting her ; " haven't I been pa- 
tient? Did I say a word when he came and took me away, 


for no earthly reason, from the place where everybody was 
kind to me 1 I 'd paid him truly every jent of my earnings, 

and they all say I worked well." 

" Well, it is dreadful," said Eliza ; " but, after all, he is your 
master, you know." 

"My master! and who made him my master 1 ? That's 
what I think of, --what right has he to me? I 'm a man as 
much as he is. I 'm a better man than he is. I know more 
about business than he does ; I am a better manager than he is ; 
I can read better than he can ; I can write a better hand, - 
uad 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 1 to take me from things I can do, and 
do better than he can, and put me to Avork that any horse can. 
do 1 He tries to do it ; he says he '11 bring me down and 
uumble me, and he puts me to just the hardest, meanest, and 
dirtiest work, on purpose ! " 

" O, George ! George ! you frighten me ! Why, I never 
heard you talk so ; I 'm afraid you '11 do something dreadful. 
I don't wonder at your feelings, at all ; but 0, do be careful 

do, do for my sake, for Harry's ! " 

" I have been careful, and I have been patient, but it 's 
growing worse and worse ; flesh and blood can't bear it any 
longer ; every chance he can get to insult and torment me, 
he takes. I thought I could do my work well, and keep on 
quiet, and have some time to read and learn out of work 
hours ; but the more he sees I can do, the more he loads on. 
He says that though I don't say anything, he sees I 've got the 
devil in me, and he means to bring it out ; and one of these 
days it will come out in a way that he won't like, or I 'm mis- 
taken ! " 

" dear ! what shall we do 1 " said Eliza, mournfully. 

" It was only yesterday," said George, " as I was busy load- 
ing stones into a cart, that young Mas'rTom stood there, slash- 
ing his whip so near the horse that the creature was frightened 
I asked him to stop, as pleasant as I could, he just kept 
right on. I begged him again, and then he turned on me, and 
began striking me. I held his hand, and then he screamed 
and kicked and ran to his father, and told him that I was 
fighting him. He came 'in a rage, and said he 'd teach me 
who was my master ; and he tied me to a tree, and cut switches 
for young master, and told him that he might whip me till he 


was tired ; and he did do it ! If I don't make him rememher 
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 J 
want to know ! " he said. 

"Well," said Eliza, mournfully, "I always thought that I 
must obey my master and mistress, or I could n't be a Chris- 

" There is some sense in it, in your case ; they have brought 
you up like a child, fed you, clothed you, indulged you, and 
taught you, so that you have a good education ; that is some 
reason why they should claim you. But I have been kicked 
and cuffed and sworn at, and at the best only let alone ; and 
what do I owe? I've paid for all my keeping a hundred times 
over. I won't bear it. No, I won't ! " he said, clenching his 
hand with a fierce frown. 

Eliza trembled, and was silent. She had never seen her 
husband in this mood before ; and her gentle system of ethics 
seemed to bend like a reed in the surges of such passions. 

" You know poor little Carlo, that you gave me," added 
George ; " the creature has been about all the comfort that 
I 've had. He has slept with me nights, and followed me 
around days, and kind o' looked at me as if he understood how 
I felt. Well, the other day I was just feeding him with a few 
old scraps I picked up by the kitchen door, and Mas'r came 
along, and said I was feeding him up at his expense, and that 
he could n't afford to have every nigger keeping his dog, and 
ordered me to tie a stone to his neck and throw him in the 

" 0, George, you did n't do it ! " 

" Do it ] not I ! but he did. Mas'r and Tom pelted the 
poor drowning creature with stones. Poor thing ! he looked 
at me so mournful, as if he wondered why I didn't save him. 
I had to take a flogging because I would n't do it myself. I 
don't care. Mas'r will find out that I 'm one that whipping 
won't tame. My day will come yet, if he don't look out." 

" What are you going to do ? 0, George, don't do anything 
wicked ; if you only trust in God, and try to do right, he 'll 
deliver you." 

" I an't a Christian like you, Eliza ; my heart 's full of bit- 
terness ; I can't trust in God. Why does he let things be so ? " 

" 0, George, we must have faith. Mistress says that when 



all things go wrong to us, we must believe that God is doing 
'die very best." 

" That 's easy to say for people that are sitting on their sofas 
and riding in their carriages ; but let 'em be where I am, I 
guess it would come some harder. I wish I could be good ; 
but my heart burns, and can't be reconciled, anyhow. You 

could n't, in my place. you can't now, if I tell you all I 've 
got to say. You don't know the whole yet." 

" What can be coming now 1 " 

" 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 all his 
tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above 
him, and that I 've got proud notions from you ; and he says 
he won't let me come here any more, and that I shall take a 
wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded 
and grumbled these things ; but yesterday he told me 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 minister, as 
much as if you 'd been a white man ! " said Eliza, simply. 

" Don't you know a slave can't be married 1 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 bet- 
ter for us both, it would have been better for this poor child 
if he had never been born. All tliis may happen to him yet. 1 " 


" 0, but master is so kind ! " 

" Yes, but who knows 1 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 t 
sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasai i: 
thing your child is or has ; it will make him worth too much 
for you to keep ! " 

The words smote heavily on Eliza's heart ; the vision of the 
trader came before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck her 
a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She 
looked nervously out on the 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 an't true. Missis never de- 
ceives us." 

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

" Going, George ! Going where 1 " 

" To Canada," said he, straightening himself up ; " and when 
I 'rn there, I '11 buy you ; that 's all the hope that 's left us. 
You have a kind master, that won't refuse to sell you. I '11 
buy you and the boy ; God helping me, I will ! " 

" O, dreadful ! if you should be taken ] " 

" I won't be taken, Eliza ; I '11 die first ! I '11 be free, or 
I '11 die ! " 

" You won't kill yourself! " 

" 'Jo need of that. They will kill me, fast enough ; they 
never will get me down the river alive ! " 

" 0, George, for my sake, do be careful ! Don't do anything 
wicked ; don't lay hands on yourself, or anybody else. You 
are tempted too much too much ; but don't go you must 
- but go carefully, prudently ; pray God to help you." 

" Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas'r took it into his 
head to send me right by here, with a note to Mr. Symrnes, 
that lives a mile past. I believe he expected I should come 
here to tell you what I have. It would please him if he 
thought it would aggravate ' Shelby's folks,' as he calls 'em. 
I 'm going home quite resigned, you understand, as if all was 
over. I 've got some preparations made, and there are those 


that will help me ; and, in the course of a week or so, I shall 
be among the missing, some day. Pray for me, Eliza ; perhaps 
the good Lord will hear you" 

" 0, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in him ; then 
you won't do anything wicked." 

" Well, now, good by" said George, holding Eliza's hands, 
and gazing into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent ; 
then there were last words, and sobs, and bitter weeping, such 
parting as those may make whose hope to meet again is as the 
spider's web, and the husband and wife were parted. 





)HE cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, 
close adjoining to " the house," as the negro par 
excellence designates his master's dwelling. In 
front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every 
summer, strawberries, raspberries, and a variety 
of fruits and vegetables nourished under careful tending. The 
whole front of it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia and a 
native multiflora rose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left 
scarce a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in 
summer, various brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, 
four-o'clocks, found an indulgent corner in which to unfold 
their splendors, and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe's 

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house 
is over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as 
head cook, has left to inferior officers in the kitchen the busi- 
ness of clearing away and washing dishes, and come out into 
her own snug territories, to " get her ole man's supper " ; there- 
fore, doubt not that it is she you see by the fire, presiding with 
anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a stewpan, and 
anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, 
from whence steam forth indubitable intimations of " something 
good." A round, black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to 
suggest the idea that she might have been washed over with 
white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her whole plump 
countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from 
under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, 
if we must confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness 
which becomes the first cook of the 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 a chicken or turkey or duck in the barnyard 


but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and seemed 
evidently to be reflecting on their latter end ; and certain it 
was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing, and 
roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in 
any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties 
of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous 
to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised corn- 
pounders ; 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 

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

Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the 
bake-pan ; in which congenial operation we shall leave her till 
we finish our 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 carpeting, of some 
considerable size. On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took 
her stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks of life ; and 
it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact, 
were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, so far 
as possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations 
of little folks. In fact, that corner was the drawing-room of 
the establishment. In the other corner was a bed of much 
humbler pretensions, and evidently designed for use. The 
wall over the fireplace 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 a rough 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 operations of the baby, 
which, as is usually the case, consisted in getting up on its feet, 
balancing a moment, and then tumbling down, each sue- 
cessive failure being violently cheered, as something decidedly 

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out in 
front of the fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and 



saucers of a decidedly brilliant pattern, with other symptoms 
of an approaching meal. At this table was seated Uncle Tom, 
Mr. Shelby's best hand, who, as he is to be the hero of our 
story, we must daguerreotype for our readers. He was a large, 
broad-chested, powerfully made man, of a full glossy 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 hia 
whole air self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a con- 
fiding 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 q, you see." 

"La sakes, now, does it 1 ?" said Uncle Tom, looking with 
a respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly 
scrawled q's and g's innumerable for his edification ; and then, 
taking the pencil in his big, heavy fingers, he patiently re- 

" How easy white folks al'us does things ! " said Aunt Chloe, 
pausing while she Avas greasing a griddle Avith a scrap of bacon 
on her fork, and regarding young Master George with pride. 
" The way he can write, now ! and read, too ! and then to come 
out here evenings and read his lessons to us, --it's mighty 
interestin' ! " 

" But, Aunt Chloe, I 'm getting mighty hungry," said 
George. " Is n't that cake in the skillet almost done ] " 

" Mose done, Mas'r George," said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid 
and peeping in, " browning beautiful, a real lovely brown. 
Ah ! let me alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some 
cake, t' other day, jes to lam her, she said. ' 0, 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 green- 
ness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the hake-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 entertainment, 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 '11 give her baby somefin, 
by and by. Now, Mas'r George, you jest take off dem books, 
and set down now with my old man, and I '11 take up de sau- 
sages, 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 

" So you did, so you did, honey," said Aunt Chloe, heap- 
ing 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 Mas'r George, when the activity 
of the griddle department had somewhat subsided ; and, with 
that, the youngster nourished a large knife over the article in 

" La bless you, Mas'r George ! " said Aunt Chloe, with 
earnestness, catching his arm, " you would u't be for cuttin' il 
wid dat ar great heavy knife ! Smash all down, spile all de 
pretty rise of it. Here, I 've got a thin old knife, I keeps 
sharp a purpose. Dar now, see ! comes apart light as a feather ! 
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 is a better cook than you." 

" Dem Lincons an't much 'count, no way ! " said Aunt Chloe, 
contemptuously ; " I mean, set alongside our folks. They 'a 
'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 ! 0, 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 '11 do ; make a good pone o' 
bread, bile her taters far, --her corn cakes is n't extra, not 
extra now, Jinny's corn cakes is n't, but then they 's far, but, 
Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she do 1 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 
should n't sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies 
like dem ar. Why, dey warn't no 'count 't all." 

" I suppose Jinny thought tney were ever so nice," said 

" Thought so ! did n't she 1 Thar she was, showing 'em 
AS innocent, ye see, it 's jest here, Jinny dont know. Lor, 
the family an't nothing ! She can't be spected to know I 


'T an't no fault o' hern. Ah, Mas'r George, you does n't kuoxs 
halt' your privileges in yer family and bringin' up ! " Here 
Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion. 

" I 'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and pud- 
ding privileges," said George. " Ask Tom Lincon if I 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 Mas'r's, laugh- 
ing till the tears rolled down her black, shining cheeks, and 
varying the exercise with playfully slapping and poking Mas'r 
Georgey, and telling him to go way, and that he was a case, - 
that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill her, 
one of these days ; and, between each of these sanguinary pre- 
dictions, going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than 
the other, till George really began to think that he was a very 
dangerously witty fellow, and that it became him to be careful 
how he talked " as funny as he i3ould." 

" And so ye telled Tom, did ye ? 0, Lor ! what young uns 
will be up ter ! Ye crowed over Tom ? 0, Lor ! Mas'r George, 
if ye would n't make a hornbug laugh ! " 

" Yes," said George, " I says to him, ' Tom, you ought to 
see some of Aunt Chloe's pies ; they 're the right sort,' says I." 
" Pity, now, Tom could n'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, some o' these times, Mas'r George," she added ; " it 
would look quite pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas'r George, ye 
oughtenter feel 'bove nobody, on 'count yer 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 '11 
make 5 him stare. Won't we make him eat so he won't get over 
it for a fortnight 1 " 

" Yes, yes, sartin," said Aunt Chloe, delighted ; " yon Tl 
see. Lor ! to think of some of our dinners ! Yer mind dat 
ar great chicken-pie I made when we guv de dinner to General 
Knox 1 I and Missis, we come pretty near quarrelling 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 tak<m up, dey takes dat ar time to be hangin' round and 


kinder interferin' ! Now, Missis, she wanted me to do clis 
way, and she wanted me to do dat way ; and, tinally, I got 
kinder sarcy, and, says I, ' Now, Missis, do jist look at dem 
beautiful white hands o' yourn, with long lingers, 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 1 ? Dar ! 1 was jist so sarcy, 
Mas'r George." 

" And what did mother say 1 " said George. 

"Say 1 ? why, she kinder larfed in her eyes, dem great 
handsome eyes o' hern ; and, says she, ' Well, Aunt Chloe, I 
think you are about in the right on 't,' says she ; and she went 
off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over de head for 
bein' so sarcy ; but dar 's whar 't is, -- I can't do nothin' with 
ladies in de kitchen ! " 

" Well, you made out well with that dinner, I remember 
everybody said so," said George. 

"Did n't I 1 ? And wan't I behind de dinin'-room door dat 
bery day 1 and did n't I see de General pass his plate three 
times for some more dat bery pie 1 and, says he, ' You must 
have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby.' Lor ! I was lit to split 

" 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 fastest 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 
't an't everybody knows what they is, or orter be. But the 
Gineral, he knows ; I knew by his 'marks he made. Yes, he 
knows what de pints is ! " 

By this time, Master George had arrived at that pass to 
which even a boy can come (under uncommon circumstances), 
when he really could not eat another morsel, and, therefore, 
he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads and glisten- 
ing eyes which were regarding their operations hungrily from 
the opposite corner. 

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

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the 
chimney-corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile 


of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and began alternately fill- 
ing its mouth and her own, and distributing to Mose and Pete, 
who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs as they rolled about 
on the floor under the table, tickling each other, and occasion- 
ally pulling the baby's toes. 

" O, go long, will ye 1 " said the mother, giving now and then 
a kick, in a kind of general way, under the table, when the 
movement became too obstreperous. "Can't ye be decent 
when white folks comes to see ye 1 Stop dat ar, now, will ye ? 
Better mind yerselves, or I '11 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 indistinctness 
seemed to produce very little impression on the young sinners 

" La, 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 '11 all stick together, and never get clar, if 
ye do dat fashion. Go long to de spring and wash yerselves ! " 
she said, seconding her exhortations by a slap, which resounded 
very formidably, but which seemed only to knock out so much 
more laugh from the young ones, as they tumbled precipitately 
over each other out of doors, where they fairly screamed with 

" Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns 1 " said Aunt 
Chloe, rather complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept 
for such emergencies, she poured a little water out of the 
cracked teapot on it, and began rubbing off the molasses from 
the baby's face and hands ; and, having polished her till she 
shone, she set her down in Tom's lap, while she busied herself 
in clearing away supper. The baby employed the intervals ir. 
pulling Tom's nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat 
hands in his woolly hair, which last operation seemed to afford 
her special content. 

" An'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 Mas'r George snapped at her with his pocket-handker 


chief, and Mose and Pete, now returned again, roared after hei 
like bears, till Aunt Chloe declared that they " fairly took her 
head off" with their noise. As, according to her own state- 
ment, this surgical operation was a matter of daily occurrence 
in the cabin, the declaration no whit abated the merriment, till 
every one had roared and tumbled and danced themselves down 
to a state of composure. 

" Well, now, I hopes you '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'." 

" mother, we don't wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin', 
meetin' s is so curis. We likes "em." 

"La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let 'em sit up," said 
Mas'r George, decisively, giving a push to the rude machine. 

Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed highly 
delighted 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 

" AVhat we 's to do for cheers, now, 7 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 encouragement to hope that 
% way would be discovered at present. 

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

" You go long ! I '11 boun' you pulled 'em out ; some o' your 
shines,'' said Aunt Chloe. 

" Well, it '11 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 tone? 
of the old man, tumbling on the floor, to illustrate the supposed 

" Come now, be decent, can't ye]" said Aunt Chloe ; "an't 
yer shamed 1 " 


Mas'r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and 
declared decidedly that Mose was a " buster." So the maternal 
admonition seemed rather to fail of effect. 

" Well, ole man," said Aunt Chloe, " you '11 have to tote in 
them ar bar'ls." 

" Mother's bar'ls is like dat ar widder's, Mas'r George was 
reading 'bout, in de good book, dey never fails," said Mose, 
aside to Pete. 

" I 'm sure one on 'em caved in last week," said Pete, " and 
let 'em all down in de middle of de singin' ; dat ar was failin', 
warn't it 1 " 

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 Avere laid across them, which 
arrangement, together with the turning down of certain tubs 
and pails, and the disposing of the rickety chairs, at last com- 
pleted the preparation. 

" Mas'r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know he '11 
stay to read for us," said Aunt Chloe ; " 'pears like 't 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 mctley assemblage, from tho 
old gray-headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl and lad 
of fifteen. A little harmless gossip ensued on various themes, 
such as where old Aunt Sally got her new red head-kerchief, 
and how " Missis was a going to give Lizzy that spotted mus- 
lin gown, when she 'd got her new berage made up " ; and how 
Mas'r Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt, that 
was going to prove an addition to the glories of the place. A 
few of the worshippers belonged to families hard by, who had 
got permission to attend, and who brought in various choice 
scraps of information, about the sayings and doings at the 
house and 011 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 delight 
of all present. Not even all the disadvantage of nasal intona- 
tion could prevent the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs 
at once wild and spirited. The words were sometimes the 
well-known and common hymns sung in the churches about, 
and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character, picked up 
at camp-meetings. 


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

" Die on the field of battle, 
Die on the field of battle, 
Glory in my soul." 

Another special favorite had oft repeated the words, 

" O, I 'in 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 " Jor- 
dan's banks," and " Canaan's fields," and the " New Jerusa- 
lem" ; for the negro mind, impassioned and imaginative, al- 
ways 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'eu ! Well, I 'm mighty glad to hear ye all and 
see ye all once more, 'cause I don't know when I '11 be gone to 
glory ; but I 've done got ready, cbil'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, 
chiPen," she said, striking her staff hard on the floor, " dat ar 
ylory is a mighty thing! It's a mighty thing, chil'en, you 
don'no nothing about it, it 's ivonderful. 1 ' 1 And the old crea- 
ture sat down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while 
the whole circle struck up, 

" 0, Canaan, bright Canaan, 
I 'm bound for the land of Canaan." 

Mas'r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revela- 
tion, often interrupted by such exclamations as " The sakes 
now ! " " Only hear that ! " " Jest think on 't ! " " Is all 

that a comin' sure enough 


George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious 
things by his mother, finding himself an object of general ad- 
miration, 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 could n't lay it off bette: 
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 com- 
panions, 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 childlike 
earnestness of his prayer, enriched with the language of Scrip- 
ture, 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 so much did his prayer always 
work on the devotional feelings of his audiences, that there 
seemed often a danger that it would be lost altogether in the 
abundance of the responses which broke out everywhere around 

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 din- 
ing-room aforenamed, at a table covered with papers and writ- 
ing utensils. 

Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bills, 
which, as they were counted, he pushed over to the trader, who 
counted them likewise. 

" All fair," said the trader ; " and now for signing these yer." 

Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale towards him, anc 
signed them, like a man that hurries over some disagreeable 
business, and then pushed them over with the money. Haley 
produced, from a well-worn valise, a parchment, which, after 
looking over it a moment, he handed to Mr. Shelby, who took 
it with a gesture of suppressed eagerness. 


" Wai, now, the thing 's done ! " said the trader, getting xip. 

" It 's done ! " said Mr. Shelby, in a musing tone ; and, 
fetching a long breath, he repeated, " It 's done ! " 

" Yer don't seem to feel much pleased with it, 'pears to mo," 
said the trader. 

" Haley," said Mr. Shelby, " I hope you '11 remember that 
you promised, on your honor, you would n't sell Tom, without 
knowing what sort of hands he's going into." 

" Why, you 've just done it, sir," said the trader. 

" Circumstances, you well know, obliged me," said Shelby,' 

" Wai, you know, they may 'blige me, too," said the trader. 
" Howsomever, I '11 do the very best I can in gettin' Tom a 
good berth ; as to my treatin' on him bad, you need n't be a 
grain afeard. If there 's anything that I thank the Lord for, it 
is that I 'ru never noways cruel." 

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





'R. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment 
for the night. He was lounging in a large easy- 
! ' chair, looking over some letters that had come in 
the afternoon mail, and she was standing before 
her mirror, brushing out the complicated braids 
and curls in which Eliza had arranged her hair ; for, noticing 
her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused her attend- 
ance that night, and ordered her to bed. The employment, nat- 
urally enough, suggested her conversation with the girl in the 
morning ; and, turning to her husband, she said, carelessly, 

" By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you 
lugged in to our dinner-table to-day 1 " 

"Haley is his name," said Shelby, turning himself rather 
uneasily in his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a 

" Haley ! Who is he, and what may be his business here, 
pray 7 " 

"Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with, 
last time I was at Natchez," said Mr. Shelby. 

" And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, 
and call and dine here, ay ] " 

" Why, I invited him ; I had some accounts with him," said 

" Is he a negro-trader 1 " 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 talking 
with a trader, and that she heard him make an offer for her 
boy, the ridiculous little goose ! " 

4< She did, hey 1 " said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper, 



which he seemed for a few moments quite Intent upon, not 
perceiving that he was holding it bottom upwards. 

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

" I told Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing 
her hair, " that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you 
never had anything to do with that sort of persons. Of course, 
I knew you never meant to sell any of our people, --least of 
all, to such a fellow." 

" Well, Emily," said her husband, " so I have always felt 
and said ; but the fact is that my business lies so that I cannot 
get on without. I shall have to sell some of niy hands." 

" To that creature ] Impossible ! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be 

" I 'in sorry to say that I am," said Mr. Shelby. " I 've 
agreed to sell Tom." 


" What ! our Tom ? that good, faithful creature ! been 
your faithful servant from a boy ! 0, Mr. Shelby ! and you 
have promised him his freedom, too, you and I have spoken 
to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can believe anything 
now, - - 1 can believe now that you could sell little Harry, poor 
Eliza's only child ! " said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between grief 
and indignation. 

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

" But why, of all others, choose these 1 " said Mrs. Shelby. 
" Why sell them, of all on the place, if you must sell at all 1 " 

" 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 did n't listen to it, a moment, out of regard to 
your feelings, I would n't ; so give me some credit." 

" My dear," said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, " forgive 
ine. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unpre- 
pared for this ; but surely you will allow me to intercede for 
these poor creatures. Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow, 
if he is black. I do believe, Mr. Shelby, that if he were put 
to it, he would lay down his life for you." 

' ( I know it, -- I dare say ; but what 's the use of all this 1 
I can't help myself." 

" Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice 1 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 creatures. I have 
cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and known 
all their little cares and joys, for years ; and how can I ever 
hold up my head again among them, if, for the sake of a little 
paltry gain, we sell such a faithful, excellent, confiding creature 
as poor Tom, and tear from him in a moment all we have 
taught him to love and value 1 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, compared 
with money 1 I have talked with Eliza about her boy, her 


duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch over him, pray 
for him, and bring him up in a Christian way ; and now what 
can I say, if you tear him away, and sell him, soul and body, 
to a profane, unprincipled man, just to save a little money 1 ? 1 
have told her that one soul is Avorth more than all the money 
in the world ; and how will she believe me when she sees us 
turn round and sell her child 1 sell him, perhaps, to certain 
ruin of body and soul ! " 

"I'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily, -- indeed I am," 
said Mr. Shelby ; " and I respect your 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 did n't 
mean to tell you this, Emily ; but, in plain words, there is no 
choice between selling these two and selling everything. Either 
they must go, or all must. Haley has come into possession of 
a mortgage, which, if I don't clear off Avith him directly, will 
take everything before it. I Ve raked, and scraped, and bor- 
rowed, and all but begged, and the price of these two was 
needed to make up the balance, and I had to give them up. 
Haley fancied the child ; he agreed to settle the matter that 
way, and no other. I was in his power, and had to do it. If 
you feel so to have them sold, Avould it be any better to have 
all sold 1 " 

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

" This is God's curse on slavery ! a bitter, bitter, most 
accursed thing ! a curse to the master and a curse to the 
slave ! I was a fool to think I could make anything good out 
of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under laws 
like ours, -- I always felt it was, I always thought so Avhen 
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 AVHS ! " 

" Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite." 

" Abolitionist ! if they knew all I know about slavery they 
might talk ! We don't need them to tell us ; you know I never 
thought that slavery Avas right, never felt willing to own 

" Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men," 
said Mr. Shelby. " You remember Mr. B.'s sermon, the other 


" I don't want to hear such sermons ; 1 never wish to heat 
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 did n't think much of that sermon, either." 

" Well," said Shelby, " I must say these ministers sometimes 
carry matters further than we poor sinners would exactly dare 
to do. We men of the world must wink pretty hard at variour 
things, and get used to a deal that is n'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." 

" yes, yes ! " said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstractedly 
fingering her gold watch, "I have n't any jewelry of any 
amount," she added, thoughtfully ; "but would not this watch 
do something 1 it was an expensive one when it was bought. 
If I could only at least save Eliza's child, I would sacrifice any- 
thing I have." 

" I 'm sorry, very sorry, Emily," said Mr. Shelby, " I 'm 
sorry this takes hold of you so ; but it will do no good. The 
fact is, Emily, the thing's done ; the bills of sale are already 
signed, and in Haley's hands ; and you must be thankful it is 
no worse. That man has had it in his power to ruin us all, 
and now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as I do, you 'd 
think that we had had a narrow escape." 

" Is he so hard, then 1 " 

" Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather, a 
man alive to nothing but trade and profit, cool, and unhesi- 
tating, 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 ElizaV 
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 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 Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she is out of 


" No, no," said Mrs. Shelby ; " I '11 be in no sense accom- 
plice or help in this cruel business. I '11 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 1 " 

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

Communicatiiig with their apartment was a large closet, open- 
ing 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 her- 
self 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 soft and timid 
creature she had been hitherto. She moved cautiously along 
the entry, paused one moment at her mistress's door, and raised 
her hands in mute appeal to Heaven, and then turned and 
glided into her own room. It was a quiet, neat apartment, on 
the same floor with her mistress. There was the pleasant sunny 
window, where she had often sat singing at her sewing ; there 
a little case of books, and various little fancy articles, ranged 
by them, the gifts of Christmas holidays ; there was her simple 
wardrobe in the closet and in the drawers : here was, in short, 
her home ; and, on the whole, a happy one it had been to her. 
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 bedclothes, 
and a smile spread like a sunbeam over his whole face. 

" Poor boy ! poor fellow ! " said Eliza ; " they have sold you ! 
but your mother will save you yet ! " 

No tear dropped over that pillow ; in such straits as these 
the heart has no tears to give, it drops only blood, bleeding 
itself away in silence. She took a piece of paper and a pencil, 
and wrote hastily, - 

" O, Missis ! dear Missis ! don't think me ungrateful, don't 
think hard of me, any way, I heard all you and master said 
to-night. I am going to try to save my boy, you will not 
blame me! God bless and reward you for all your kind- 
ness ! " 



Hastily folding and directing this, she weut to a drawer and 
made up a little package of clothing for her boy, which she 
bied with a handkerchief firmly round her waist ; and, so fond 
is a mother's remembrance, that, even in the terrors of that hour, 
she did not forget to put in the little package one or two of his 

favorite toys, reserving a gayly 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 his 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 mat- 

" Hush, Harry," she said ; " must n'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 

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 a sparkling, frosty, starlight night, and the mother 


wrapped the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet with 
vague terror, he clung round her neck. 

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end of 
the porch, rose, with a low growl, as she came near. She 
gently spoke his name, and the animal, an old pet and play- 
mate of hers, instantly, wagging his tail, prepared to follow 
her, though apparently revolving much, in his simple dog's 
head, what such an indiscreet midnight promenade might 
mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence or impropriety in the 
measure seemed to embarrass him considerably ; for he often 
stopped, as Eliza glided forward, and looked wistfully, first at 
her and then at the house, and then, as if reassured by reflec- 
tion, he pattered along after her again. A few minutes brought 
them to the window of Uncle Tom's cottage, and Eliza, stop- 
ping, tapped lightly on the window-pane. 

The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom's had, in the order of 
hymn-singing, been protracted to a very late hour ; and, as 
Uncle Tom had indulged himself in a few lengthy solos after- 
wards, the consequence was, that, although it was now between 
twelve and one o'clock, he and his worthy helpmeet were not 
yet asleep. 

"Good Lord! what's that?" said Aunt Chloe, starting up 
and hastily drawing the curtain. " My sakes alive, if it an't 
Lizy ! Get on your clothes, old man, quick ! there 's old 
Bruno, too, a pawin' round ; what on airth ! I 'm gwine to 
open the door." 

And, suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and 
the light of the tallow candle, which Tom had hastily lighted, 
fell on the haggard face and dark, Avild 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 1 " 

"I'm running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe, car- 
rying off my child, Master sold him ! " 

" Sold him 1 " echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay. 

"Yes, sold him!" said Eliza, h'rmly ; "I crept into the 
closet by Mistress's door to-night, and I heard Master tell 
Missis that he had sold my Harry, and you, Uncle Tom, both, 
to a trader ; and that he was going off this morning on his 
horse, and that the man was to take possession to-day." 

Tom had stood, during this speech, Avith his hands raised, 
and his eyes dilated, like a man in a dream. Slowly and 
gradually, as its meaning came over him, he collapsed, rather 




than seated himself, on his old chair, and sunk his head down 
upon his knees. 

" The good Lord have pity on us ! " said Aunt Chloe. " 0, 
it don't seein as if it was true ! What has he done, that Mas'r 
should sell him ? " 

"He hasn't done anything, it isn't for that. Master 
don't want to sell ; and Missis, 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 that if he did n't pay him off clear, it 
would end in his having to sell the place and all the people, 
and move off. Yes, I heard him say there was no choice 
between selling these two and selling all, the man was driving 
him so hard. Master said he was sorry ; but 0, Missis, - 
you ought to have heard her talk ! If she an't a Christian 
and an angel, there never was one. I 'm a wicked girl to 
leave her so ; but, then, I can't help it. She said, herself, one 
soul was worth more than the world ; and this boy has a sou), 
and if I let him be carried off, who knows what '11 become of 
it 1 ? It must be right; but, if it an't right, the Lord forgive 
me, for I can't help doing it ! " 

" Well, old man ! " said Aunt Chloe, " why don't you go, 
too 1 Will you wait to be toted down river, where they kill 
niggers with hard work and starving 1 I 'd 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 Jime. Come, 
bustle up, and I '11 get your things together." 

Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but 
quietly around, and said. 

"]X T o, no, I an't going. Let Eliza go, it's her right! 
I would n't be the one to say no, - - 't an'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. I s'pose I can b'ar it as well as any on 'em," he 
added, while something like a sob and a sigh shook his broad, 
rough chest convulsively. "Mas'r always found me on the 
spot, he always will. I never have broke trust, nor used 
my pass no ways contrary to my word, and 1 never will. It 's 
better for me alone to go, than to break up the place and sell 
all. Mas'r an't to blame, Chloe, and he '11 take care of you 
and the poor- 

Here he turned to the rough trundle-bed full of little woolly 


heads, and broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of 
the chair, and covered his face with his large hands. Sobs, 
heavy, hoarse, and loud, shook the chair, and great tears fell 
through his lingers on the floor : just such tears, sir, as you 
dropped into the coffin where lay your hrst-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 silk 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 to run 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 must n't go with me ! " 

A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and bless- 
ings, and, clasping her wondering and affrighted child ut he* 
arms, she glided noiselessly away. 




R. and Mrs. Shelby, after their protracted dis- ' 
cussion of the night before, did not readily sink 
to repose, and, in consequence, slept somewhat 
later than usual, the ensuing morning. 

" I wonder what keeps Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, 
after giving her bell repeated pulls, to no purpose. 

Mr. Shelby was standing before his dressing-glass, sharpen- 
ing his razor ; and just then the door opened, and a colored 
boy entered, with his shaving-water. 

" Andy," said his mistress, " step to Eliza's door, and tell her 
I have rung for her three times. Poor thing ! " she added to 
herself, with a sigh. 

Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonishment. 

" Lor, Missis ! 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 something 
pretty awkward for me, if she is. Haley saw that I hesitated 
about selling this child, and he '11 think I connived at it, to 
get him out of the way. It touches my honor ! " And Mr. 
.Shelby left the room hastily. 

There was great running and ejaculating, and opening and 
shutting of doors, and appearance of faces in all shades of color 
In different places, for about a quarter of an hour. One person 
only, who might have shed some light on the matter, was 
entirely silent, and that was the head cook, Aunt Chloe. 
Silently, and with a heavy cloud settled down over her once 
joyous face, she proceeded making out her breakfast biscuits, 
as if she heard and saw nothing of the excitement around her. 



Very soon, about a dozen young imps were roosting, like so 
many crows, on the veranda railings, each one determined to 
be the first one to apprize the strange Mas'r of his ill luck. 

" He '11 be rael mad, I '11 be bound," said Andy. 

" Won't he swar ! " said little black Jake. 

" Yes, for he does swar," said woolly-headed Mandy. " I 
hearn him yesterday, at dinner. I hearn all about it then, 
'cause I got into the closet where Missis keeps the great jugs, 
and I hearn every word." And Mandy, who had never in her 
life thought of the meaning of a word she had heard, more 
than a black cat, now took airs of superior wisdom, and strutted 
about, forgetting to state that, though actually coiled up among 
the jugs at the time specified, she had been fast asleep all the 

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 hope of hearing 
him " swar," which he did with a fluency and fervency which 
delighted them all amazingly, as they ducked and dodged hither 
and thither, to be out of the reach of his riding-whip ; and, all 
whooping off together, they tumbled, in a pile of immeasurable 
giggle, on the withered turf under the veranda, where they 
kicked up their heels and shouted to their full satisfaction. 

" If I had the little devils ! " muttered Haley, between his 

" But you han't got 'em, though ! " said Andy, with a tri- 
umphant flourish, and making a string of indescribable months 



at the unfortunate trader's back, when he was fairly beyond 

" I say nc w, Shelby, this yer 's a most extro'rnary business ! " 
said Haley, as he abruptly entered the parlor. " It seems tha f 
gal 's off. with her young un." 


" Mi. Haley, Mrs. Shelby is present," said Mr. Shelby. 

" I beg pardon, ma'am," said Haley, bowing slightly, with 
a still lowering brow ; " but still I say, as I said before, this 
yer 's a sing'lar report. Is it true, sir ] " 

" Sir," said Mr. Shelby, " if you wish to communicate with 
ine, 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 busi- 
ness, has taken her child in the night, and made off." 

" I did expect fair dealing in this matter, I confess," said 

" 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 answer for him." 

The trader cowered at this, and in a somewhat lower tone 
said that " it was plaguy hard on a fellow, that had made a 
fair bargain, to be gulled that way." 

"Mr. Haley," said Mr. Shelby, " if I did not think you had 
some cause for disappointment, I should not have borne from 
you the rude and unceremonious style of your entrance into 
my 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, 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 frankness, " 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 pre- 
vent her being at the breakfast-table that morning ; and, de- 
puting a very respectable mulatto woman to attend to the 
gentlemen's coffee at the sideboard, she left the room. 

" Old lady don't like your humble servant, over and above/' 
said Haley, with an uneasy effort to be very familiar. 

" I am not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with such 
freedom," said Mr. Shelby, 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, every- 
where ; and nothing was done in the house or in the field, but 
to discuss its probable results. Eliza's flight an unprece- 
dented event on the place was also a great accessory in stim- 
ulating the general excitement. 

Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being about 
three shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place, 
was revolving the matter profoundly in all its phases and bear- 
ings, with a comprehensiveness of vision and a strict lookout 
to his own personal well-being, that would have done credit to 
any white patriot in Washington. 

" It 's an ill wind dat blows nowhar, dat ar a fact," said 
Sam, sententiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons, 
and adroitly substituting a long nail in place of a missing 
suspender-button, with which effort of mechanical genius he 
seemed highly delighted. 

" Yes, it 's an ill wind blows nowhar," he repeated. " Now, 
dar, Tom 's down, - - wal, course der 's room for some nigger to 
be up, and why not dis nigger] dat 's de idee. Tom, a 
ridin' round de country, boots blacked, pass in his pocket, 
all grand as Cuffee, who but he 1 Now, why should n't 
Sam 1 ? dat's what I want to know." 

"Halloo, Sam, 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 1 " 

" You teach your granny ! " said Sam, with infinite con- 
tempt ; " knowed it a heap sight sooner than you did ; this 
nigger an't so green, now ! " 

" Well, anyhow, Mas'r wants Bill and Jerry geared right up ; 
and you and I 's 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. See if I 
don't cotch her, now ; Mas'r '11 see what Sam can do ! " 

" Ah ! but, Sam," said Andy, " you 'd better think twice ; 
for Missis don't want her cotched, and she '11 be in yer wool." 

" High ! " said Sam, opening his eyes. " How you know 


" Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin', when 
I bring in Mas'r's shaving-water. She sent me to see why 
Lizy did n'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 '11 bring him to ! I knows well enough 
how that '11 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 " ; so, stopping 
with grave consideration, he again gave a hitch to his panta- 
loons, which was his regularly organized method of assisting 
his mental perplexities. 

" Der an't no sayin' - - never 'bout no kind o' thing in dis 
yer world," he said, at last. 

Sam spoke like a philosopher, emphasizing this, as if he 
had had a large experience in different sorts of worlds, and 
therefore had come to his conclusions advisedly. 

" Now, sartin I 'd a said that Missis would a scoured the 
varsal world after Lizy," added Sam, thoughtfully. 

" So she would," said Andy ; " but can't ye 'see through a 
ladder, ye black nigger 1 ? Missis don't want dis yer Mas'i 
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 'II tell yer more 'n all," said Andy ; " I spect you 'd 
better be making tracks for dem bosses, mighty sudden, too, 
- for ] hearn Missis 'quirin' arter yer, so you 've stood 
foolin' long enough." 

Sam, upon this, began to bestir himself in real earnest, and 
after a while appeared, bearing down gloriously towards the 
house, with Bill and Jerry in a full canter, and adroitly throw- 
ing himself off before they had any idea of stopping, he brought 
them up alongside of the horse-post like a tornado. Haley's 
horse, which was a skittish young colt, winced, and bounced, 
and pulled hard at his halter. 

" Ho, ho ! " said Sam, " skeery, ar ye ? " and his black visage 
lighted up with a curious, mischievous gleam. " I '11 fix ye 
now ! " said he. 


There was a large beech-tree overshadowing the place, and 
the small, sharp, triangular beechnuts lay scattered thickly on 
the ground. With one of these in his lingers, Sam approached 
the colt, stroked and patted, and seemed apparently busy in 
soothing his agitation. On pretence of adjusting the saddle, he 
adroitly slipped under it the sharp little nut, in such a manner 
that the least weight brought upon the saddle would annoy the 
nervous sensibilities of the animal, without leaving any percep- 
tible 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, beck- 
oning to him. Sam approached with as good a determination 
to pay court as did ever suitor after a vacant place at St. James's 
or Washington. 

" Why have you been loitering so, Sam 1 I sent Andy to 
tell you to hurry." 

"Lord bless you, Missis!" said Sam, "horses won't b 
cotched all in a minnit ; they 'd done clared out way down to 
the south pasture, and the Lord knows whar ! " 

" Sam, how often must I tell you not to say ' Lord bless you, 
and the Lord knows,' and such things] It 's wicked." 

"O, Lord bless my soul! I done forgot, Missis! I won't 
eay nothing of de sort no more." 

" Why, Sam, you just have said it again." 

" Did 1 1 0, Lord ! I mean, - - I did n't go far to say it." 

" You must be careful, Sam." 

" Just let me get my breath, Missis, and I '11 start fair. I '11 
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 ! Did n't 
say dat ! " said he, suddenly catching his breath, with a ludi- 
crous flourish of apprehension, which made his mistress laugh, 
spite of herself. " Yes, Missis, I '11 look out for de bosses ! " 

"Now, Andy," said Sam, returning to his stand under the 
beech-trees, " yon see I would n't be 't all surprised if dat ar 
gen'lman's crittur should gib a fling, by and by, when he comes 


to "be a gettin' up. You know, Andy, critturs will do such 
things " ; and therewith Sam poked Andy in the side, in a 
highly suggestive manner. 

" High ! " said Andy, with an air of instant appreciation. 

"Yes, you see, Andy, Missis wants to make time, dat ar's 
clar to der most or'nary 'bserver. I jis make a little for her. 
Now, you see, get all dese yer bosses loose, caperin' permiscus 
round dis yer lot and down to de wood dar, and I spec Mas'r 
I'D 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, yes!" And Sam and Andy 
laid their heads back on their shoulders, and broke into a low. 



immoderate laugh, snapping their fingers and flourishing their 
heels with exquisite delight. 

At this instant, Haley appeared on the 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 start- 
ing apart, and standing upright, gave it a blazing air of free- 
dom and defiance, quite equal to that of any Fejee chief ; while 
the whole brim of Andy's being departed bodily, he rapped the 
crown on his head with a dexterous thump, and looked about 
well pleased, as if to say, " Who says I have n'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 untying 
the other two horses. 

The instant Haley touched the saddle, the mettlesome crea- 
ture 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 aforenamed into 
the horse's eyes, which by no means tended to allay the confu- 
sion of his nerves. So, with great vehemence, he overturned 
Sam, and, giving two or three contemptuous snorts, nourished 
his heels vigorously in the air, and was soon prancing away 
towards the lower end of the lawn, followed by Bill and Jerry, 
whom Andy had not failed to let loose, according to contract, 
speeding them off with various direful ejaculations. And now 
ensued a miscellaneous scene of confusion. Sam and Andy ran 
and shouted, dogs barked here and there, and Mike, Mose, 
Mandy, Fanny, and all the smaller specimens on the place, 
both male and female, raced, clapped hands, whooped, and 
shouted, with outrageous ofhciousness and untiring zeal. 

Haley's horse, which was a white one, and very fleet and 
spirited, appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene with 
great gusto ; and having for his coursing ground a lawn of 
nearly half a mile in extent, gently sloping down on every side 
into indefinite woodland, he appeared to take infinite delight 
in seeing how near he could allow his pursuers to approach 
him, and then, when within a hand's breadth, whisk off with a 
start and a snort, like a mischievous beast as he was, and career 
far down into some alley of the wood-lot. Nothing was fur- 
ther 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 Co3iir de Lion, which always blazed in the front 
and thickest of the battle, Sam's palm -leaf was to be seen every- 
where 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 every- 
thing 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 laughed 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 cotchecl ! " he exclaimed triumphantly. " If 't had n't 
been for me, they might a bust theirselves, all on 'em ; but I 
eotched him ! " 

" You ! " growled Haley, in no amiable mood. " If it had n't 
been for you, this never would have happened." 

"Lord bless us, Mas'r," said Sam, in a tone of the deepest 
concern, " and me that has been racin' and chasin' till the sweat 
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 believe 
you mean to kill us all clar, horses and all. Here we are all 
just ready to drop down, and the critturs all in a reek of sweat. 
Why, Mas'r won't think of startin' on now 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 

Mrs. Shelby, who, greatly to her amusement, had overheard 
this conversation from the veranda, now resolved to do her 
part. She came forward, and, courteously expressing her con- 
cern 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 Sain, rolling his eyes after 
him with unutterable meaning, proceeded gravely with the 
horses to the stable-yard. 

" Did yer see him, Andy ? did yer see him ? " said Sam, 
when he had got fairly beyond the shelter of the barn, and 
fastened the horse to a post. " 0, Lor, if it warn't as good as 
a nieetin', now, to see him a dancin' and kickiri' and swarin' at 
us. Did n't I hear him "? Swar away, ole fellow (says I to 
myself ) ; will yer have yer hoss now, or wait till you cotch 
him 1 ? (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 a killed me, if he durs' to ; and there I 
was a standin' as innercent and as humble." 

" Lor, I seed you," said Andy ; " an't you an old hoss, Sam ? " 


" Eather spects I am," said Sam ; " did yer see Missis up 
stars at the winder ? I seed her laughin'." 

" I 'm sure, I was racin' so, I did n't see nothing," said 

" Well, yer see," said Sam, proceeding gravely to wash down 
Haley's pony, " I 'se 'quired what yer may call a habit o' bob- 
servation, Andy. It 's a very 'portant habit, Andy, and I 'com- 
mend yer to be cultivatin' it, now yer young. Hist up that hind 
foot, Andy. Yer see, Andy, it 's bobservation makes all de dif- 
ference in niggers. Did n't I see which way the wind blew dis 
yer mornin' 1 Did n't I see what Missis wanted, though she 
never let on ? Dat ar 's bobservation, Andy. I spects it 's 
what you may call a faculty. Faculties is different in different 
peoples, but cultivation of 'em goes a great way." 

" I guess if I had n't helped your bobservation dis mornin', 
yer would n't have seen your way so smart," said Andy. 

" Andy," said Sam, " you 's a promisin' child, der an't no 
manner o' doubt. I think lots of yer, Andy ; and I don't feel 
no ways ashamed to take idees from you. We oughtenter 
overlook nobody, Andy, cause the smartest on us gets tripped 
up sometimes. And so, Andy, let 's go up to the house now. 
I '11 be boun' Missis '11 give us an uncommon good bite, dis yer 




is impossible to conceive of a human creature 
more wholly desolate and forlorn than Eliza, when 
she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom's cabin. 

Her husband's suffering and dangers, and the 
danger of her child, all blended in her mind, with 
a confused and stunning sense of the risk she was running, in 
leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting 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, 
as it lay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed to speak reproach- 
fully to her, and ask her whither could she go from a home like 

But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a par- 
oxysm of frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her 
boy was old enough to have walked by her side, and, in an 
indifferent case, she would only have led him by the hand ; 
but now the bare thought of putting him out of her arms made 
her shudder, and she strained him to her bosom with a convul- 
sive grasp, as she went rapidly forward. 

The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trem- 
bled at the sound ; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow 
sent the blood backward to her heart, and quickened her foot- 
steps. She wondered within herself at the strength that 
seemed to be come upon her ; for she felt the weight of her 
boy as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of fear seemed 
to increase the supernatural power that bore her on, while from 
her pale lips burst forth, in frequent ejaculations, the prayer to 
a Friend above, " Lord, help ! Lord, save me ! " 

If it were your Harry, m other, or your Willie, that were 


going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, to-morrow morn- 
ing, 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 3/0 ?/ 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 1 1 " 

" No, my darling ; sleep, if you want to." 

"But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won't let him get 

" No ! so may God help me ! " said his mother, with a paler 
cheek, and a brighter light in her large dark eyes. 

" You 're sure, an't you, mother ] " 

"Yes, sure /" said the mother, in a voice that startled her- 
self ; 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 lire and spirit to her movements ! It seemed to her 
as if strength poured into her in electric streams, from every 
gentle touch and movement of the sleeping, confiding child. 
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, pausing not, till 
reddening daylight fcrand 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 connec- 
tions, in the little village of T- , not far from the Ohio river, 
and knew the road well. To go thither, to escape across the 
Ohio river, were the first hurried outlines of her plan of escape j 
beyond that, she could only hope in God. 

When horses and vehicles began to move along the high- 



way, with that alert perception peculiar to a state of excite- 
ment, 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 quick- 
ening 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 

After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland, 
through which murmured a clear brook. As the child com- 

plained 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 littla 


package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not 
3at ; 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, -till we come to the river ! " And she 
hurried again into the road, and again constrained herself to 
walk regularly and composedly forward. 

She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was 
personally known. If she should chance to meet any who 
knew her, she reflected that the well-known kindness of the 
family would be of itself a blind to suspicion, as making it an 
unlikely supposition that she could be a 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 unsuspected. 

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 distance, the super- 
natural tension of the nervous system lessened, and she found 
herself both weary and hungry. 

The good woman, kindly and gossiping, seemed rather 
pleased than otherwise with having somebody come in to talk 
with ; and accepted, without examination, Eliza's statement, 
that she " was going on a little piece, to spend a week with 
her friends," all which she hoped in her heart might prove 
strictly true. 

An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T , by 

the Ohio river, weary and footsore, but still strong in heart. 
Her first glance was at the river, which lay, like Jordan, be- 
tween her and the Canaan of liberty on the other side. 

It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and tur- 
bulent ; 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 descending ice, which lodged, and formed a great, 
undulating raft, filling up the whole river, and extending almost 
to the Kentucky shore. 

Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this unfavorable 


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 plain- 
tive voice arrested her. 

" What is it ] " she said. 

"Isn't there any ferry or boat, that takes people over to 
B , now 1 " she said. 

" No, indeed ! " said the woman ; " the boats has stopped 


Eliza's look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, 
and she said, inquiringly, - 

" May be you 're wanting to get over 1 anybody sick ] 
Ye seem mighty anxious 1 " 

" I 've got a child that's very dangerous," said Eliza. "I 
never heard of it till last night, and I 've walked quite a piece 
to-day, in hopes to get to the ferry." 

" Well, now, that 's onlucky," said the woman, whose moth- 
erly sympathies were much aroused ; " 1 'm re'lly consarned 
for ye. Solomon ! " she called, from the window, towards a 
small back building. A man, in leather apron and very dirty 
hands, appeared at the door. 

" I say, Sol," said the woman, " is that ar man going to tote 
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 '11 be in here to sup- 
per to-night, so you 'd better set down and wait. That 's a 
sweet little fellow," added the woman, ottering him a cake. 

But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness. 

" Poor fellow ! he is n't used to walking, and I 've hurried 
him on so," said Eliza. 

" Well, take him into this room," said the woman, opening 
into a small bedroom, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza 
laid the weary boy upon it, and held his hands in hers till ht 
was fast asleep. For her there was no rest. As a fire in her 
bones, the thought of the pursuer urged her on ; and she gazed 
with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters that lay between 
her and liberty. 


Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow 
the course of her pursuers. 

Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should 
be hurried on table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often 
been seen before, that it required more than one to make a 
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 her head, and went on with every opera- 
tion in an unusually leisurely and circumstantial manner. 

For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among 
the servants generally that Missis would not be particularly 
disobliged by delay ; and it was wonderful what a number of 
counter accidents 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 for- 
mality, Aunt Chloe watching and stirring with dogged pre- 
cision, 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 could n't sit in his cheer no 
ways, but was a walkin' and stalkin' to the winders and through 
the porch." 

" Sarves him right ! " said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. " He '11 
get wus nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don't mend his 
ways. His master '11 be sending for him, and then see how 
he '11 look ! " 

" He '11 go to torment, and no mistake," said little Jake. 

" He desarves it ! " said Aunt Chloe, grimly ; " he 's broke 
a many, many, many hearts, - - 1 tell ye all ! " she said, stop- 
ping, with a fork uplifted in her hands ; " it 's like what Mas'] 1 
George reads in Eavelations, souls a callin' under the altar ! 
and a callin' on the Lord for vengeance on sich ! and by and 
by the Lord he '11 hear 'em, so he Avill ! " 

Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was lis- 
tened 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 '11 be burnt up forever, aud uo mistake ; won't ther? " 
said Andy. 

" I 'd be glad to see it, I '11 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 con- 
versation 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 
to think on 't. You oughtenter wish that ar to any human 

"We would n't to anybody but the soul-drivers," said 
Andy ; "nobody can help wishing it to them, they 's so awful 

" Don't natur herself kinder cry out on 'em ? " said Aunt 
Chloe. " Don't dey tear der suckin' baby right off his moth- 
er's breast, and sell him, and der little children as is crying 
and holding on by her clothes, don't dey pull 'em off and 
sells 'em 1 Don't dey tear wife and husband apart 1 " said 
Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, " when it 's jest takin' the very 
life on 'em 1 and all the while does they feel one bit, don't 
dey drink and smoke, and take it oncommoii easy 1 Lor', if 
the devil don't get them, what 's he good for 1 " 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." 

" It 's natur, Chloe, and natur 's strong," said Tom, " but 
the Lord's grace is stronger ; besides, you oughter think what 
an awful state a poor crittur's soul 's in that '11 do them ar 
things, you oughter thank God that you an't like him, 
Chloe. I 'm sure I 'd rather be sold, ten thousand times 
over, than to have all that ar poor crittur 's got to answer 

" So 'd I, a heap," said Jake. "Lor, should n't we cotch it, 
Andy 1 " 

Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent 

"I 'in glad Mas'r did n'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' reconciled to the 
Lord's will now. Mas'r couldn't help hisself; he did right, 
but I 'm feared things will be kinder goin' to rack, when 1 'm 
gone. Mas'r can't be spected to be a pryin' round every whar 
as I 've done, a keepin' up all the ends. The boys all means 
well, but they 's powerful earless. That ar troubles me." 
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor. 

" 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 your- 
self. Go anywhere you like, boy." 

" Thank you, Mas'r,'' said Tom. 

" And mind yerself," said the trader, " and don't come it 
over your master with any o' yer nigger tricks ; for I '11 take 
every cent out of him, if you an't thar. If he M hear to me, 
he would n't trust any on ye, slippery as eels ! " 

" Mas'r," said Tom, and he stood very straight, -- " I was 
jist eight years old when ole Missis put you into my arms, and 


you was n't a year old. ' Thar,' says she, ' Tom, that 's to be 
your young Mas'r ; take good care on him,' says she. And 
now I jist ask you, Mas'r, have I ever broke word to you, or 
gone contrary to you, 'specially since I was a Christian 1 " 

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 should n'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 to- 
gether means. Sir," she said to Haley, "take good account of 
whom 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 

" I '11 trade with you then, and make it for your advantage," 
said Mrs. Shelby. 

" Of course," said the trader, " all 's equal with me ; li'ves 
trade 'em up as down, so I does a good business. All I want 
is a livin', you know, ma'am ; that 's all any on us wants, I 

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the 
familiar impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute 
necessity of putting a constraint on their feelings. The more 
hopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the greater be- 
came Mrs. Shelby's dread of his succeeding in recapturing Eliza 
and her child, and of course the greater her motive for detain- 
ing him by every female artifice. She therefore graciously 
smiled, assented, chatted familiarly, and did all she could to 
make time pass imperceptibly. 

At two o'clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the 
posts, apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scam- 
per of the morning. 

Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of 
zealous and ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was 
boasting, in flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and emi- 
nent success of the operation, now that he had "farly come to it." 

"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." 


" Poll ! " said Haley, and he said something else, too, with 
regard to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered, 

" I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way." 

" But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much know 
he don't) for trackin' out niggers." 

Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of 
earnest and desperate simplicity. 

" Our dogs all smells round consid'able sharp. I spect they V 
the kind, though they han't never had no practice. They 's 
far dogs, though, at most anything, if you 'd get 'em started. 
Here, Bruno," he called, whistling to the lumbering Newfound- 
land, who came pitching tumultuously toward them. 

" You go hang ! " said Haley, getting up. " Come, tumble 
up now." 

Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle 
Andy as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a 
laugh, greatly to Haley's indignation, who made a cut at him 
with his riding-whip. 

" I 's 'stonished at yer, Andy," said Sam, with awful gravity. 
" This yer 's a seris bisness, Andy. Yer must n't be a makin' 
game. This yer an't no way to help Mas'r." 

" I shall take the straight road to the river," said Haley, 
decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. 
" I know the way of all of 'em, they makes tracks for the 

" 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 1 " 

Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this 
new geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said by 
a vehement reiteration. 

" 'Cause," said Sam, " I 'd rather be 'clined to 'magine that 
Lizy 'd take de dirt road, bein' it 's the least travelled." 

Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and nat- 
urally inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up 
by this view of the case. 

" If 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 ap 
peared to amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, 
and shook so as apparently to run a great risk of falling off his 
horse, while Sam's face was immovably composed into the moat 
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, derid- 

" She would naturally go a lonesome way," said Haley, 
thinking aloud, and not minding Sam's remark. 

"Dar an't no sayin'," said Sam; "gals is pecular ; they 
never does nothiu' ye thinks they will ; mose gen'lly the con- 
trar. Gals is nat'lly made contrary ; and so, if you thinks 
they 've gone one road, it is sartin you 'd better go t' other, 
and then you '11 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 an- 
nounced 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 'vc studded on de matter, and I 'in quite 
clar we ought not to go dat ar way. I nebber been over it no 
way. It 's despit lonesome, and we might lose our way, 
whar we 'd come to, de Lord only knows." 

" Nevertheless," said Haley, " I shall go that way." 

" Now I think on 't, I think I liearn 'em tell that dat ar 
road was all fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an't 
it, Andy?" 

Andy was n't certain ; he 'd only " hearn tell " about that 
road, but never been over it. In short, he was strictly non- 

Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities be- 
tween lies of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it 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 im- 
plicate 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 vociferating occasionally that 't was '' desp't 
rough, arid bad for Jerry's foot." 

" Now, I jest give yer warning," said Haley, " I know yer ; 
yer won't get ine 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 sub- 
mission, 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 lookout, 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 was n't ' Lizy ' down in the hollow " ; al- 
ways 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 barnyard 
belonging to a large farming establishment. Not a soul was in 
sight, all the hands being employed in the fields ; but, as the 
barn stood conspicuously and plainly square across the road, it 
was evident that their journey in that direction had reached a 
decided finale. 

" Warn't dat ar what I telled Mas'r 1 ? " said Sam, with an air 
of injured innocence. " How does strange gentleman spect to 
know more about a country dan de natives born and raised ] " 

" You rascal ! " said Haley, " you knew all about this." 

" Did n't I tell yer I knowd, and yer would n't believe me 1 
I telled Mas'r 't was all shet up, and fenced up, and I did n't 
spect we could get through, Andy heard me." 

It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had 
to pocket his wrath with the best grace he was able, and all 
three faced to the right about, and took up their line of march 
for the highway. 

In consequence of all the various delays, it was about three 
quarters of an hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep in 
the village tavern that the party came riding into the same 
place. Eliza was standing by the window, looking out in 
another direction, when Sam's quick eye caught a glimpse of 
her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis, 
Sam contrived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud 
and characteristic ejaculation, which startled her at once ; she 
drew suddenly back ; the whole train swept by the window, 
round to the front door. 

A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one 
moment to Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the 
river. She caught her child, and sprang down the steps 
towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her, just as 
she was disappearing down the bank ; and throwing himself 
from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy, he was 
after her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment 
her feet to her 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 crv and flying leap, she vaulted 



" With one wild cry ind flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the turbid current 

by the shore." 


sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of ice 
beyond. It was a desperate leap, impossible to anything 
but madness and despair; and Haley, Sam, and Andy in- 
stinctively cried out, and lifted up their hands, as she did it. 

The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted 
pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she stayed 
there not a moment. With wild cries and desperate energy 
she leaped to another and still another cake ; stumbling, - 
leaping, slipping, springing upwards again ! Her shoe? 
are gone, her stockings cut from her feet, --while blood 
marked every step ; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till 
dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio side, and a man 
helping her up the bank. 

" Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar ! " said the man, with 
an oath. 

Eliza recognized the voice and face of a man who owned a 
farm not far from her old home. 

"0, Mr. Symmes ! - - save me, do save me, do hide 
me ! " said Eliza. 

" Why, what 's this 1 " said the man. " Why, if 't an't Shel- 
by's gal ! " 

"My child! --this boy! --he'd sold him! There is his 
Mas'r," said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. " 0, 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. " I 'd be glad to do something for ye," said he ; " but 
then there 's nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do is to 
tell ye to go thar," 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 o' danger but 
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, O, 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. " Come, now, go along like a 
likely, sensible gal, as you are. You 've arnt your liberty, and 
you shall have it, for all me." 


The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked 
firmly and swiftly away. The man stood and looked after 

" Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neigh- 
borly thing in the world ; but what 's a feller to do 1 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' crittur a strivin' 
and pan tin', and trying to clar theirselves, with the dogs arte: 
'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 Christianized 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 Sam. 

" The gal 's got seven devils in her, I believe ! " said Haley 
" How like a wildcat she jumped ! " 

" Wai, now," said Sam, scratching his head, " I hope Mas'r 
'11 scuse us tryin' dat ar road. Don't think I feel spry enough 
for dat ar, no way ! " and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle. 

" Yon laugh ! " said th'e trader, with a growl. 

" Lord bless you, Mas'r, I could n't help it, now," said Sara, 
giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. " She 
looked so curi's, a leapin' and springin' - - ice a crackin' and 
only to hear her, plump ! ker chunk ! ker splash ! Spring ! 
Lord ! how she goes it ! " and Sam and Andy laughed till the 
tears rolled down their cheeks. 

" I '11 make yer 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, Avith much gravity. " I 
berry much spect Missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r Haley 
won't want us no longer. Missis would n't hear of our ridin' 
the critturs over Lizy's bridge to-night " ; and, with a facetious 
poke into Andy's ribs, he started off, followed by the latter, at 
full speed, their shouts of laughter coming faintly on the 




LIZA 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 returned 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 him down to meditate on the in- 
stability 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 1 " and Haley relieved himself by repeating 
over a not very select litany of imprecations on himself, which, 
though there was the best possible reason to consider them as 
true, we shall, as a matter of taste, omit. 

He was startled by the loud and dissonant voice of a man 
who was apparently dismounting at the door. He hurried to 
the window. 

" By the land ! if this yer an't the nearest, now, to what 
I 've heard folks call Providence," said Haley. " I do b'lieve 
that ar 's Tom Loker." 

Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in the corner of 
the room, was a brawny, muscular man, full six feet in height, 
and broad in proportion. He was dressed in a coat of buffalo- 
skin, made with the hair outward, wlii-h gave him a shaggy 
and fie'rce appearance, perfectly in keeping with the whole air 



of his physiognomy. In the head and face every organ and 
lineament expressive of brutal and unhesitating violence was in 
a state of the highest possible development. Indeed, could our 
readers fancy a bull-dog come unto man's estate, and walking 
about in a hat and coat, they would have no unapt idea of the 
general style and effect of his physique. He was accompanied 
by a travelling companion, in many respects an exact contrast 
to himself. He was short and slender, lithe and catlike in his 
motions, and had a peering, mousing expression about his keen 
black eyes, with which every feature of his face seemed sharp- 
ened into sympathy ; his thin, long nose ran out as if it was 
eager to bore into the nature of things in general ; his sleek, 
thin, black hair was stuck eagerly forward, and all his motions 
and evolutions expressed a dry, cautious acuteness. The great 
big man poured out a big tumbler half full of raw spirits, and 
gulped it down without a word. The little man stood tiptoe, 

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 quivering voice, ami 


with an air of great circumspection. When poured out, he took 
it and looked at it with a sharp, complacent air, like a man who 
thinks he has done about the right thing, and hit the nail on 
the head, and proceeded to dispose of it in short and well- 
advised sips. 

" Wai, now, who 'd a thought this yer luck 'ad come to me ? 
Why, Loker, how are ye ? " said Haley, corning forward, and 
'xtending his hand to the big man. 

" The devil ! " was the civil reply. " What brought you 
here, Haley 1 " 

The mousing man, who bore the name of Marks, instantly 
stopped his sipping, and, poking his head forward, looked 
shrewdly on the new acquaintance, as a cat sometimes looks 
at a moving dry leaf, or some other possible object of pursuit. 

" I say, Tom, this yer 's the luckiest thing in the world. 
I 'm in a devil of a hobble, and you must help me out." 

" Ugh ? aw ! like enough ! " grunted his complacent 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 1 " 

" You've got a friend here?" said Haley, looking doubtfully 
at Marks ; " partner, perhaps 1 " 

" Yes, I have. Here, Marks ! here 'g 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 1 " 

" The same, sir," said Haley. " And now, gentlemen, seein' 
as we 've met so happily, I think I '11 stand up to a small 
matter of a treat in 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 '11 have a blow-out." 

Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to the 
burning point in the grate, and our three worthies seated 
round a table, well spread with all the accessories to good- 
fellowship enumerated before. 

Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles. 
Loker shut up his mouth, and listened to him with gruff and 
surly attention. Marks, who was anxiously and with much 
fidgeting compounding a tumbler of punch to his own peculiar 
taste, occasionally looked up from his employment, and, poking 
his sharp nose and chin almost into Haley's face, gave the most 


earnest heed to the whole narrative. The conclusion of it ap- 
peared to amuse him extremely, 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, an't ye 1 " he said ; " he ! 
he ! he ! It 's neatly done, too." 

" This yer youug-un business makes lots of trouble in the 
trade," said Haley, dolefully. 

" If we could get a breed of gals that did n'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 ; " I never could n't see into it ; 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 
gen'l thing, the tighter they sticks to 'em." 

" Wai, Mr. Haley," said Marks, " jest pass the hot water. 
Yes, sir ; you say jest what I feel and allers have. Now, I 
bought a gal once, when I was in the trade, a tight, likely 
wench she was, too, and quite considerable smart, and she 
had a young un that was mis' able sickly ; it had a crooked 
back, or something or other ; and I jest gin 't away to a man 
that thought he 'd take his chance raising on 't, being it did n'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 valley the child more 'cause 
't ^vas 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 a'nt no end to women's notions." 

" Wai, 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 ston< 
blind. Wai, 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 't was before 
we started, and I had n't got my gang chained up ; so what 
should she do but ups on a cotton-bale, like a cat, ketches a 
knife from one of the deck hands, and, I tell ye, she made all 


fly for a minnit, till she saw 't warn'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 1 " said Marks, briskly. 

" Help it ? why, I buys a gal, and if she 's got a young un 
to be sold, I jest walks up and puts my fist to her face, and 
says, ' Look here, now, if you give me one word out of your 
head, I'll smash yer face in. I won't hear one word, not 
the beginning of a word.' I says to 'em, ' This yer young un 's 
mine, and not yourn, and you 've no kind o' business with it. 
I 'm going to sell it, first chance ; mind, you don't cut up none 
o' yer shines about it, or I '11 make ye wish ye'd never been 
born.' I tell ye, they sees it an't no play, when I gets hold. 
I makes 'em as whist as fishes ; and if one on 'em begins and 
gives a yelp, why - " and Mr. Loker brought down his fist 
with a thump that fully explained the hiatus. 

" That ar 's what ye may call emphasis" said Marks, poking 
Haley in the side, and going into another small giggle. "An't 
Tom peculiar 1 he ! he ! he ! I say, Tom, I spect you make 
'em understand, for all niggers' heads is woolly. They don't 
never have no doubt o' your meaning, Tom. If you an't the 
devil, Tom, you 's his twin brother, I '11 say that for ye ! " 

Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty, and 
began to look as affable as was consistent, as John Bunyaii 
says, " with his doggish nature." 

Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple of 
the evening, began to feel a sensible elevation and enlargement 
of his moral faculties, a phenomenon not unusual with gen- 
tlemen of a serious and reflective turn, under similar circum- 

" Wai, now, Tom," he said, " ye re'lly is too bad, as I al'ays 
have told ye ; ye know, Tom, you and 1 used to talk over these 
yer matters down in Natchez, and I used to prove to ye that 
we made full as much, and was as well off for this yer world, 
by treatin' on 'em well, besides keepin' a better chance for 
comin' in the kingdom at last, when wust comes to wust, and 
thar an't nothing else left to get, ye know." 

" Boh ! " said Tom, " don't I know 1 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 ges< 
taring impressively, "I'll say this now, I al'ays meant to drive 
my trade so as to make money on 't, fust and foremost, as much 
as any man ; but, then, trade an't everything, and money an't 
everything, 'cause we 's all got souls. I don't care, now, who 
hears me say it, and I think a ciissed sight on it, so I may 
as well come out with it. I b'lieve in religion, and one of 
these days, when I 've got matters tight and snug, I 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 1 it 
don't seem to me it's 't all prudent." 

" Tend to yer soul ! " repeated Tom, contemptuously ; " take 
a bright lookout to find a soul in you, save yourself any 
care on that score. If the devil sifts you through a hair sieve, 
he won't find one." 

"Why, Tom, you're cross," said Haley; "why can't JQ 
take it pleasant, now, when a feller 's talking for your good 1 " 

" Stop that ar jaw o' yourn, there," said Tom, gruffly. " I 
can stand most any talk o' yo;irn but your pious talk, that 
kills me right up. After all, what 's the odds between me and 
you 1 'T an't that you care one bit more, or have a bit more 
feelin', it 's clean, sheer, dog meanness, wanting to cheat the 
devil and save your own skin ; don't I see through it 1 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 is n't business," said 
Marks. " There 's different ways, you know, of looking at all 
subjects. Mr. Haley is a very nice man, no doubt, and has 
his own conscience ; and, Tom, you have your ways, and very 
good ones, too, Tom ; but quarrelling, you know, won't answer 
no kind of purpose. Let 's go to business. Now, Mr. Haley, 
what is it ] - - you want us to undertake to catch this yer 

" The gal 's no matter of mine, she 's Shelby's ; it 's only 
the boy. I was a fool for buying the monkey ! " 

" You ''re generally a fool ! " said Tom, gruffly. 

" Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs," said Marks, lick- 
ing his lips ; " you see, Mr. Haley 's a puttin' us in a way of a 
good job, I reckon : just hold still, -- these yer arrangements is 
my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley, how is she ] what is she 1 " 

" Wai ! white and handsome, well brought UP. I 'd a gin 


Shelby eight hundred or a thousand, and then made well on 

" 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 '11 do a 
business here on our own account ; we does the catchin' ; 
the boy, of course, goes to Mr. Haley, we takes the gal to 
Orleans to speculate on. An't it beautiful 1 " 

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 digesting the idea 
at his leisure. 

" Ye see," said Marks to Haley, stirring his punch as he did 
so, " ye see, we has justices convenient at all p'ints alongshore, 
that does up any little jobs in our line quite reasonable. Tom, 
he does the knockin' down and that ar ; and I come in all 
dressed up, shining boots, everything first chop, when the 
swearin' 's to be done. You oughter see, now," said Marks, in 
a glow of professional pride, " how I can tone it off. One day, 
I 'm Mr. Twickem, from New Orleans ; 'nother day, I 'm just 
come from my plantation on Pearl river, where I works seven 
hundred niggers ; then, again, 1 come out a distant relation of 
Henry Clay, or some old cock in Kentuck. Talents is different, 
you know. Now, Tom 'sa roarer when there's any thumping 
or fighting to be done ; but at lying he an't good. Tom an't, 
ye see it don't come natural to him ; but, Lord, if thar 's a feller 
in the country that can swear to anything and everything, and 
put in all the circumstances and nourishes 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 particular than they is. 
Sometimes I rather wish they was more particular ; 't would 
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. " It 'II do ! " he said. 

" Lord bless ye, Tom, ye need n't break all the glasses ! " 
said Marks ; " save your fist for time o' need." 

" But, gentlemen, an't I to come in for a share of the profits ? " 
said Haley. 

"An't it enough we catch the boy for ye 1 ?" said Lokes 
" What do ye want 1 " 


" Wai," 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 1 
Don't you think to come it over me ! Suppose Marks and I 
have taken up the catchin' trade, jest to 'commodate gentlemen 
like you, and get nothin' for ourselves 1 Not by a long chalk ! 
we '11 have the gal out and out, and you keep quiet, or, ye see, 
we '11 have both, - - what 's to hinder 1 Han't you show'd us 
the game 1 It 's as free to us as you, I hope. If you or Shelby 
wants to chase us, look where the partridges was last year ; if 
you find them or us, you 're quite welcome." 

" 0, 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 your 
snivelling ways, but I won't lie in my 'counts with the devil 
himself. What I ses I '11 do, I will do, you know that, Dan 

" 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 '11 name, that 's all I want." 

" But it an't all I want, by a long jump," said Tom. " Ye 
don't think I did business with you, down in Natchez, for 
nothing, Haley ; I 've learned to hold an eel, when I catch him. 
You 've got to fork over fifty dollars, 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 hundred, why, 
Tom, you 're onreasonable," said Haley. 

" Yes, and has n'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 finally does n't 
catch the gal, and gals allers is the devil to catch, what 's 
then? would you pay us a cent, -- would you 1 ? I think I see 
you a doin' it, ugh ! No, no ; flap down your fifty. If we 
get the job, and it pays, I '11 hand it back ; if we don't, it 's for 
our trouble, that 's far, an't it, Marks ] " 

" Certainly, certainly," said Marks, with a conciliatory tone ; 
" it ? s only a retaining fee, you see, -- he ! he ! he ! -- we law- 
yers, you know. Wal, we must all keep good-natured, keep 
easy, yer know. Tom '11 have the boy for yer, anywhere ye '11 
name ; won't ye, Tom ? " 


" If I find the young un, I '11 bring him on to Cincinnati, 
ind leave him at Granny Belcher's, on the landing," said Loker. 

Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocket-book, and 
taking a long paper from thence, he sat down, and fixing his 
keen black eyes on it, began mumbling over its contents : 
" Barnes, Shelby County, --boy Jim, three hundred dollars 
for him, dead or alive. 

" Edwards, --Dick and Lucy, -- man and wife, six hundred 
dollars ; wench Polly and two children, six hundred for her 
or her head. 

" I 'm jest a runnin' over our business, to see if we can take 
up this yer handily. Loker," he said, after a pause, " we must 
set Adams and Springer on the track of these yer ; they 've 
been booked some time." 

"They '11 charge too much," said Tom. 

" I '11 manage that ar ; they 's young in the business, and 
must spect 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 n't, of course, 
charge much for that. Them other cases," he said, folding the 
paper, " will bear puttin' off a spell. So now let 's come to the 
particulars. Now, Mr. Haley, you saw this yer gal when she 
landed ! " 

" To be sure, -- plain as I see you." 

" And a man helpin' on her up the bank ? " said Loker. 

" To be sure, I did." 

" Most likely," said Marks, " she 's took in somewhere ; but 
where, "s a question. Tom, what do you say ? " 

" We must cross the river to-night, no mistake," said Tom. 

" But there 's no boat about," said Marks. " The ice is run- 
ning awfully, Tom ; an't it dangerous 1 " 

"Don'no nothing 'bout that, only it's got to be done," 
said Tom, decidedly. 

" Dear me," said Marks, fidgeting, " it '11 be - - 1 say," he 
said, walking to the window, " it 's dark as a wolfs mouth, and, 

" 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 Saiidusky or so, before you start." 

" O, no ; I an't a grain afraid," said Marks, " only - 

"Only what?" said Tom. 


" Well, about the boat. Yer see there an't any boat." 

" I heard the woman say there was one coming along this 
evening, and that a man was going to cross over in it. Neck 
or nothing, we must go with him," said Tom. 

" I s'pose you 've got good dogs," said Haley. 

" First rate," said Marks. " But what 's the use 1 you ban* 
got nothin' o' hers to smell on." 

" Yes, I have," said Haley, triumphantly. " Here 's her 
shawl she left on the bed in her hurry ; she left her bonnet, 

" That ar 's lucky," said Loker ; " fork over." 

" Though the dogs might damage the gal, if 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, 
' t an't no go, neither. Dogs is no 'count in these yer up states 
where these critturs gets carried ; of course, ye can't get on 
their track. They only does down in plantations, where nig- 
gers, when they runs, has to do their own running, and don't 
get no help." 

" Well," said Loker, who had just stepped out to the bar to 
make some inquiries, " they say the man 's come with the 
boat; so, Marks - 

That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quarters 
he was leaving, but slowly rose to obey. After exchanging 
a few words of further arrangement, Haley, with visible reluc- 
tance, handed over the fifty dollars to Tom, and the worthy 
trio separated for the night. 

If any of our refined and Christian readers object to the 
society into which this scene introduces them, let us beg them 
to begin and conquer their prejudices in time. The catching 
business, we beg to remind them, is rising to the dignity of a 
lawful and patriotic profession. If all the broad land between 
the Mississippi and the Pacific becomes one great market for 
bodies and souls, and human property retains the locomotive 
'tendencies of this nineteenth century, the trader and catcher 
may yet be among our aristocracy. 



While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and Andj, 
in a state of high felicitation, pursued their way home. 

Sam was in the highest possible feather, and expressed his 
exultation by all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations, 
by divers odd motions and contortions of his whole system. 
Sometimes he would sit backward, with his face to the horse's 
tail and sides, and then, with a whoop and a somerset, come 
right side up in his place again, and, draAving on a grave face, 
begin to lecture Andy in high-sounding tones for laxighing and 

playing the fool. Anon, slapping his sides with his arms, he 
would burst forth in peals of Laughter, that made the old woods 
ring as they passed. With all these evolutions, he contrived 
to keep the horses up to the top of their speed, until, between 
ten and eleven, their heels resounded on the gravel at the end 
of the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to the railings. 

" Is that you, Sam 1 Where are they ]" 

" Mas'r Haley 's a-restin' at the tavern ; he 's drefful fatigued, 

"And Eliza, Sum?" 

"Wai, she 's clar 'cross Jordan. As a body may say, in the 
land o' Canaan." 

" Why, Sam, what do you mean 1 " said Mrs. Shelby, breath- 
less, and almost faint, as the possible meaning of these words 
came over her. 

" Wai, Missis, de Lord he presarves his own. Lizy 's done 
gone over the river into 'Hio, as 'markably as if de Lord took 
her over in a charrit of fire and two bosses " 


Sam's vein of piety was always uncommonly fervent in his 
mistress's presence ; and he made great capital of scriptural 
figures and images. 

" Come up here, Sam," said Mr. Shelby, who had followed 
on to the veranda, " and tell your mistress what she wants. 
Come, com?, Emily," said he, passing his arm round her, " you 
are cold an& all in a shiver ; you allow yourself to feel too 

" Feel too much ! Am not I a woman, a mother] Are 
we not both responsible to God for this poor girl ] My God ! 
lay not this sin to our charge." 

" What sin, Emily 1 You see yourself that we have only 
done what we were obliged to." 

" There 's an awful feeling of guilt about it, though," said 
Mrs. Shelby. " I can't reason it away." 

" Here, Andy, you nigger, be alive ! " called Sam, under the 
veranda ; " take these yer hosses to der barn ; don't ye hear 
Mas'r a callin' 1 " 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 1 " 

" Wai, Mas'r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin' on 
the tloatin' ice. She crossed most 'markably ; it was n't no 
less nor a miracle ; and I saw a man help her up the 'Hio side, 
and then she was lost in the dusk." 

" Sam, I think this rather apocryphal, this miracle. Cross- 
ing on floating ice is n't so easily done," said Mr. Shelby. 

" Easy ! could n't nobody a done it, 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 could n'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. Wai, I loses off my hat, and 
sings out nutf to raise the dead. Course Lizy she hars, and she 
dodges back, when Mas'r Haley he goes past the door; and 
then, I tell ye, she clared out de side door ; she went down de 
river bank ; Mas'r Haley he seed her, and yelled out, and 
him, and me, and Andy, we took arter. Down she come to 
the river, and thar was the current running ten feet wide by 
the shore, and over t' other side ice a 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 j ampin'- -the ice went crack! 
c'wallop ! cracking ! chunk ! and she a houndin' like a buck ! 
Lord, the spring that ar gal 's got in her an't common, I 'm o' 

Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement, while 
Sam told his story. 

" God be praised, she is n't dead ! " she said ; " but where is 
the poor child now 1 " 

"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 us. 
Thar 's allers instruments ris up to do de Lord's will. Now, 
if 't had n'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 
kept 'em chasin' till nigh dinner-time \ And did n'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 '11 have to be 
pretty sparing of, Master Sam. I allow no such practices with 
gentlemen on my place," said Mr. Shelby, with as much stern- 
ness as he could command, under the circumstances. 

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 rebuke, though he 
assumed an air of doleful gravity, and stood with the corners 
of his mouth lowered in most penitential style. 

" Mas'r 's quite right, quite ; it was ugly on me, there 's 
no disputin' that ar ; and of course Mas'r and Missis would n't 
encourage no such works. I 'in sensible of dat ar ; but a poor 
nigger like me 's 'mazin' tempted to act ugly sometimes, when 
fellers will cut up such shines as dat ar Mas'r Haley ; he an't 
no gen'l'man no way ; anybody 's been raised as I Ve been can't 
help a seein' dat ar." 

" Well, Sam," said Mrs. Shelby, " as you appear to have a 
proper sense of your errors, you may go now and tell Aunt 
Chloe she may get you some of that cold ham that was left of 
dinner to-day. You and Andy must be hungry." 



" Missis is a heap too good for us," said Sam, making his 
"bow with alacrity, and departing. 

It will be perceived, as has been before intimated, that 
Master Sam had a native talent that might, undoubtedly, have 
raised him to eminence in political life, a talent of making 
capital out of everything that turned up, to be invested for 
his own especial praise and glory ; and having done up his 
piety and humility, as he trusted, to the satisfaction of the 
parlor, he clapped his palm -leaf on his head, with a sort of 
rakish, free-and-easy air, and proceeded to the dominions of 
Aunt Chloe, with the intention of flourishing largely in the 

" I '11 speechify these yer niggers," said Sam to himselt, 
" now I 've got a chance. Lord, I '11 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 politi- 
cal gatherings, where, roosted on some rail fence, or perched 
aloft in some tree, he would sit watching the orators, with 
the greatest apparent gusto, and then, descending among the 
various brethren of his own color, assembled on the same 
errand, he would edify and delight them with the most ludi- 
crous burlesques and imitations, all delivered with the most 
imperturbable earnestness and solemnity ; and though the au- 
ditors immediately about him were generally of his own color, 
it not unfrequently happened that they were fringed pretty 
deeply with those of a fairer complexion, who listened, laugh- 
ing and winking, to Sam's great self-congratulation. In fact, 
Sam considered oratory as his vocation, and never let slip an 
opportunity of magnifying his office. 

Now, between Sam and Aunt Chloe there had existed, from 
ancient times, a sort of chronic feud, or rather a decided cool- 
ness ; 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 emi- 
nently conciliatory ; for he well knew that although " Missis' 
orders " would undoubtedly be followed to the letter, yet ho 
should gain a considerable deal by enlisting the spirit also. 
He therefore appeared before Aunt Chloe with a touchingly 
eubdued, resigned expression, like one who has suffered im- 
measurable hardships in behalf of a persecuted fellow-creature, 
enlarged upon the fact that Missis had directed him to come 



to Aunt Cliloe for whatever might be wanting to make up the 
balance in his solids and fluids, and thus unequivocally ac- 
knowledged 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 electioneering 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, containing a sort of olla podrida 

of all that had appeared on the table for two or three days 
past. Savory morsels of ham, golden blocks of corn-cake, frag- 
ments of pie of every conceivable mathematical figure, chicken 
wings, gizzards, and drumsticks, all appeared in picturesque 


confusion ; and Sain, as monarch of all he surveyed, sat mth 
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 termina- 
tion of the day's exploits. Now was Sam's hour of glory. 
The s^ory of the day was rehearsed, with all kinds of orna- 
ment 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. Eoars 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, pre- 
served an immovable gravity, only from time to time rolling 
his eyes up, and giving his auditors divers inexpressibly droll 
glances, without departing from the sententious elevation of his 

"Yer see, fellow-countrymen," said Sam, elevating a tur- 
key's leg, with energy, "yer see, now, \vhat dis yer chile's 
up ter, for 'fendin' yer all, yes, all on yer. For him as tries 
to get one o' our people, is as good as tryin' to get all ; yer 
see the principle 's de same, dat ar 's clar. And any one o' 
these yer drivers that comes smelling round arter any our 
people, why, he 's got me in his way ; I'm the feller he 's got to 
set in with, I 'm the feller for yer all to come to, bredren, - 
I '11 stand up for yer rights, I '11 'fend 'em to the last breath ! " 

" Why, but, Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin', that 
yon 'd help this yer Mas'r to cotch Lizy ; seems to me yer talk 
don't hang together," said Andy. 

" I tell you now, Andy," said Sam, with awful superiority, 
" don't yer be a talkin' 'bout what yer don't know iiothin' on ; 
boys like you, Andy, means well, but they can't be spected to 
tollusitate the great principles of action." 

Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard word collusi- 
tate, which most of the youngerly members of the company 
seemed to consider as a settler in the case, while Sam proceeded. 

" Dat ar was conscience, Andy ; when I thought of gwine 
arter Lizy, I railly spected Mas'r was sot dat way. When I 
found Missis was sot the contrar, dat ar was conscience more 
yet, - - 'cause fellers allers gets more by stickin' to Missis' 
side, so yer see I 's persistent either way, and sticks up tu 


conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes, principles" said 
Sam, giving an enthusiastic toss to a chicken's neck, -- " what 
's principles good for, if we is n't persistent, I wanter know ? 
Thar, Andy, you may have dat ar bone, - - 't an't picked quite 

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 an't seed into very clar, by most any- 
body. Now, yer see, when a feller stands up for a thing one 
day and night, de contrar de next, folks ses (and nat'rally 
enough dey ses), why he an't pertistent hand nie dat ar bit 
o' corn-cake, Andy. But let 's look inter it. I hope the gen'l- 
men 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. Wai, I 
puts up my larder dis yer side ; 't an't no go ; den, 'cause 
I don't try dere no more, but puts my larder right de contrar 
side, an't I persistent ? I 'm persistent in wantin' to get up 
which ary side my larder is ; don't you see, all on yer ? " 

" It 's the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows ! " 
muttered Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather restive ; the mer- 
riment of the evening being to her somewhat after the Scrip- 
ture comparison, like " vinegar upon nitre." 

" Yes, indeed ! " said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory, 
for a closing effort. " Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies of de 
other sex in general, I has principles, I 'm proud to 'oon 
'em, they 's perquisite to dese yer times, and ter all times. 
I has principles, and I sticks to 'em like forty, jest anything 
that I thinks is principle, I goes in to 't ;--! would n'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 der gen'l interests of s'ciety." 

"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' 
everybody up till mornin' ; now, every one of you young uns 
that don't want to be cracked, had better be scase, mighty 

" Niggers ! all on yer," said Sam, waving his palm-leaf with 
benignity, " I give yer my blessin' ; go to bed now, and be 
good boys." 

And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed. 




light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and 
carpet of a cosey parlor, and glittered on the sides 
of the teacups and well-brightened teapot, as Sena- 
tor Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to 
inserting his feet in a pair of new handsome slip- 
pers, which his wife had been working for him while away oil 
his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird, looking the very picture of de- 
light, was superintending the arrangements of the table, ever 
and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number of frolic- 
some juveniles, who were effervescing in all those modes ot 
untold gambol and mischief that have astonished mothers ever 
since the flood. 

" Tom, let the door-knob alone, there 's a man ! Mary i 
Mary ! don't puli tne cat's tail, poor pussy ! Jim, you 
must n't climb on that table, no, no ! - - You don't know, my 
dear, what a surprise it is to us aJl, 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 maks a run down, spend the 
night, and have a little comfort at horae. I J m tired to death, 
and my head aches ! " 

Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor bottle, which stood in 
the half-open closet, and appeared to meditate an approach to 
it, but her husband interposed. 

" No, no, Mary, no doctoring ! a cup of your good hot tea, 
and some of our good home living, is what I want. It 's a tire- 
gome business, this legislating ! " 

And the senator smiled, as if he rather liked the idea of con 
rfidering 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 thu 



Now, it was a very unusiml 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 to do 
to rnind her own. Mr. Bird, therefore, opened his eyes in sur 
prise, 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 colored 
folks that come along 1 I heard they were talking of some 
such law, but I did n't think any Christian legislature would 
pass it ! " 

" Why, Mary, you are getting to be a politician, all at once,'* 

" No, nonsense ! I would n't give a fig for all your politics, 
generally, but I think this is something downright cruel anc' 
unchristian. I hope, my dear, no such law has been passed." 

" There has been a law passed forbidding people to help ol 
the slaves that come over from Kentucky, my dear ; so much 
of that thing has been done by these reckless Abolitionists, 
that our brethren in Kentucky are very strongly excited, and 
it seems necessary, and no more than Christian and kind, that 
something should te done by our state to quiet the excite- 


" And what is the law 1 It don't forbid us to shelter these 
poor creatures a night, does it, and to give 'em something com- 
ibrtable to eat, and a few old clothes, and send them quietly 
about their business 1 " 

"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 com- 
plexion, 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 husband and children were her 
entire world, and in these she ruled more by entreaty and per- 
suasion 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 indulgent 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 neighborhood, 
stoning a defenceless kitten. 

" I '11 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 '11 tell you what," he 'd say, 
" we boys never stoned another kitten ! " 

On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly, with very 
red cheeks, which quite improved her general appearance, and 
walked up to her husband, with quite a resolute air, and said, 
in a determined tone, - 

" Now, John, I want to know if you think such a law as 
that is right and Christian 1 " 

" You won't shoot me, now, Mary, if I say I do ! " 

" I never could have thought it of you, John , you did n't 
Vote for it ] " 

" Even so, my fair politician." 


" You ought to be ashamed, John ! Poor, homeless, house- 
less creatures ! It 's a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and 
I '11 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, starv- 
ing 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 must n't suffer our feelings to run away with 
our judgment ; you must consider it 's not a matter of private 
feeling, there are great public interests involved, 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 involve a great 
public evil - 

" Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it 
can't. It 's always safest, all round, to do as he bids us." 

" Now, listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a very 
clear argument, to show " 

" 0, nonsense, John ! you can talk all night, but you 
wouldn't do it. I put it to you, John, -- would you, now, 
turn away a poor, shivering, hungry creature from your door, 
because he was a runaway 1 Would you, now ] " 

Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the misfor- 
tune to be a man who had a particularly humane and accessi- 
ble nature, and turning away anybody that was in trouble 
never had been his forte ; and what was worse for him in this 
particular pinch of the argument was, that his wife knew it, 
and, of course, was making an assault on rather an indefensible 
point. So he had recourse to the usual means of gaining time 
for such cases made and provided ; he said " ahem," and 
coughed several times, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and 
began to wipe his glasses. Mrs. Bird, seeing the defenceless 
condition of the enemy's territory, had no more conscience 
than to push her advantage. 

"I should like to see you doing that, John, I really 
should ! Turning a woman out of doors in a snow-storm, for 


instance ; or, may be you M take her up and put her in jail, 
would n'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 is n'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 doc 
trine. If I had slaves (as I hope I never shall have), I 'd risk 
their wanting to run away from me, or you either, John. I 
tell you folks don't run away when they are happy ; and when 
they do run, poor creatures ! they suffer enough, with cold and 
hunger and fear, without everybody's turning against them ; 
and, law or no law, I never will, so help me God ! " 

" Mary ! Mary ! My dear, let me reason with you." 

" I hate reasoning, John, especially reasoning on such 
subjects. There 's a way you political folks have of coming 
round and round a plain right thing ; and you don't believe 
in it yourselves, when it comes to practice. I know you well 
enough, John. You don't believe it 's right any more than I 
do ; and you would n'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 mixture of amuse- 
ment 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 in a deadly swoon upon two chairs. 
There was the impress of the despised race on her face, yet none 
could help feeling its mournful and pathetic beauty, while its 
stony sharpness, its cold, fixed, deathly aspect, struck a solemn 
chill over him. He drew his breath short, and stood in silence. 
His wife, and their only colored domestic, old Aunt Dinah, 
were busily engaged in restorative measures ; while old Cudjoe 
had got the boy on his knee, and was busy pulling off his shoes 
and stockings, and chafing his little cold feet. 



" Sure, now, if she an't a sight to behold ! " said old Dinah, 
compassionately ; " 'pears like 't was the heat that made her 
faint. She was tol'able peart when she cum in, and asked if 
she could n't warm herself here a spell ; and I was just a 
askin' her where she cum from, and she fainted right down. 
Never done much hard work, guess, by the looks of her hands." 

" Poor creature ! '' said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as the 
woman slowly unclosed her large, dark eyes, and looked A'a- 
cantly at her. Suddenly an expression of agony crossed her 
face, and she sprang up, saying, " 0, my Harry ! Have they 
got him 1 " 

The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe's knee, and, running 
to her side, put up his arms. " 0, he 's here ! he 's here ! " 
she exclaimed. 

" 0, ma'am ! " said she, wildly, to Mrs. Eird, " do protect us ! 
don't let them get him ! " 

" Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman," said Mrs. Eird, 
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. Eird, the poor woman was, in 
time, rendered more calm. A temporary bed was provided for 
her on the settle, near the fire ; and, after a short time, she fell 
into a heavy slumber, with the child, who seemed no less 
weary, soundly sleeping on her arm ; for the mother resisted, 
with nervous anxiety, the kindest attempts to take him from 
her; and, even in sleep, her arm encircled him with an un- 
relaxing clasp, as if she could not even then be beguiled of her 
Vigilant hold. 

Mr. and Mrs. Eird had gone back to the parlor, wh^re, 
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. 

" I wonder who and what she is ! " said Mr. Eird, 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 ovei 
his newspaper. 


" Well, dear ! " 

" She could n'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 
jfhe answered, " We '11 see." 

Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out, 

" I say, wife ! " 

" Well ! what now ] " 

" Why, there 's that old bombazine cloak, that you keep on 
purpose to put over me when I take my afternoon's nap ; you 
might as well give her that, she needs clothes." 

At this instant, Dinah looked in to say that the woman was 
awake, and wanted to see Missis. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the 
two eldest boys, the smaller fry having, by this time, been 
safely disposed of in bed. 

The woman was now sitting up on the settle, by the fire. 
She was looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm, heart- 
broken expression, very different from her former agitated 
wild ness. 

" Did you want me ? " said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. " I 
hope you feel better now, poor woman ! " 

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 need n't be afraid of anything ; we are friends here, 
poor woman ! Tell me where you came from, and what you 
want," said she. 

" I came from Kentucky," said the woman. 

" When? " said Mr. Bird, taking up the interrogatory. 

" To-night." 

" How did you come ? " 

" I crossed on the ice." 

" Crossed on the ice ! " said every one present. 

" Yes," said the woman, slowly, " I did. God helping me. 
I crossed on the ice ; for they were behind me, right be- 
hind, -- and there was no other way ! " 

"Law, Missis," said Cudjoe, "the ice is all in broken-up 
blocks, a swinging and a teetering up and down in the water." 

" I know it was, I know it ! " said she, wildly ; " but I did 


it! I wouldn't have thought I could,--! didn't think I 
should get over, but I did n't care ! I could but die, if I did 
n'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 1 " said Mr. Bird. 

" Yes, sir ; I belonged to a man in Kentucky." 

" Was he unkind to you 1 " 
: No, sir ; he was a good master." 
And was your mistress unkind to you 1 " 

" IS T o, 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 1 " 

The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird with a keen, scrutiniz- 
ing glance, and it did not escape her that she was dressed in 
deep mourning. 

" Ma'am," she said, suddenly, " have you ever lost a child ? " 

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 1 I have lost a little one." 

" Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after 
another, left 'em buried there when I came away ; and I had 
only this one left. I never slept a night without him ; he was 
all I had. He was my comfort and pride, day and night ; and, 
ma'am, they were going to take him away from me, to sell 
him, sell him down south, ma'am, to go all alone, a baby 
that had never been away from his mother in his life ! I 
could n'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 1 
got across, I don't know, -- but, first I knew, a man was help- 
ing 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 sym- 

The two little boys, after a desperate rummaging in then 


pockets, in search of those pocket-handkerchiefs which mothers 
know are never to be found there, had thrown themselves dis- 
consolately into the skirts of their mother's gown, where they 
were sobbing, and wiping their eyes and noses, to their hearts' 
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 
uncommon variety of wry faces, occasionally responded in the 
same key, with great fervor. Our senator was a statesman, and 
of course could not be expected to cry, like other mortals ; and 
so he turned his back to the company, and looked out of the 
window, and seemed particularly busy in clearing his throat and 
wiping his spectacle-glasses, occasionally blowing his nose in a 
manner that was calculated to excite suspicion, had any one 
been in a state to observe critically. 

" How came you to tell me you had a kind master 1 ?" he 
suddenly exclaimed, gulping down very resolutely some kind 
of rising in his throat, and turning suddenly round upon the 

" Because he was a kind master ; I '11 say that of him, any 
way; and my mistress was kind; but they couldn't help 
themselves. They were owing money ; and there was some 
way, I can't tell how, that a man had a hold on them, and 
they were obliged to give him his will. I listened, and heard 
him telling mistress that, and she begging and pleading for 
me, and he told her he could n'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 1 " 

" Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is real 
hard to him, and won't let him come to see me, hardly ever ; 
and he 's grown harder and harder upon us, and he threatens 
to sell him down south ; it 's like I '11 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 en- 
tirely 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 1 " said 
Mrs. Bird. 


" To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very far 
off, is Canada 1 " said she, looking up, with a simple, confiding 
air, to Mrs. Bird's face. 

" Poor thing ! " said Mrs. Bird, involuntarily. 

" Is 't a very great way off, think 1 " 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 I '11 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 tire, swaying thought- 
fully to and fro. Mr. Bird strode up and down the room, 
grumbling to himself. " Pish ! pshaw ! confounded awkward 
business ! " At length, striding up to his wife, he said, 

" I say, wife, she '11 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 '11 warrant me ; he '11 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 '11 have to be got off to-night." 

" To-night ! How is it possible 1 where to 1 " 

" Well, I know pretty well where to," said the senator, be- 
ginning 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, a' 
last, beginning to tug at his boot-straps again, " and that 's 
fact ! " After one boot was fairly on, the senator sat with the 
other in his hand, profoundly studying the figure of the carpet. 
" It will have to be done, though, for aught I see, hang it 
all ! " and he drew the other boot anxiously on, and looked out 
of the window. 

Now, little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman, a woman 
who never in her life said, " I told you so ! " and, on the pres- 
ent occasion, though pretty well aware of the shape her hus- 
band's meditations were taking, she very prudently forbore to 
meddle with them, only sat very quietly in her chair, and 
looked quite ready to hear her liege lord's intentions, when ha 
should think proper to utter them. 


" You see," be said, " 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 go on purpose ; and 
it 's a place that is n'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 put in the horses, as quietly as may 
be, about twelve o'clock, and I '11 take her over ; and then, to 
give color to the matter, he must carry me on to the next tav- 
ern, 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 crea- 
ture 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 put it 
thoughtfully in the lock of a drawer, and made a sudden pause, 
while two boys, who, boy-like, had followed close on her heels, 
stood looking, with silent, significant glances, at their mother. 
And 0, mother that reads this, has there "never been in your 
house a drawer, or a closet, the opening of which has been 


to you like the opening again of a little grave 1 Ah ! happy 
mother that you are, if it has not been so. 

Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. There were little coats 
of many a form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows of small 
stockings ; and even a pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at 
the toes, were peeping from the folds of a paper. There was a 
toy horse and wagon, a top, a ball, memorials gathered with 
many a tear and many a heart-hreak ! She sat down by thu 
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 touching her arm, 
" are you going to give away those things 1 " 

" My clear boys," she said, softly and earnestly, " if our dear, 
loving little Henry looks down from heaven, he would be glad 
to have us do this. I could not find it in my heart to give 
them away to any common person, --to anybody that was 
iiappy ; but I give them to a mother more heart-broken and 
sorrowful than I am ; and I hope God will send his blessings 
with them ! " 

There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring 
up into joys for others ; whose earthly hopes, laid in the grave 
with many tears, are the seed from which spring healing flowers 
and balm for the desolate and the distressed. Among such 
was the delicate woman who sits there by the lamp, dropping 
elow tears, while she prepares the memorials of her own lost 
one for the outcast wanderer. 

After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and, taking 
from thence a plain, serviceable dress or two, she sat down 
busily to her work-table, and, with needle, scissors, and thim- 
ble, at hand, quietly commenced the " letting down " process 
which her husband had recommended, and continued busily nt 
it till the old clock in the corner struck twelve, and she heaid 
the low rattling of wheels at the door. 

" Mary," said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in 
his hand, " you must wake her up now ; we must be off." 

Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had col- 
lected in a small plain trunk, and locking it, desired her hus- 
band to see it in the carriage, and then proceeded to call the 
woman. Soon, arrayed in a cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that 


had belonged to her benefactress, she appeared at the door with 
her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her into the carriage, 
and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage steps. Elizs? 
leaned out of the carriage, and put out her hand, a hand &i 
soft and beautiful as was given in return. She lixed her large, 
dark eyes, full of earnest meaning, on Mrs. Bird's face, and 
seemed going to speak. Her lips moved, she tried once or 
twice, but there was no sound, and pointing upward, with a 
look never to be forgotten, she fell back in the seat, and cov- 
ered her face. The door was shut, and the carriage drove on. 

What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, that had been 
all the week before spurring up the legislature of his native 
state to pass more stringent resolutions against escaping fugi- 
tives, their harborers and abettors ! 

Our good senator in his native state had not been exceeded 
by any of his brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquence 
which has won for them immortal renown ! How sublimely 
he had sat Avith his hands in his pockets, and scouted all 
sentimental weakness of those who would put the welfare of a 
few miserable fugitives before great state interests ! 

He was as bold as a lion about it, and " mightily convinced " 
not only himself, but everybody that heard him ; but then 
his idea of a fugitive was only an idea of the letters that spell 
the word, or, at the most, the image of a little newspaper 
picture of a man with a stick and bundle, with " Han away 
from the subscriber" under it. The magic of the real presence 
of distress, - - the imploring human eye, the frail, trembling 
human hand, the despairing appeal of helpless agony, these 
he had never tried. He had never thought that a fugitive 
might be a hapless mother, a defenceless child, like that one 
which Avas now wearing his lost boy's little well-known cap ; 
and so, as our poor senator was not stone or steel, as he was 
a man, and a downright noble-hearted one, too, --he was, as 
everybody must see, in a sad case for his patriotism. And you 
need not exult over him, good brother of the Southern States ; 
for we have some inklings that many of you, under similar cir- 
cumstances, would not do much better. We have reason 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 ren- 
der, were you in our place 1 


Be that as it may, if our good senator was a political sinner, 
he was in a fair way to expiate it by his night's penance. 
There had been a long continuous period of rainy weather, and 
the soft, rich earth of Ohio, as every one knows, is admirably 
suited to the manufacture of mud, and the road was an Ohio 
railroad of the good old times. 

" And pray, what sort of a road may that be ? " says some 
eastern traveller, who has been accustomed to connect no ideas 
with a railroad but those of smoothness or speed. 

Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted re- 
gions of the west, where the mud is of unfathomable and 
sublime depth, roads are made of round rough logs, arranged 
transversely side by side, and coated over in their pristine 
freshness with earth, turf, and whatsoever may come to hand, 
and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road, and straight- 
way essayeth to ride thereupon. In process of time, the rains 
wash off all the turf and grass aforesaid, move the logs hither 
and thither, in picturesque positions, 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 circum- 
stances could be expected, the carriage proceeding along 
much as follows, bump! bump! bump! slush! down in 
the mud ! the senator, woman, and child reversing their 
positions so suddenly as to come, without any very accurate 
adjustment, against the windows of the down-hill side. Car- 
riage sticks fast, while Cudjoe on the outside is heard making 
a great muster among the horses. After various ineffectual 
pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is losing all pa- 
tience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a bounce, two 
front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator, woman, 
and child all tumble promiscuously on to the front seat, 
senator's hat is jammed over his eyes and nose quite uncere- 
moniously, and he considers himself fairly extinguished ; 
child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside delivers animated ad- 
dresses 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, sena- 
tor, woman, and child fly over on to the back seat, his elbows 
encountering her bonnet, and both her feet being jammed into 
his hat, which flies off in the concussion. After a few mo- 
ments the "slough " is passed, and the horses stop, panting; 



- the senator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet 
and hushes her child, and they brace themselves firmly for 
what is yet to come. 

For a while only the continuous bump ! bump ! intermingled, 
just by way of variety, with divers side plunges and compound 
shakes ; and they begin to flatter themselves that they are not 
so badly oft', after all. At last, with a square plunge, which 
puts all on to their feet and then down into their seats with in- 
credible quickness, the carriage stops, and, after much outside 
commotion, Curljoe 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 '11 have to be a 
gettin' rails." 

The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some 
firm foothold ; down goes one foot an immeasurable depth, - 
he tries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tumbles over into 
the mud, and is fished out, in a very despairing condition, by 
Cud joe. 

But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones. 



Western travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in 
ihe interesting process of pulling down rail fences, to pry their 
carriages out of mud-holes, will have a respectful and mourn- 
ful 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, drip- 
ping and bespattered, out of the creek, and stood at the door of 
a large farm-house. 

It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the inmates ; 
but at last the respectable proprietor appeared, and undid the 
door. He was a great, tall, bristling Orson of a fellow, full six 
feet and some inches in his stockings, and arrayed in a red flan- 
nel hunting-shirt. A very heavy mat of sandy hair, in a de- 
cidedly tousled condition, and a beard of some days' growth 
gave the worthy man an appearance, to say the least, not pal 


ticularly prepossessing. He stood for a few minutes holding 
ihe candle aloft, and blinking on our travellers 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 Trornpe was once quite a considerable 
land-holder and slave-owner in the State of Kentucky. Hav- 
ing " 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 conscience and his reflections. 

" Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and child 
from slave-catchers 1 " said the senator, explicitly. 

" I rather think I am," said honest John, with some consid- 
erable emphasis. 

" I thought so," said the senator. 

" If there 's anybody comes," said the good man, stretching 
his tall, muscular form upward, " why here I 'm ready for him ; 
and 1 've got seven sons, each six foot high, and they '11 be 
ready for 'em. Give our respects to 'em," said John ; " tell 'em 
it 's no matter how soon they call, make no kinder difference 
to us," said John, running his fingers through the shock of hair 
that thatched his head, and bursting out into a great laugb. 

Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up to the 
door, with her child lying in a heavy sleep on her arm. The 
rough man held the candle to her face, and uttering a kind of 
compassionate grunt, opened the door of a small bedroom ad- 
joining to the large kitchen where they were standing, and 
motioned her to go in. He took down a candle, and lighting 
it, set it upon the table, and then addressed himself to Eliza. 

" Now, I say, gal, you need n't be a bit afeard, let who will 
come here. J '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 would n't be healthy to try 
to get anybody out o' my house when I 'm agin it. So now 
you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as if yer mother was a rockin' 
ye," said he, as he shut the door. 

" Why, this is an uncommon handsome un," he said to the 
senator. " Ah, well ; handsome uns has the greatest cause to 
run, sometimes, if they has any kind o' feelin', such as decent 
women should. I know all about that." 

The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Eliza's history. 

" Oh ! ou ! aw ! now, 1 want to know r i " said the good man, 
pitifully ; " sho ! now sho ! That 's natur now, poor crittur ! 
hunted down now like a deer, -- hunted down, jest for havin' 
natural feelin's, and doin' what no kind o' mother could help a 
doin' ! I tell ye what, these yer things make me come the 
nighest to swearin', now, o' most anything," said honest John, 
as he wiped his eyes with the back of a great, freckled, yellow 
hand. " I tell yer what, stranger, it was years and years be- 
fore I 'd jine the church, 'cause the ministers round in our parts 
used to preach that the Bible went in for these ere cuttings up, 
and I could n'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 found a minister that was up to 'em all in Greek 
and all that, and he said right the contrary ; and then I took 
right hold, and jined the church, -- I did now, fact," said John, 
who had been all this time uncorking some very frisky bottled 
cider, which at this juncture he presented. 

"Ye 'd better jest put up here, now, till daylight," said he, 
heartily, " and I '11 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." 

" Ah ! well, then, if you must, I '11 go a piece with you, and 
show you a cross road that will take you there better than the 
road you came on. That road 's mighty bad." 

John equipped himself, and, with a lantern in hand, was 
soon seen guiding the senator's carriage towards a road that ran 
down in a hollow, back of his dwelling. When they parted, 
the senator put into his hand a ten-dollar bill. 

" It 's for her," he said, briefly. 

" Ay, ay," said John, with equal conciseness. 

They shook hands, and parted. 




^ HE 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, 
o. covered with an ironing-cloth ; a coarse but clean 
shirt or two, fresh from the iron, hung on the back of a chair 
by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had another spread out before her 
on the table. 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 

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 

" S'pose we must he resigned ; but, Lord ! how ken I 'i 
If I know'd anything whar you 's goin', or how they 'd sarve 
you ! Missis says she '11 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 '11 be the same God there, Chloe, that there is 



; Well," said Aunt Cliloe, " s'pose 

dere will ; but de Lord 
I don't seem to get no 

lets dreiful tilings happen, sometimes, 
comfort dat way." 

" I 'm in the Lord's hands," said Tom; "nothin' can go no 
furder than he lets it ; and thar 's one thing I can thank him 
for. It 's me that 's sold and going down, and not you nur the 
chil'en. Here you 're safe ; what comes will come only ou 
me ; and the Lord, he '11 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 
a?id strong. 

" Let 's think on our marcies ! " he added, tremulously, as J ' 
he was quite sure he needed to think on them very hard iil 

" Marcies ! " said Aunt Chloe ; " don't see no marcy in 't ! 
't an't right ! 't an't right it should be so ! Mas'r never ought 
ter left it so that ye could be took for his debts. Ye 've arnf 
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' mo. 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 '11 be up to 'em ! " 

" Chloe ! now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when perhaps 
jest the last time we '11 ever have together ! And I '11 tell ye, 
Chloe, it goes agin me to hear one word agin Mas'r. Warn't he 
put in my arms a baby 1 it 's natur I should think a heap of 
him. And he could n't be spected to think so much of poor 
Tom. Mas'rs 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' I 've had 1 And he 
never would have let this yer come on me, if he could have 
seed it aforehand. I know he would n't." 

" Wai, any way, thar 's wrong about it someivhar" said Aunt 
Chloe, in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant 
trait ; " I can't jest make out whar 't is, but thar 's wrong some- 
whar, I 'm dar o' that." 

" Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above, he 's above all, 
thar don't a sparrow fall without him." 

" It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter," said 
Aunt Chloe. " But dar 's no use talkin' ; I '11 jes wet up de 
corn-cake, and get ye one good breakfast, 'cause nobody knows 
when you '11 get another." 

In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold 
south, it must be remembered that all the instinctive affections 
of that race are peculiarly strong. Their local attachments are 
very abiding. They are not naturally daring and enterprising, 
but home-loving and affectionate. Add to this all the terrors 
with which ignorance invests the unknown, and add to this, 
again, that selling to the south is set before the negro from 
childhood as the last severity of punishment. The threat that 
terrifies more than whipping or torture of any kind is the threat 
of being sent down river. We have ourselves heard this 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 traveller returns." 

A missionary among the fugitives in Canada told us that 


many of the fugitives confessed themselves to have escaped 
from comparatively kind masters, and that they were induced 
to brave the perils of escape, in almost every case, by the des- 
perate horror with which they regarded being sold south, a 
doom which was hanging either over themselves or their hus- 
bands, their wives or children. This nerves the African, 
naturally patient, timid, and unenterprising, with heroic cour- 
age, and leads him to suiter hunger, cold, pain, the perils of 
the wilderness, and the more dread penalties of recapture. 

The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs. 
Shelby had excused Aunt Chloe's attendance at the great house 
that morning. The poor soul had expended all her little en- 
ergies 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, " han't we got a bus- 
ter of a breakfast ! " at the same time catching at a fragment 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 ! " 

" 0, Chloe ! " said Tom, gently. 

" Wai, I can't help it," said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face in. 
her apron ; " I 's so tossed about, it makes me act ugly." 

The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father and 
then 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 something. 
This yer 's my nicest chicken. Thar, boys, ye shall have some, 
poor critturs ! Yer mammy 's been cross to yer." 

The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with 
great zeal for the eatables ; and it was well they did so, as 
otherwise there would have been very little performed to any 
purpose by the party. 

" ^ow," said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, " I 
must put up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he '11 take 'em all 
away. I know thar ways, mean as dirt, they is ! Wai, 
now, yer flannels for rhumatis is in this corner ; so be car'ful, 
'cause there won't nobody make ye no more. Then here 's yei 


old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed off these yer 
stockings last night, and put de hall in 'em to mend with. 
But Lor ! who '11 ever mend for ye 1 " 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 break- 
fast-table, began now to take some thought of the case ; and, 
seeing their mother crying, and their father looking very sad, 
began to whimper and put their hands to their eyes. Uncle 
Tom had the baby on his knee, and was letting her enjoy 
herself to the utmost extent, scratching his face and pulling 
his hair, and occasionally breaking out into clamorous explo- 
sions of delight, evidently arising out of her own internal re- 

"Ay, crow away, poor crittur!" said Aunt Chloe; "ye '11 
have to come to it, too ! ye '11 live to see yer husband sold, or 
mebbe be sold yerself ; and these yer boys, they 's to be sold, 
I s'pose, too, jest like as not, when dey gets good for somethin' ; 
an't no use in niggers havin' nothin' ! " 

Here one of the boys called out, " Thar 's Missis a-comin' 

" She can't do no good ; what 's she coming for? " said Aunt 

Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in a 
manner decidedly gruff and crusty. She did not seem to notice 
either the action or the manner. She looked pale and. anxious. 

"Tom," she said, "I come to- "and stopping suddenly, 
and 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, burst- 
ing out in her turn ; and for a few moments they all wept in 
company. And in those tears they all shed together, the high 
and the lowly, melted away all the heart-burnings and anger 
of the oppressed. 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 any- 
thing to do you any good. If I give you money, it will only be 
taken from you. But I tell you solemnly, and before 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 recapturing 
his prey. 

" Come," said he, "ye nigger, ye 'r ready? Servant, ma'am ! " 
said he, taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby. 

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, particularly among the women. 

"Why, Chloe, you bar it better 'n we do ! " said one of the 
women, who had been weeping freely, noticing the gloomy 
calmness with which Aunt Chloe stood by the wagon. 

" I '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 

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 unneces- 


" Don' 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 1 " said Aunt Chloe, 
indignantly, while the two boys, who now seemed to compre- 


hend at once their father's destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing 
and groaning vehemently. 

" I 'm sorry," said Torn, " that Mas'r George happened to *oe 

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, mournful 
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 lirst feeling, after the 
consummation of the bargain, had been that of relief. But his 
wife's expostulations awoke his half-slumbering regrets ; and 
Tom's manly disinterestedness increased the unpleasantness of 
his feelings. It was in vain that he said to himself that he 
had a right to do it, that everybody did it, and that some 
did it without even the excuse of necessity ; he could not 
satisfy his own feelings ; and that he might not witness the 
unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a short 
business tour up the country, hoping that all would be ovei- 
before he returned. 

Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling 
past every old familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate were 
fairly passed, and they found themselves out on the open pike. 
After they had ridden about a mile, Haley suddenly drew up 
at the door of a blacksmith's shop, when, taking out with him 
a pair of 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 an't Shelby's Tom. He han'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 need n't go to fetterin' him up this yer 
way. He 's the faithfullest, best crittur " 

_" Yes, yes," said Haley ; "but your good fellers are just the 
critturs to want ter run off. Them stupid ones, as does n't care 
whar they go, and shifless, drunken ones, as don't care fbi 


nothin', they '11 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 '11 use 'em, no 

" Well," said the smith, feeling among his tools, " theni 
plantations down thar, stranger, an't jest the place a Kentuck 
nigger wants to go to ; they dies thar tol'able fast, don't 
they 1 " 

" Wai, 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. 

" Wai, now, a feller can't help thinkin.' it 's a mighty pity 
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 planta- 

" Wai, he 's got a fa'r chance. I promised to do well by 
him. I '11 get him in house-servant in some good old family, 
and then, if he stands the fever and 'climating, he '11 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 '11 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 scolding with energy. 

" I declare, it 's real mean ! I don't care what they say, any 
of 'em ! It 's a nasty, mean shame ! If I was a man, they 
shouldn't do it, they should not, so!" said George, with a 
kind of subdued howl. 

" 0, Mas'r George ! this does me good ! " said Tom. " I 
could n't bar to go off without seein' ye ! It does me real good, 
ye can't tell ! " Here Tom made some movement of his feet, 
and George's eye fell on the fetters. 

" What a shame ! " he exclaimed, lifting his hands. " I '11 
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, 
is n't it a shame ? They never sent for me, nor sent me 


any word, and, if it had n't been for Tom Lincon, I should n't 
have heard it. 1 tell you, I blew 'em up well, all of 'em, at 
home ! " 

" That ar was n't right, I 'm 'feared, Mas'r George." 
" Can't help it ! I say it 's a shame ! Look here, Uncle 
Tom," said he, turning his back to the shop, and speaking in a 
mysterious tone, " / 've brought you my dollar ! " 

" 0, I could n't think o' takin' on 't, Mas'r George, no ways 
in the world ! " said Tom, quite moved. 

" But you shall take it ! " said George ; " look here, I told 
Aunt Chloe 1 '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 good." 
"Well, I won't, for your sake," said George, busily tying 
his dollar round Tom's neck ; " but there, now, button your 
coat tight over it, and keep it, and remember, every time you 
see it, that I '11 come down after you, and bring you back. 
Aunt Chloe and I have been talking about it. I told her not 
to fear ; I '11 see to it, and I '11 tease father's life out, if he 
don't do it." 

" 0, Mas'r George, ye must n't talk so 'bout yer father ! " 
" Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad." 
" And now, Mas'r George," said Tom, " ye must be a good 
boy ; 'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep 
close to yer mother. Don't be gettin' into any of them foolish 
ways boys has of gettin' too big to mind their mothers. Tell 
ye what, Mas'r George, the Lord gives good many things twice 
over ; but he don't give ye a mother but once. Ye '11 never 
see sich another woman, Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hun- 
dred years old. So, now, you hold on to her, and grow up, 
and be a comfort to her, tnar 's my own good boy, you will 
now, won't ye ? " 

" Yes, I will, Uncle Tom," said George, seriously. 
"And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young 
boys, when they conies to your age, is wilful, sometimes, --it 's 
natur they should be. But real gentlemen, such as I hopes 
you '11 be, never lets fall no words that is n't 'spectful to thar 
parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George 1 " 

" No, indoed, Uncle Tom ; you always did give me good 


"I'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 ir 
you. 0, Mas'r George, you has everything, 1'arnin', privi- 
leges, readin', writin', and you '11 grow up to be a great, 
learned, good man, and all the people on the place and your 
mother and father '11 be so proud on ye ! Be a good Mas'r, 
like yer father ; and be a Christian, like yer mother. 'Member 
yer Creator in the days o' yer youth, Mas'r George." 

" I '11 be real good, Uncle Tom, I tell you," said George. 
" I 'm going to be a first-rater ; and don't you be discouraged. 
I '11 have you back to the place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe 
this morning, I '11 build your house all over, and you shall 
have a room for a parlor with a carpet on it, when I 'm a man. 
0, you '11 have good times yet ! " 

Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his 

" 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. 

" I should think you 'd be ashamed to spend all your life 
buying men and women, and chaining them, like cattle ! I 
should think you 'd feel mean ! " said George. 

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

" I '11 never do either, when I 'm a man," said George , 
'' I 'm ashamed, this day, that I 'm a Kentuckian. I always 
was proud of it before " ; and George sat very straight on his 
horse, and looked round with an air, as if he expected the state 
would be impressed with his opinion. 

" Well, good by, Uncle Tom ; keep a stiff upper lip," said 

" Good by, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly and 
admiringly at him. " God Almighty bless you ! Ah ! Ken- 
tucky han't got many like you ! " he said, in the fulness of his 
heart, as the frank, boyish face was lost to his view. Away 
he went, and Tom looked, till the clatter of his horse's heels 
died away, the last sound or sight of his home. But over his 
heart there seemed to be a warm spot, where those young 
hands had placed that precious dollar. Tom put up his hand.., 
ard held it close to his heart. 


'',Now, I tell ye what, Tom," said Haley, as he came up 
to the wagon, and threw in the handcuffs, " I mean to start 
fa'r with ye, as I gen'ally do with my niggers ; and I '11 tell 
ye now, to begin with, you treat me fa'r, and I '11 treat you. 
t'a'r ; I an't never hard on my niggers. Calculates to do the 
best for 'em I can. Now, ye see, you 'd better jest settle down 
comfortable, and not be tryin' no tricks ; because nigger's tricks 
of all sorts I 'm up to, and it 's no use. If niggers is quiet, 
and don't try to get off, they has good times with me ; and if 
they don't, why, it 's thar fault, and not mine." 

Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions of 
running off. In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a super- 
fluous one to a man with a great pair of iron fetters orj his feet. 
But Mr. Haley had got in the habit of commencing his relations 
with his stock with little exhortations of this nature, calculated, 
as he deemed, to inspire cheerfulness and confidence, and pre- 
vent the necessity of any unpleasant scenes. 

And here, for the present, we take our leave of Tom, to pur- 
sue the fortunes of other characters in our story. 




was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveller 
alighted at the door of a small country hotel, in the 
village of N , in Kentucky. In the bar-room 
he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company, 
whom stress of weather had driven to harbor, and 
the place presented the usual scenery of such reunions. Great, 
taD, raw-boned Kentuckians, attired in hunting-shirts, and 
trailing their loose joints over a vast extent of territory, with 
the easy lounge peculiar to the race, rifles stacked away in 
the corner, shot-pouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs, and little 
negroes, all rolled together in the corners, were the char- 
acteristic features in the picture. At each end of the fireplace 
sat a long-legged gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his hat 
on his head, and the heels of his muddy boots reposing sub- 
limely on the mantel-piece, a position, we will inform our 
readers, decidedly favorable to the turn of reflection incident to 
western taverns, where travellers exhibit a decided preference 
for this particular mode of elevating their understandings. 

Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his coun- 
trymen, 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 char 
acteristic emblem of man's sovereignty ; whether it were felt 
hat, palm-leaf, greasy beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it re- 
posed 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 in- 
dependently 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 Shakespearian study. 

Divers negroes, in very free-and-easy pantaloons, and wit?; 
no redundancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither 
and thither, without bringing to pass any very particular re- 
sults, except expressing a generic willingness to turn over 
everything in creation generally for the benefit of Mas'r and his 
guests. Add to this picture a jolly, crackling, rollicking fire, 
going rejoicingly up a great wide chimney, -- the outer door 
and every window being set wide open, and the calico 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 

Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustration of 
the doctrine of transmitted instincts and peculiarities. His 
fathers were mighty hunters, --men who lived in the woods, 
and slept under the free, open heavens, with the stars to hold 
their candles ; and their descendant to this day always acts as 
if the house were his camp, -- wears his hat at all hours, 
tumbles himself about, and puts his heels on the tops of chairs 
or mantel-pieces, just as his father rolled on the greensward, 
and put his upon trees and logs, keeps all the windows and 
doors open, winter and summer, that he may get air enough for 
his great lungs, calls everybody " stranger," with nonchalant 
bonhommie, and is altogether the frankest, easiest, most jovial 
creature living. 

Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller 
entered. He was a short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with 
a round, 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 
illastrated the end of the mantel-piece, who was spitting from 
right to left, with a courage and energy rather alarming ta 
gentlemen of weak nerves and particular habits. 


" I say, stranger, hew are ye ? " said the aforesaid gentle- 
man, 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 1 " said the respondent, taking out a strip oi 
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 gentleman 
a bit of his tobacco, with a decidedly brotherly air. 

" No, thank ye, it don't agree with me," said the little 
man, edging off. 

" Don't, eh ? " said the other, easily, and stowing away the 
morsel in his own mouth, in order to keep up the supply of 
tobacco-juice, for the general benefit of society. 

The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start whenever 
his long-sided brother fired in his direction ; and this being 
observed by his 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. 

" What 's that 1 " said the old gentleman, observing 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 six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; 
is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write; will 
probably try to pass for a white man; is deeply scarred on his back 
and shoulders; has been branded in his right hand with the let- 
ter H. 

" I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the same 
sum for satisfactory proof that he has been killed." 

The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to end, 
in a low voice, as if he were studying it. 

The long-legged veteran, who had been besieging the fire- 
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 1 " said mine host. 

"I 'd do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he 
was here," said the long man, coolly resuming his old employ- 
ment of ciitting tobacco. "Any man that owns a boy like 
that, and can't find any better way o' treating on him, deserves 
to lose him. Such papers as these is a shame to Kentucky ; 
that 's my mind right out, if anybody wants to know ! " 

" Well, now, that 's a fact," said mine host, as he made an 
entry in his book. 

" I 've got a gang of boys, sir," said the long man, resuming 
his attack on the fire-irons, " and I jest tells 'em, ' Boys,' 
says I, - - ' run now ! dig ! put ! jest when ye want to ! I 
never shall come to look after you ! ' That 's the way I keep 
mine. Let 'em know they are free to run any time, and it jest 
breaks up their wanting to. More 'n all, I 've got free papers 
for 'em all recorded, in case I gets keeled up any o' these times, 
and they knows it ; and I tell ye, stranger, there an't a fellow 
in our parts gets more out of his niggers than I do. Why, my 
boys have been to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars' worth 
of colts, and brought me back the money, all straight, time 
and agin. It stands to reason they should. Treat 'em like 
dogs, and you '11 have dogs' works and dogs' actions. Treat 
"em like men, and you '11 have men's works." And the honest 
drover, in his warmth, indorsed this moral sentiment by firing 
a perfect feu de, joie at the fireplace. 

" I think you 're altogether right, friend," said Mr. Wilson ; 
" and this boy described here is a fine fellow, no mistake 
about that. He worked for me some half-dozen years in my 
bagging factory, and he was my best hand, sir. He is an 
ingenious fellow, too : he invented a machine for the cleaning 
of hemp, a really valuable affair ; it 's gone into use in sev- 
eral factories. His master holds the patent of it." 

"I'll 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 would n't." 


" That is to say, the Lord made 'em men, and it 's a hard 
squeeze getting 'em down into beasts," said the drover, dryly. 

" Bright niggers isn't no kind of 'vantage to their masters," 
continued the other, well intrenched, in a coarse, unconscious 
obtuseness, from the contempt of his opponent ; " what 's the 
use o' talents and them things, if you can't get the use on 'em 
yourself 1 ? Why, all the use they make on 't is to get round you. 
1 've had one or two of these fellers, and I jest sold 'em dowi 
river. I knew I 'd got to lose 'em, first or last, if I did n't." 

" Better send orders up to the Lord, to make you a set, and 
Jeave 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 appear- 
auce, and a well-dressed, gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with 
a colored servant driving. 

The whole party examined the new-comer with the interest 
with which a set of loafers in a rainy day usually examine every 
new-comer. He was very tall, with a dark, Spanish com- 
plexion, tine, 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 iinely formed limbs, 
impressed the whole company instantly with the idea of some- 
thing uncommon. He walked easily in among the company, and 
".vita a nod indicated to his waiter where to place his trunk, 
bowed to the company, and, with his hat in his hand, walked 
up leisurely to the bar, and gave in his name as Henry Butler, 
Oaklands, Shelby County. 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, did n't we 1 " 

" Yes, Mas'r," said Jim, " only I an't sure about the hand." 

" Well, I did n'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, hur- 
rying, 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 en- 
tered 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 
if 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. u I beg your pardon, I did n't recollect 
you before. I see you remember me, Mr. Butler, of Oak- 
lands, Shelby County." 

"Ye yes yes, sir," said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking 
in a divam. 

Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that MasYs 
room was ready. 

" Jim, see to the trunks," said the gentleman, negligently ; 
then addressing himself to Mr. Wilson, he added, " I should 
like to have a few moments' conversation with you on business, 
in my room, if you please." 

Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep ; 
and they proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new- 
made fire was crackling, and various servants flying about, put- 
ting finishing touches to the arrangements. 

When all was done, and the servants departed, the young 
man deliberately locked the door, and putting the key in his 
pocket, faced about, and folding his arms on his bosom, looked 
Mr. Wilson full in the face. 

" George ! " said Mr. Wilson. 

" Yes, George," said the young man. 

" I could n't have thought it ! " 

" I am pretty well disguised, I fancy," said the young man, 
with a smile. " A little walnut bark has made my yellow skin 
a genteel brown, and I 've dyed my hair black ; so you see I 
don't answer to the advertisement at all." 

" 0, George ! but this is a dangerous game you are playing. 
I could not have advised you to it." 

" I can do it on my own responsibility," said George, with 
the same proud smile. 

We remark, en passant, that George was, by his father's 
side, of white descent. His mother was one of those unfor- 
tunates of her race, marked out by personal beauty to be the 
slave of the passions of her possessor, and the mother of chil- 
dren who may never know a father. From one of the proud- 
est families in Kentucky he had inherited a set of fine Euro- 
pean features, and a high, indomitable spirit. From his mother 
he had received only a slight mulatto tinge, amply compensated 
by its accompanying rich, dark eye. A slight change in the 
\int of the skin and the color of his hair had metamorphosed 
'aim into the Spanish-looking fellow he then appeared ; and aa 


gracefulness of movement and gentlemanly manners had always 
been perfectly natural to him, IK; found no difficulty in playing 
the bold part he had adopted, that of a gentleman travelling 
with his domestic. 

Mr. VVilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety and cau- 
tious 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 cer- 
tain confused notion of maintaining law and order : so, as he 
shambled about, he delivered himself as follows : - 

"Well, George, I s'pose you're running away, -- leaving 
your lawful master, George, (I don't wonder at it), at the 
same time, I'm sorry, George, yes, decidedly,--! think I 
must say that, George, it 's my duty to tell you so." 

" Why are you sorry, sir 1 " said George, calmly. 

" Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposition 
to the laws of your country." 

" My country ! " said George, with a strong and bitter em- 
phasis ; " 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 reprehensi- 
bly, --I can't pretend to defend him. But you know how 
the angel commanded Hagar to return to her mistress, and sub- 
mit herself under her hand ; and the apostle sent back Onesi- 
mus 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 Provi- 
dence, George, don't you see 1 " 

George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded 



tightly over his broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his 

" I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and 
take you a prisoner away from your wife and children, and 
want to keep you all your life hoeing corn for them, if you 'd 
think it your duty to abide in the condition in which you were 
called. I rather think that you 'd think the first stray horse 
you could find an indication of Providence, should n't 
you ? " 

The little old gentleman stared with both eyes at this illus- 
tration of the case ; but, though not much of a reasoner, he 
had the sense in which some logicians on this particular sub- 
ject do not excel, that of saying nothing, where nothing 
could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking his umbrella, 
and folding and patting down all the creases in it, he 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 '11 only abuse you, and half 
kill you, and sell you down river." 

" Mr. Wilson, I know all this," said George. " I do run a 
risk, but " he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pis- 
tols and a bowie-knife. " There ! " he said, " I 'm ready for 
'em ! Down south I never will go. No ! if it conies 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 /, 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 1 " 

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 with all his 
heart, and had a sort of dim and cloudy perception of the 
style of feeling that agitated him ; but he deemed it his duty 
to go on talking good to him, with infinite pertinacity. 

" George, this is bad. I must tell you, you know, as a 
friend, you 'd better not be meddling with such notions ; they 
are bad, George, very bad, for boys in your condition, - 
very " ; and Mr. Wilson sat down to a table, and began ner- 
vously chewing the handle of his umbrella. 

" See here, now, Mr. Wilson," said George, coming up and 
seating 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 1 Look at my face, look at my hands, - - look 
at my body," and the young man drew himself up proudly ; 
" why am I not a man, as much as anybody ] Well, Mr. Wil- 
son, hear what I can tell you. I had a father one of your 


Kentucky gentlemen who did n't think enough of me to 
keep rue from being sold with his dogs and horses, to satisfy 
the estate, when he died, I saw my mother put up at sheriff's 
sale, with her seven children. They were sold before her eyes, 
one by one, all to different masters ; and I was the youngest. 
She came and kneeled down before old Mas'r, and begged him 
to buy her with me, that she might have at least one child with, 
her ; and he kicked her away with his heavy boot. I saw*, 
him do it ; and the last that I heard was her moans and 
screams, when I was tied to his horse's neck, to be carried off 
to his place." 

" Well, then 1 " 

" 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 could n't do anything to help her ; and 
she was whipped, sir, for wanting to live a decent Christian 
life, such as your laws give no slave girl a right to live ; and at 
last I saw her chained with a trader's gang, to be sent to mar- 
ket in Orleans, --sent there for nothing else but that, and 
that 's the last I know of her. Well, I grew up, long years 
and years, - - no father, no mother, no sister, not a living soul 
that cared for me more than a dog ; nothing but whipping, 
scolding, starving. Why, sir, I 've been so hungry that I have 
been glad to take the bones they threw to their dogs ; and yet, 
when I was a little fellow, and laid awake whole nights and 
cried, it was n't the hunger, it was n't the whipping, I cried for. 
No, sir ; it was for my mother and my sisters, it was because 
1 had n'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 something 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 she is. When I 
found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely could be- 
lieve I was alive, I was so happy ; and, sir, she is as good as 
she is beautiful. But now what ? Why, now comes my mas- 


ter, takes me right away from my work, and my friends, and 
all I like, and grinds me down into the very dirt ! And why 1 
Because, he says, I forgot who I was ; he says, to teach me 
that I am only a nigger ! After all, and last of all, he comes 
between me and my wife, and says I shall give her up, and live 
with another woman. And all this your laws give him power 
to do, in spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it ! There 
is n't one of all these things, that have broken the hearts of my 
oother and my sister, and my wife and myself, but your laws 
ilow, and give every man power to do, in Kentucky, and none 
^an say to him nay ! Do you call these the laws of my coun- 
try 1 Sir, I have n't any country, any more than I have nny 
father. But I 'm going to have one. I don't want anything 
of your country, except to be let alone, to go peaceably out 
of it ; and when I get to Canada, where the laws will own me 
and protect me, that shall be my country, and its laws I will 
obey. But if any man tries to stop me, let him take care, for 
I am desperate. I '11 fight for my liberty to the last breath I 
breathe. You say your fathers did it ; if it was right for 
them, it is right for me ! " 

This speech, delivered partly while sitting at the table, and 
partly walking up and down the room, delivered with tears, 
and flashing eyes, and despairing gestures, - - was altogether 
too much for the good-natured old body to whom it was ad- 
dressed, who had pulled out a great yellow silk pocket-handker- 
chief, and was mopping up his face with great energy. 

" Blast 'em all ! " he suddenly broke out. " Have n't I al- 
ways said so, the infernal old cusses ! I hope I an't swear- 
ing, now. Well ! go ahead, George, go ahead ; but be care- 
ful, my boy ; don't shoot anybody, George, unless well - 
you 'd better not shoot, I reckon ; at least, I would n't hit 
anybody, you know. Where is your wife, George ? " he added, 
as he nervously rose, and began walking the room. 

" Gone, sir, gone, with her child in her arms, the Lord only 
knows where ; gone after the north star ; and when we ever 
meet, or whether we meet at all in this world, no creature can 

" Is it possible ! astonishing ! from such a kind family?" 

" Kind families get in debt, and the laws of our country 
allow them to sell the child out of its mother's bosom to pay 
"its master's debts," said George, bitterly. 

" Well, well," said the honest old man, fumbling in his 


pocket. " I s'pose, perhaps, I an't following my judgment, 
hang it, I ivont follow my judgment ! " he added, suddenly ; 
"so here, George," and, taking out a roll of hills 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 every- 
where ; can't have too much, if you get it honestly. Take 
'it, do take it, now, - - do, my boy ! " 

" On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time, 
I will," said George, taking up the money. 

" And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this 
way ] not long or far, I hope. It 's well carried on, but too 
bold. And this black fellow, who is he ? " 

" 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 come all the way back to comfort her, and get a 
chance to get her away." 

"Has he got her?" 

" Not yet ; he has been hanging about the place, and found 
no chance yet. Meanwhile, he is going with me as far as 
Ohio, to put me among friends that helped him, and then he 
will come back after her." 

" Dangerous, very dangerous ! " said the old man. 

George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully. 

The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sort 
of innocent wonder. 

" George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You 
hold up your head, and speak and move like another man," 
said Mr. Wilson. 

" Because I 'm a freeman ! " said George, proudly. " Yes, 
sir ; I 've said Mas'r for the last time to any man. J 'mfree ! " 

" Take care ! You are not sure, you may be taken." 

" All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that, 
Mr. Wilson," said George. 

" I 'm perfectly dumfoundered 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 would n't know me. Jim's master don't live 


in this county ; he is n'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." 

" JJut the mark in your hand 1 " 

George drew off his glove, and showed a newly healed scar 
in his hand. 

" That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris's regard," he said, 
scornfully. " A fortnight ago, he took it into his head to give 
it to me, because he said he believed I should try to get away 
one of these days. Looks interesting, does n't it 1 " he said, 
drawing his glove on again. 

" I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it, 
your condition and your risks ! " said Mr. Wilson. 

" Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson ; at pres- 
ent, it 's about up to the boiling point," said George. 

" Well, my good sir," continued George, 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 bring me 
out. I leave early to-morrow morning, before daylight ; by to- 
morrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio. I shall travel by 
daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the dinner-tables with 
the lords of the land. So, good by, sir ; if you hear that I 'in 
taken, you may know that I 'm dead ! " 

George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the 
air of a prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily, 
and after a little shower of caution, he took his umbrella, and 
fumbled his way out of the room. 

George stood thoughtfully looking at the door, as the old 
man closed it. A thought seemed to flash across his mind. 
He hastily stepped to it, and, opening it, said, - 

" Mr. Wilson, one word more." 

The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, 
locked the door, and then stood for a few moments looking on 1 
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, - - 1 want to ask one last deed of Christian 
kindness of you." 

" Well, George." 

" Well, sir, what you said was true. I am running a 
dreadful risk. There is n'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 '11 think of it a day after, only my poor wife } 
Poor soul ! she '11 mourn and grieve ; and if you 'd only con- 
trive, Mr. Wilson, to send this little pin to her. She gave if 
to me for a Christmas present, poor child ! Give it to her, and 
tell her I loved her to the last. Will you 1 Will you ] " he 
added, earnestly. 

"Yes, certainly, -- poor fellow !" said the old gentleman, 
taking the pin, with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in 
his voice. 

" 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. Wilson, will you 1 " 

" Yes, George, I '11 tell her ; but I trust you won't die ; take 
heart, - - you 're a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I 
wish in my heart you were safe through, though, that 's 
What I do." 

" Is there a God to trust in ] " said George, in such a tone 
of bitter despair as arrested the old gentleman's words. " O, 
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 to us. There 's a God for you, but is there any for us ? " 

" 0, 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 about him, but righteousness 
and judgment are the habitation of his throne. There 's a God, 
George, believe it ; trust in him, and I 'm sure he '11 help 
you. Everything will be set right, if not in this life, in 

The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man in- 
vested 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 '11 think oj 




"InRamah there was a voice heard, weeping, and lamentation, and 
great mourning ; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be com- 

HALEY and Tom jogged onward in their 
wagon, each, for a time, absorbed in his own re- 
flections. 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 Avonderful what a variety we shall find in these 
same reflections ! 

As, for example, Mr. Haley : he thought first of Tom's length, 
and breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he was 
kept fat and in good case till he got him into market. He 
thought of how he should make out his gang ; he thought of 
the respective market value of certain supposititious men and 
women and children who were to compose it, and other kindred 
topics of the business ; then he thought of himself, and how 
humane he was, that whereas other men chained their " niggers " 
hand and foot both, he only put fetters on the feet, and left 
Tom the use of his hands, as long as he behaved well ; and he 
sighed to think how ungrateful human nature Avas, so that there 
was even room to doiibt whether Tom appreciated his mercies. 
He had been taken in so 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 words of an unfash- 
ionable old book, which kept running through his head again 
and again, as follows : " We have here no continuing city, but 
we seek one to come ; wherefore God himself is not ashamed 
to be called our God; for he hath prepared for us a city." 
These words of an ancient volume, got up principally by 


" ignorant and unlearned men," have, through all time, kept 
up, somehow, a strange sort of power over the minds of poor, 
simple fellows, like Tom. They stir up the soul from its depths, 
and rouse, as with trumpet call, courage, energy, and enthu- 
siasm, where before was only the blackness of despair. 

Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, and 
began looking over their advertisements, with absorbed interest. 
He was not a remarkably fluent reader, and was in the habit of 
reading in a sort of recitative half-aloud, by way of calling in 
his ears to verify the 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 : Ha- 
gar, 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 Blutchlbrd, Esq. 



" 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, Tom ; it '11 make it sociable 
and pleasant like, good company will, ye know. We must 
drive right to Washington first and foremost, and then I '11 clap 
you into jail, while I does the business." 

Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly ; sim- 
ply 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 confessed, too, that 
the naive, off-hand information that he was to be thrown into 
jail by no means produced an agreeable impression on a poor 
fellow who had always prided himself on a strictly honest and 
upright course of life. Yes, Tom, we must confess it, was 
rather proud of his honesty, poor fellow, not having very 
much else to be proud of; if he had belonged to some of 
the higher walks of society, he, perhaps, would never have 
been reduced to such straits. However, the day wore on, 
and the evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accom- 
modated 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 respec- 
tive tastes and turns, waiting for the auction to commence. 
The men and women to be sold sat in a group apart, talking in 
a low tone to each other. The woman who had been adver- 
tised by the name of Hagar was a regular African in feature 
and figure. She might have been sixty, but was older than 
that by hard work and disease, was partially blind, and some- 
what crippled with rheumatism. 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 successively sold away from her to a southern mar- 
ket. The mother held on to him with both her shaking hands, 
and eyed with intense trepidation every one who walked up to 
examine him. 

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

" Dey need n't call me worn out yet," said she, lifting her 
shaking hands. " I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour, -- 1 'm 
wuth a buying, if I do come cheap ; tell 'em dat ar, you 
tell 'em," she added, earnestly. 

Haley here forced his way into the group, walked up to the 
old man, pulled his mouth open and looked in, felt of his teeth, 
made him stand and straighten himself, bend his back, and 
perform various evolutions to show his muscles; and then 
passed on to the next, and put him through the same trial. 
Walking up last to the boy, he felt of his arms, straightened 
his hands, and looked at his fingers, and made him jump, to 
show his agility. 

" He an't gwine to be sold widout me ! " said the old woman, 
with passionate eagerness ; " he and I goes in a lot together ; 
I 's rail strong yet, Mas'r, and can do heaps o' work, heaps 
on it, Mas'r." 

" On plantation] " said Haley, with a contemptuous glance. 
" Likely story ! " and, as if satisfied with his examination, he 
walked out and looked, and stood with his hands in his pocket, 
his cigar in his mouth, and his hat cocked on one side, readj 
for action. 

" What think of 'em 1 " said a man who had been follow- 
ing Haley's examination, as if to make up his own mind 
from it. 


" Wai," said Haley, spitting, " I shall put in, I think, for 
the youngerly ones and the boy." 

" They want to sell the boy and the old woman together," 
said the man. 

" Find it a tight pull ; why, she 's an old rack o' bones, 
not worth her salt." 

" You would n't, then 1 ?" said the man. 

" Anybody 'd be a fool '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, 

" No go, 't all," said Haley ; " would n't take her for a 
present, fact, -- I 've seen, now." 

" Wai, 't is kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her son, 
her heart seems so sot on him, s'pose they fling her in 

" Them that 's got money to spend that ar way, it 's all 
well enough. I shall bid off on that ar boy for a plantation- 
hand ;-- wouldn't be bothered with her, no way, not if 
they 'd give her to me," said Haley. 

" She '11 take on desp't," said the man. 

" Nat'lly, she will," said the trader, coolly. 

The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum in 
the audience ; and the auctioneer, a short, bustling, important 
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 '11 put 
us up togedder," she said. 

" O, mammy, I 'ni '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 commence. 
A place was cleared, and the bidding began. The different 
men on the list were soon knocked off at prices which showed 
a pretty brisk demand in the market ; two of them fell k 

" Come now, young un," said the auctioneer, giving the boy 
a toucli 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 figure, alert limbs, and bright face raised an instant 
competition, 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 oue 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 '11 die if I do, that 's the kink of it," said Haley, 
" no ! " And he turned on his heel. 

The bidding for the poor old creature was summary. The 
man who had addressed Haley, and who seemed not destitute 
of compassion, bought her for a trifle, and the spectators began 
to disperse. 

The poor victims of the sale, who had been brought up in 
one place together for years, gathered round the despairing old 
mother, whose agony was pitiful to see. 

"Couldn't dey leave me one? Mas'r 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, sorrowfully. 

" What good will it do 1 " said she, sobbing passionately. 
" Mother, mother, don't ! don't ! " said the boy. " They 
say you 's got a good master." 

" I don't care, I don't care. 0, Albert ! 0, my boy, you 's 
my last baby. Lord, how ken 1 1 " 

" Come, take her off, can't some of ye 1 " 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 together, 
and producing a bundle of handcuffs, which he proceeded to 
put on their wrists ; and fastening each handcuff to a long 
chain, he drove them before him to the jail. 

A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely deposited 
on one of the Ohio boats. It was the commencement of his 
gang, to be augmented, as the boat moved on, by various other 
merchandise of the same kind, which he, or his agent, had 
stored for him in various points along shore. 

The La Belle Riviere, as brave and beautiful a boat as evei 


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 privileges, as they sat in a knot, talking 
to each other in low tones. 

" Boys," said Haley, coming up, briskly, " I hope you keep- 
up good heart, and are cheerful. Now, no sulks, ye see ; keep 
stiff upper lip, boys ; do well by me, and I '11 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 chil- 
dren, seen for the last time, ami though "they that wasted 
them required of them mirth," it was not instantly forthcoming. 

" I 've got a wife," spoke out the article enumerated as 
"John, aged thirty," and he- laid his chained hand on Tom's 
knee, " and she don't know a word about this, poor girl ! " 

" Where does she live 1 " 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 ivas 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, hus- 
bands and wives ; and merry, dancing children moved round 
among them, like so many little butterflies, and everything was 
going on quite easy and comfortable. 

" 0, 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. 


" O, there 's a great deal to be said on both sides of the sub- 
ject," 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 bet- 
ter 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 dread- 
ful part of slavery, to my mind, is its outrages on the feelings 
and affections, the separating of families, for example." 

" That is a bad thing, certainly," said the other lady, hold- 
ing up a baby's dress she had just completed, and looking 
intently on its trimmings ; " but then, I fancy, it don't occur 

" 0, 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 chil- 
dren, there, should be taken from you, and sold ? " 

" We can't reason from our feelings to those of this class of 
persons," said the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her 

" Indeed, ma'am, you can know nothing of them, if you say 
so," answered the first lady, warmly. " I was born and brought 
up among them. I know they do feel, just as keenly even 
more so, perhaps as we do." 

The lady said " Indeed ! " yawned, and looked out the cabin 
window, and finally repeated, for a finale, the remark with 
which she had begun, "After all, I think they are better off 
than they would be to be free." 

" It 's undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the Af- 
rican 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 
lie be,' the scripture says." 

" I say, stranger, is that ar what that text means ? " said a tall 
man, standing by. 

" Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutable 
reason, to doom the race to bondage, ages ago ; and we must 
not set up our opinion against that." 

" Well, then, we '11 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 listen- 
ing 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, an't it, stranger 1 " said he 
to Haley. 

" I never thought on 't," said Haley. " I could n't have said 
as much, myself; I han't no laming. I took up the trade just 
to make a living ; if 't an't right, I calculated to 'pent on 't in 
time, ye know." 

"And now you '11 save yerself the trouble, won't ye 1 ? " said 
the tall man. " See what 't is, now, to know scripture. If 
ye 'd only studied yer Bible, like this yer good man, ye might 
have know'd it before, and saved ye a heap o' trouble. Ye 
could jist have said, ' Cussed be " -what 's his name? and 
't would all have come right." And the stranger, who was 
no other than the honest drover Avhom 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 suppose," he added, "that 
is scripture, as much as ' Cursed be Canaan.' " 

" Wai, it seems quite a* 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 1 " 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 unfortunate 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 clay 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 humanity 
and God before, stood with folded arms, looking on this scene. 
He turned, and Haley was standing at his side. 

" My friend," he said, speaking with thick utterance, " how 
can you, how dare you, carry on a trade like this? Look at 
those poor creatures ! Here I urn, rejoicing in my heart that 
I am going home to my wife and child ; and the same bell 
which is a signal to carry me onward towards them will part 
this poor man and his wife forever. Depend upon it, God 
will bring you into judgment for this." 

The trader turned away in silence. 

" I say, now," said the drover, touching his elbow, " there 's 
differences in parsons, an't there 1 ' Cussed be Canaan ' don't 
seem to go down with this 'un, does it ? " 

Haley gave an uneasy growl. 

" And that ar an't the worst on 't," said John ; " mabbe it 
won't go down with the Lord, neither, when ye come to settle 
with him, one o' these days, as all on us must, I reckon." 


Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat. 

" If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next gangs," 
he thought, " I reckon I '11 stop off this yer ; it 's really get- 
ting dangerous." And he took out his pocket-book, and 
began adding over his accounts, a process which many gen- 
tlemen besides Mr. Haley have found a specific for an uneasy 

The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went 
on merrily, as before. Men talked, and loafed, and read, and 
smoked. Women sewed, and children played, and the boat 
passed on her way. 

One day, when she lay to for a while at a small town in 
Kentucky, Haley went up into the place on a little matter of 

Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderate 
eircuit, had drawn near the side of the boat, and stood list- 
lessly 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 hei 
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. 

The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of 
the lower deck, and, sitting down, busied herself with chirrup- 
ing 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 vehe- 

" I don't believe it, - - 1 won't believe it ! " he heard her say. 
" You 're jist a foolin' with me." 

" If you won't believe it, look here ! " said the man, drawing 
out a paper ; " this yer 's the bill of sale, and there 's your 
master's name to it ; and I paid down good solid cash for it, 
too, I can tell you, so, now ! " 

" I don't believe Mas'r would cheat me so ; it can't be 
true ! " said the woman, with increasing agitation. 


" You can ask any of these men here, that can read writing. 
Here ! " he said, to a man that was passing by, " jist read this 
yer, won't you ! This yer gal won't believe me, when I tell 
her what 't is." 

" AVhy, it 's a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick," said 
the man, " making over to you the girl Lucy and her child. 
It 's all straight enough, for aught I see." 

The woman's passionate exclamations collected a crowd 
around her, and the trader briefly explained to them the cause 
of the agitation. 

" He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to hire 
out as cook to the same tavern where my husband works, - 
that 's what Mas'r told me, his own self ; and I can't believe 
!he 'd lie to me," said the woman. 

" But he has sold you, my poor woman, there 's no doubt 
about it," said a good-natured looking man, who had been ex- 
amining the papers ; " he has done it, and no mistake." 

" Then it 's no account talking," said the woman, suddenly 
growing quite calm ; and, clasping her child tighter in her 
arms, she sat down on her box, turned her back round, and 
gazed listlessly into the river. 

" Going to take it easy, after all ! " said the trader. " Gal 's 
eot srrit. I see." 


The woman looked calm, as the boat went on ; and a beau- 
tiful soft summer breeze passed like a compassionate spirit over 
her head, the gentle breeze, that never inquires whether the 
brow is dusky or fair that it fans. And she saw sunshine 
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 doAvn, crowing and chatting, 
seemed determined to arouse her. She strained him suddenly 
and tightly in her arms, and slowly one tear after another fell 
on his wondering, unconscious face ; and gradually she seemed, 
and little by little, to grow calmer, and busied herself with 
tending and nursing him. 

The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large and 
strong of his age, and very vigorous in his limbs. Never, for 
a moment, still, he kept his mother constantly busy in holding 
him, and guarding his springing activity. 

" That 's a fine chap ! " said a man, suddenly stopping op- 
posite to him, with his hands in his pockets. " How old it) 

" Ten months and a half," said tho mother. 

The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of a stick 
of candy, which he eagerly grabbed at, and very soon had it in 
a baby's general depository, to wit, his mouth. 

" Paim fellow ! " said the man. " Knows what 's what ! " 
and he whistled, and walked on. When he had got to the other 
side of the boat, he came across Haley, who was smoking on 
top of a pile of boxes. 

The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying, 
as he did so, - 

" Decentish kind o' wench you 've got round there, stranger." 

" Why, I reckon she is tol'able fair," said Haley, blowing the 
out of his mouth. 

" Taking her down south 1 " said the man. 

Haley nodded, and smoked on. 

" Plantation hand 1 " said the man. 

" Wai," said Haley, " I 'm fillin' out an order for a planta- 
tion, and I think I shall put her in. 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. 


" They won't want the young un on a plantation," said the 

" I shall sell him, first chance I find," said Haley, lighting 
another cigar. 

" S'pose you 'd be selling him tol'able cheap," said the 
stranger, mounting the pile of boxes, and sitting down com- 

" Don't know "bout that," said Haley ; " he 's a pretty smart 
young un, straight, fat, strong ; flesh as hard as a brick ! " 

" Very true, but then there 's all the bother and expense of 


" Nonsense ! " said Haley ; " they is raised as easy as any 
kind of crittur there is going ; they an't a bit more trouble 
than pups. This yer chap will be running all round, in a 

" I 've got a good place for raisin', and I thought of takin' 
in a little more stock," said the man. " One cook lost a young 
un last week, got drownded in a washtub, 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 would n't think of wantin' more than ten dollars for 
that ar chap, seeing you must get him off yer hand, any how 1 " 

Haley shook his head, and spit impressively. 

" That won't do, no ways/' he said, and began his smoking 


" Well, stranger, what will you take 1 " 

" Well, now," said Haloy, " I could raise that ar chap myself, 

or get him raised ; he 's oncoinmon 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." 

" 0, stranger! that's rediculous, altogether," said the man. 

" Fact ! " said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head. 

" I '11 give thirty for him," said the stranger, " but not a cent 


" Now, I '11 tell ye what I will do," said Haley, spitting 
again, with renewed decision. " I '11 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 1 " 

" At Louisville." said the mau. 

" 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,--! like to do every- 
thing quietly, -- 1 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, stretch- 
ing far over them, strained her eyes intently on the moving heads 
on the shore, and the crowd pressed in between her and the child. 

" 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 carefully, and was 
soon lost in the crowd that went up the wharf. 

When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, had 
loosed from the wharf, and was beginning slowly to strain her- 
sjelf along, the woman returned to her old seat. The trader was 
sitting there, the child was gone ! 

" Why, why, where 1 " she began, in bewildered surprise. 

" Lucy," said the trader, " your child 's gone ; you may as 
veil know it first as last. You see, I know'd you could n't 
take him down south ; and I got a chance to sell him to a first- 
rate family, that '11 raise him better than you can." 

The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian and politi- 
cal perfection which has been recommended by some preachers 
and politicians of the north, lately, in which he had completely 
(ivercoiue every humane weakness and prejudice. His heart 
was exactly where yours, sir, and mine could be brought, with 
proper effort and cultivation. The wild look of anguish and 
utter despair that the woman cast on him might have disturbed 
one less practised ; but he was used to it. He had seen that 
e&me look hundreds of times. You can get used to such things, 


too, my friend ; and it is the great object of recent efforts to 
make our whole northern community used to them, for the 
glory of the Union. So the trader only regarded the mortal 
anguish which he saw working in those dark features, those 
clenched hands, and suffocating breathings, as necessary inci- 
dents 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 decidedly disliked 

But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed too 
straight and direct through the heart, for cry or tear. 

Dizzily she sat down. Her slack hands fell lifeless by her 
side. Her eyes looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. 
All the noise and hum of the boat, the groaning of the machinery, 
mingled dreamily to her bewildered ear ; and the poor, dumb- 
stricken heart had neither cry nor tear to show for its utter 
misery. She was quite calm. 

The trader, who, considering his advantages, was almost as 
humane as some of our politicians, seemed to feel called on to 
administer such consolation as the case admitted of. 

" I know this yer comes kinder hard, at first, Lucy," said 
he ; " but such a smart, sensible gal as you are, won't give way 
to it. You see it 's necessary, and can't be helped ! " 

" 0, 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 '11 
soon get another husband, such a likely gal as you - 

" 0, Mas'r, if you only won't talk to me now," said the 
woman, in a voice of such quick and living anguish that the 
trader felt that there was something at present in the case be- 
yond his style of operation. He got up, and the woman turned 
away, and buried her head in her cloak. 

The trader walked up and down for a time, and occasionally 
stopped and looked at her. 

" Takes it hard, rather," he soliloquized, "but quiet, tho' 
let her sweat awhile ; she '11 come right, by and by ! " 

Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to last, and 
had a perfect understanding of its results. To him, it looked 
like something unutterably horrible and cruel, because, poor, 
ignorant black soul ! he had not learned to 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 some Ameri- 
can divines tell us has no evils but such as are inseparable from 
any other relations in social and domestic life. But Tom, as 
we see, being a poor, ignorant fellow, whose reading had been 
confined entirely to the New Testament, could not comfort and 
solace himself with views like these. His very soul bled within 
lim for what seemed to him the wrongs of the poor suffering 
,hing 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 
tyhich she is lying. 

Tom drew near, and tried to say something ; but she only 

groaned. Honestly, and with tears running down his own 

iheeks, he spoke of a heart of love in the skies, of a pitying 

Jesus, and an eternal home ; but the ear was deaf with anguish, 

and the palsied heart could not feel. 

Night came on, night calm, unmoved, and glorious, shin- 
ing down with her innumerable and solemn angel eyes, twink- 
ling, beautiful, but silent. There was no speech nor language, 
no pitying voice nor 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 and anon, a smothered sob or cry from 
the prostrate creature, " Oh ! what shall I do 1 Lord ! O 
good Lord, do help me ! " and so, ever and anon, until the rnur' 
mur died away in silence. 

At midnight, Tom waked, with a sudden start. Something 
black passed quickly by him to the side of the boat, and he 
heard a splash in the water. No one else saw or heard any- 
thing. He raised his head, the woman's place was vacant ! 
He got up, and sought about him in vain. The poor bleeding 
heart was still, at last, and the river rippled and dimpled just 
as brightly as if it had not closed above it. 

Patience ! patience ! ye whose hearts swell indignant at 
wrongs like these. Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of 
the oppressed, is 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 



The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to see 
to his live-stock. It was now his turn to look about in per- 

" Where alive is that gal ] " he said to Tom. 

Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel, did 
not i'eel called on to state his observations and suspicions, but 
said he did not know. 

" She surely could n't have got off in the night at any of the 
landings, for I was awake, and on the lookout, whenever the 
boat stopped. I never trust these yer things to other folks." 

This speech was addressed to Tom quite confidentially, as if 
it was something that would be specially interesting to him. 
Tom made no answer. 

The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among boxes, 
bales, and barrels, around the machinery, by the chimneys, in 

" Now, I say, 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 a sleeping right 
there all the time. Now, you know something, you can't 
help it." 

"Well, Mas'r," said Tom, "towards morning something 
brushed by me, and I kinder half woke ; and then I hearn a 
great splash, and then I clare woke up, and the gal was gone. 
That 's all I know on V 

The trader was not shocked nor amazed ; because, as we 
said before, he was xised to a great many things that you are 
not used to. Even the awful presence of Death struck no 
solemn chill upon him. He had seen Death many times, 
met him in the way of trade, and got acquainted with him, 
and he only thought of him as a hard customer, that embar- 
rassed his property operations very unfairly ; and so he only 
swore that the gal was a baggage, and that he was devilish un- 
lucky, and that, if things went on in this way, he should not 
make a cent on the trip. In short, he seemed to consider him- 
self an ill-used man, decidedly ; but there was no help for it, 
as the woman had escaped into a state which never will give up 
a fugitive, not even at the demand of the whole glorious 
T Jnion. 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, is n't he, this trader] so un- 
feeling ! It 's dreadful, really ! " 

" 0, but nobody thinks anything of these traders ! They 
are universally despised, never received into any decent 

But who, sir, makes the trader ? Who is most to blame ] 
The enlightened, cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the 
system of which the trader is the inevitable result, or the poor 
trader himself 1 You make the public sentiment that calls for 
his trade, that debauches and depraves him, till he feels no 
shame in it ; and in what are you better than he ? 

Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he low, you 
refined and he coarse, you talented and he simple 1 

In the day of a future Judgment, these very considerations 
may make it more tolerable for him than for you. 

In concluding these little incidents of lawful trade, we must 
beg the world not to think that American legislators are en- 
tirely destitute of humanity, as might, perhaps, be unfairly 
inferred from the great efforts made in our national body to 
protect and perpetuate this species of traffic. 

Who does not know how our great men are outdoing them- 
selves, 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 so horrid ! It is not to 
be thought of ! But trading them from Kentucky, that 'a 
quite another thing ! 





QUIET scene now rises before us. A large, roomy, 
neatly painted kitchen, its yellow floor glossy and 
smooth, and without a particle of dust ; a neat, 
well-blacked cooking-stove ; rows of shining tin, 
suggestive of unmentionable good things to the 
appetite ; glossy green wood chairs, old and firm ; a small flag- 
bottomed rocking-chair, with a patchwork 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 invitation, seconded by the solicitation of 
its feather ciishions, 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 fine sewing, sat our old friend Eliza. Yes, there she is, 
paler and thinner than in her Kentucky home, with a world of 
quiet sorrow lying under the shadow of her long eyelashes, and 
marking the outline of her gentle mouth ! It was plain to see 
how old and firm the girlish heart was grown under the disci- 
pline of heavy sorrow ; and when, anon, her large dark eye 
vas 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 hers was one of those faces 
that time seems to touch only to brighten and adorn. The 
snowy lisse crape cap, made after the strait Quaker pattern, 
the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying in placid folds 
across her bosom, the drab shawl and dress, showed at 
once the community to which she belonged. Her face was 



round and rosy, with a healthful downy softness, suggestive of 
a ripe peach. Her hair, partially silvered by age, was parted 
smoothly back from a high placid forehead, on which time had 
written no inscription, except peace on earth, good-will to men, 
and beneath shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving brown 
eyes ; you only needed to look straight into them, to feel that 
you saw to the bottom of a heart as good and true as ever 
throbbed in woman's bosom. So much has been said and sung 
of beautiful young girls, why don't somebody wake up to the 
beauty of old women 1 If any want to get up an inspiration 
under this head, we refer them to our good friend Rachel Hal- 
liday, just as she sits there in her little rocking-chair. It had 

a turn for quacking and squeaking, -- that chair had, either 
from having taken cold in early life, or from some asthmatic affec- 
tion, or perhaps from nervous derangement ; but, as she gently 
swung backward and forward, the chair kept up a kind of sub- 
dued " creechy crawchy," that would have been intolerable in 


any other chair. But old Simeon Halliday often declared it 
was as good as any music to him, and the children all avowed 
that they would n't miss of hearing mother's chair for anything 
in the world. For why ? for twenty years or more, nothing 
but loving words, and gentle moralities, and motherly loving 
kindness, had come from that chair ; head-aches and heart- 
aches innumerable had been cured there, difficulties spiritual 
and temporal solved there, - - all by one good, loving woman, 
God bless her ! 

"And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza 1 ?" 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 '11 thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must 
think about that, my daughter." 

" My daughter " came naturally from the lips of Rachel 
Halliday ; for hers was just the face and form that made 
" mother" seem the most natural word in the world. 

Eliza's hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work ; 
but she answered, firmly, - 

" I shall do anything I can find. I hope I can find some- 

" Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases," 
said Rachel. 

" 0, 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 
must n't feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath 
a fugitive been stolen from our village. I trust thine will not 
be the first." 

The door here opened, and a little short, round, pincushiony 
woman stood at the door, with a cherry, blooming 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 1 " 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 he coaxed and cajoled into their place again ; 
and then the new-comer, who might have been five-and-twenty, 
turned from the small looking-glass, before which she had been 
making these arrangements, and looked well pleased, as most 
people who looked at her might have been, for she was de- 
cidedly 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." 

" I am glad to see thee, Eliza, very," said Ruth, shaking 
hands, as if Eliza were an old friend she had long been ex- 
pecting ; " and this is thy dear boy, - - 1 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. 

" 0, 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 chil- 

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 va- 
rious 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 
Jo 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 briskness. 

" Mary, thee 'd better fill the kettle, had n't thee 1 " 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 whispers from Rachel, 


were soon deposited, by the same hand, in a stewpan over the 

Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying 
on an apron, proceeded quietly to making up some biscuits, first 
saying to Mary, " Mary, had n't thee better tell John to get 
a chicken ready ? " and Mary disappeared accordingly. 

"And how is Abigail Peters '? " said Rachel, as she went on 
with her biscuits. 

" 0, she 's better," said Ruth ; " I was in, this morning, 
made the bed, tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in, this 
afternoon, and baked bread and pies enough to last some days ; 
and I engaged to go back to get her up, this evening." 

"I will go in to-morrow, and do any cleaning there may be, 
and look over the mending," said 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." 

"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 Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat 
and pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered. 

" How is thee, Ruth 1 " he said, warmly, as he spread his 
broad open hand for her little fat palm ; "and how is John?" 

" 0, John is well, and all the rest of our folks," said Ruth, 

"Any news, father 1 ?" 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 
bis hands at a neat sink, in a little back porch. 

" Indeed ! " said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing 
at Eliza. 

"Did thee say thy name was Harris 1 " said Simeon to Eliza, 
as he re-entered. 

Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously 
answered " Yes " ; her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that pos- 
sibly there might be advertisements out for her. 

" Mother ! " said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling 
Rachel out. 

" What does thee want, father 1 ?" said Rachel, rubbing her 
floury hands, as she went into the porch. 


" This child's husband is in the settlement, and will be here 
to-night," said Simeon. 

" Now, thee does n't say that, father 1 ?" said Eachel, 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 1 " said Simeon. 

" Let 's tell Euth," said Eachel. " Here, Euth, come here." 

Euth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back 
porch in a moment. 

"Euth, what does thee think?" said Eachel. "Father says 
Eliza's husband is in the last company, and will be here to- 

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 Eachel, gently ; " hush, Euth ! 
Tell us, shall we tell her now 1 " 

" Now ! to be sure, this very minute. Why, now, sup- 
pose 't was my John, how should I feel 1 Do tell her, right 

" Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor, 
Euth," said Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Euth. 

" To be sure. Is n't it what we are made for? If I did n'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 Eachel's arm. "Take her into thy bedroom, 
there, and let me fry the chicken while thee does it." 

Eachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing, 
and opening the door of a small bedroom, said, gently, " Come 
in here with me, my daughter ; I have news to tell thee." 

The blood flushed in Eliza's pale face ; she rose, trembling 
with nervous anxiety, and looked towards her boy. 

"No, no," said little Euth, 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 '11 see thy father, little one. Does thee know it 1 
Thy father is coming," she said, over and over again, as the 
boy looked wonderingly at her. 

Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. 
Rachel Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, " The Lord 
hath had mercy on thee, daughter ; thy husband hath escaped 
from the house of bondage." 

The blood flushed to Eliza's cheek in a sudden glow, and 
went back to her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down, 
pale and faint. 

" Have courage, child," said Rachel, laying her hand on her 
head. " He is among friends, who will bring him here to- 

" 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 feel- 
ing of security and rest came over her ; and, as she lay, with 
her large, dark eyes open, she followed, as in a quiet dream, 
the motions of those about her. She saw the door open into 
the other room ; saw the supper-table, with its snowy cloth ; 
heard the dreamy murmur of the singing teakettle ; saw Ruth 
tripping backward and forward, with plates of cake and saucers 
of preserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a cake into 
Harry's hand, or pat his head, or twine his long curls round 
her snowy fingers. She saw the ample, motherly form of 
Rachel, as she ever and anon came to the bedside, and smoothed 
and arranged something about the bedclothes, and gave a tuck 
here and there, by way of expressing her good-will ; and was 
conscious of a kind of sunshine beaming down upon her from 
her large, clear, brown eyes. She saw Ruth's husband come 
in, saw her fly up to him, and commence whispering very 
earnestly, ever and anon, with impressive gesture, pointing her 
little linger toward the room. She saw her, with the baby in 


her arras, sitting down to tea ; she saw them all at table, and 
little Harry in a high-chair, under the shadow of KachePs 
ample wing ; there were low murmurs of talk, gentle tinkling 
of teaspoons, and musical clatter of cups and saucers, and all 
mingled in a delightful dream of rest ; and Eliza slept, as she 
had not slept before, since the fearful midnight hour when she 
had taken her child and fled through the frosty starlight. 

She dreamed of a beautiful country, a land, it seemed to 
her, of rest, green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully 
glittering water ; and there, in a house which kind voices told 
her was a home, she saw her boy playing, a free and happy 
child. She heard her husband's footsteps ; she felt him com- 
ing nearer ; his arms were around her, his tears falling on her 
face, and she awoke ! It was no dream. The daylight had 
long faded ; her child lay calmly sleeping by her side ; a candle 
was burning dimly on the stand, and her husband was sobbing 
by her pillow. 

The next 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 " Had n't thee better 1 ? " in the 
work of getting breakfast ; for a breakfast in the luxurious 
valleys of Indiana is a thing complicated and multiform, and, 
like picking up the rose-leaves and trimming the bushes in 
Paradise, asking other hands than those of the original mother. 
While, therefore, John ran to the spring for fresh water, and 
Simeon the second sifted meal for corn-cakes, and Mary ground 
coffee, Rachel moved gently and quietly about, making bis- 
cuits, cutting up chicken, and diffusing a sort of sunny radi- 
ance over the whole proceeding generally. If there was any 
danger of friction or collision from the ill-regulated zeal of so 
many young operators, her gentle " Come ! come ! " or " I 
would n't, now," was quite sufficient to allay the difficulty. 
Bards have written of the cestus of Venus, that turned the 
heads of all the world in successive generations. We had 
mther, for our part, have the cestus of Rachel Halliday, that 
kept heads from being turned, and made everything go on 
harmoniously. We think it is more suited to our modern 
days, decidedly. 


While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the 
elder stood in his shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass in 
the corner, engaged in the anti-patriarchal operation of shav- 
ing. Everything went on so sociably, so quietly, so harmoni- 
ously, in the great kitchen, - it seemed so pleasant to every 
one to do just what they were doing, there was such an atmos- 
phere of mutual coulideuce and good-fellowship everywhere, 
even the knives and forks had a social clatter as they went on 
to the table ; and the chicken and haui had a cheerful and joy- 
ous fizzle iu 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 won- 
der 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 transferred 
quite handily to the table. 

Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the 
head of her table. There was so much ruotherliness and tull- 
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 sim- 
ple, 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 unconscious acts of love and good-will, which, 
like the cup of cold water given in the name of a disciple, shall 
never lose their reward. 

" Father, what if thee should get found out again ? " said 
Simeon second, as he buttered his cake. 

" I should pay my fine," said Simeon, quietly. 

" But what if they put thee in prison 1 " 

" Could n't thee and mother manage the farm 1 " said Simeon, 


" Mother can do almost everything," said the boy. " But is 
n't it a shame to make such laws 1 " 

"Thee mustn't speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon," said his 
father, gravely. " The Lord only gives us our worldly goods 
that we may do justice and mercy ; if our rulers require a price 
of us for it, we must deliver it up." 

" Well, I hate those old slaveholders ! " said the boy, who 
felt as unchristian as became any modern reformer. 

" I am surprised at thee, son," said Simeon ; " thy mother 
never taught thee so. I would do even the same for the slave- 
holder as for the slave, if the Lord brought him to my door in 

Simeon second blushed scarlet ; but his mother only smiled, 
and said, " Simeon is my good boy ; he will grow older, by 
and by, and then he will be like his father." 

" I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any diffi- 
culty on our account," said George, anxiously. 

" Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the 
world. If we would not meet trouble for a good cause, we 
were not worthy of our name." 

" But, for me," said George, " I could not bear it." 

" Fear not, then, friend George ; it is not for thee, but for 
God and man, we do it," said Simeon. " And now thou must 
lie by quietly this day, and to-night, at ten o'clock, Phineas 
Fletcher will carry thee onward to the next stand, thee and 
the rest of thy company. The pursuers are hard after thee ; 
we must not delay." 

" If that is the case, why wait till evening?" said George. 

" Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settle- 
ment is a Friend, and all are watching. It has been found safei 
to travel by night." 





" A young star ! which shone 
O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass ! 
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded ; 
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded." 

HE Mississippi ! How, as by an enchanted wand, 
have its scenes been changed, snipe Chateaubri- 
and wrote his prose-poetic description of it, as a 
river of mighty, unbroken solitudes, rolling amid 
undreamed wonders of vegetable and animal 

But, as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance 
has emerged to a reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. 
What other river of the world bears on its bosom to the ocean 
the wealth and enterprise of such another country 1 ? a coun- 
try whose products embrace all between the tropics and the 
poles ! Those turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing along, 
an apt resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is 
poured along its wave by a race more vehement and energetic 
than any the old world ever saw. Ah ! would that they did 
not also bear along a more fearful freight, the tears of the 
oppressed, the sighs of the helpless, the bitter prayers of poor, 
ignorant hearts to an unknown God, unknown, unseen, and 
silent, but who will yet " come out of his place to save all the 
poor of the eartli ! " 

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 on- 

Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over 
deck and sides, till she seems in the distance a square, massive 
block of gray, she moves heavily onward to the nearing mart. 


We must look some time among its crowded decks before \ve 
Bluill tind again our humble friend Tom. High on the upper 
deck, in a little nook among the everywhere predominant cot- 
ton-bales, at last we may find him. 

Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby's representa- 
tions, 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 1 
manner led him gradually to discontinue these restraints, and 
for some time Tom had enjoyed a sort of parole of honor, 
being permitted to come and go freely where he pleased on the 

Ever quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a 
hand in every emergency which occurred among the workmen 
below, he had won the good opinion of all the hands, and 
spent many hours in helping them with as hearty a good-will 
as ever he worked on a Kentucky farm. 

When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he would 
climb to a nook among the cotton-bales of the upper deck, and 
busy himself in studying over his Bible, and it is there we 
see him now. 

For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the river 
is higher than the surrounding country, and rolls its tremen- 
dous volume between massive levees twenty feet in height. 
The traveller from the deck of the steamer, as from some 
floating castle top, overlooks the whole country for miles and 
miles around. Tom, therefore, had spread out full before him, 
in plantation after plantation, a map of the life to which he 
was approaching. 

He saw the distant slaves at their toil ; he saw afar their 
villages of huts gleaming out in long rows on many a planta- 
tion, distant from the stately mansions and pleasure-grounds 
of the master ; and as the moving picture passed on, his 
poor, foolish heart would be turning backward to the Ken- 
tucky farm, with its old shadowy beeches, -- to the master's 
house, with its wide, cool halls, and, near by, the little cabin, 
overgrown with the multiflora and bignonia. There he seemed 
to see familiar faces of comrades, who had grown up with him 
from infancy ; he saw his busy wife, bustling in her prepara- 


tions 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 messages 
to your children ; but Tom could not write, the mail for him 
had no existence, and the gulf of separation was unbridged 
by even a friendly word or signal. 

Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages of hia 
Bible, as he lays it on the cotton-bale, and, with patient finger, 
threading his slow way from word to word, traces out its prom 
ises ] Having learned late in life, Tom was but a slow reader, 
and passed on laboriously from verse to verse. Fortunate for 
him was it that the book he was intent on was one which slow 
reading cannot injure, nay, one whose words, like ingots ot 
gold, seem often to need to be weighed separately, that the 
mind may take in their priceless value. Let us follow him a 
moment, as, pointing to each word, and pronouncing each hah 
aloud, he reads, 

Let not your heart be troubled. In my 
Father's house are many mansions. I go to - 
prepare a place for you." 

Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had 
a heart as full of honest grief as poor Tom's, - - perhaps no 
fuller, for both were only men ; but Cicero could pause over 
no such sublime words of hope, and look to no such future 
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 trans- 
lation. But, to poor Torn, 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 1 ? 

As for Tom's Bible, though it had no annotations and helpr 
in margin from learned commentators, still it had been embel- 
lished with certain way-marks and guide-boards of Tom's own 
invention, and which helped him more than the most learned 
expositions could have done. It had been his custom to get 
the Bible read to him by his master's children, in particular 
by young Master George ; and, as they read, he would desig- 


nate, by bold, strong marks and dashes, with pen and ink, the 
passages which more particularly gratihed 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 gentleman 
of fortune and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore thft 
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 undei 
her charge. 

Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl, for she 
was one of those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no mor*- 
contained in one place than a sunbeam or a summer breeze, 
nor was she one that, once seen, could be easily forgotten. 

Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its 
usual chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was about 
it an undulating and aerial grace, such as one might dream ot 
for some mythic and allegorical being. Her face was remark- 
able, less for its perfect beauty of feature than for a singular 
and dreamy earnestness of expression, which made the ideal 
start when they looked at her, and by which the dullest and 
most literal were impressed, without exactly knowing why. 
The shape of her head and the turn of her neck and bust were 
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. 
Nevertheless, the little one was not what you would have 
called either a grave child or a sad one. On the contrary, an 
airy and innocent playfulness seemed to nicker like the shallow 
of summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoy 
ant figure. She was always in motion, always with a hall- 
smile on her rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an 
undulating and cloud-like tread, singing to herself as she 
moved, as in a happy dream. Her father and female guardian 


were incessantly busy in pursuit of her, but, when caught, 
she melted from them again like a summer cloud ; 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, rleeted along. 

The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, some- 
times found those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging 
depths of the furnace, and fearfully and pityingly at him, as 
if she thought him in some dreadful danger. Anon the steers- 
man at the wheel paused and smiled, as the picture-like head 
gleamed through the window of the round house, and in a 
moment was gone again. A thousand times a day rough voices 
blessed her, and smiles of unwonted softness stole over hard 
faces, as she passed ; and when she tripped fearlessly over dan- 
gerous places, rough, sooty hands were stretched involuntarily 
out to save her, and smooth her path. 

Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly 
race, ever yearning toward the simple and childlike, watched 
the little creature with daily increasing interest. To him she 
seemed something almost divine ; and whenever her golden 
head and deep blue eyes peered out upon him from behind 
some dusky cotton-bale, or looked down upon him over some 
ridge of packages, he half believed that he saw one of the 
angels 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 sud- 
denly 'among them, with her hands full of candy, nuts, and 
oranges, which she would distribute joyfully to them, and then 
be gone again. 

Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he ventured 
on any overtures towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abun- 
dance of simple acts to propitiate and invite the approaches 
of the little people, and he resolved to play his part right 
skilfully. He could cut cunning little baskets out of cherry- 


stones, could make grotesque faces on hickory-nuts, or odd- 
jumping figures out of elder- pith, and he was a very Pan in 
the 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 fur 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 Torn, while busy in the little arts aforenamed, and take 
from him, with a kind of grave bashfulness, the little articles 
he offered. But at last they got on quite confidential terms. 

" What 's little missy's name 1 " said Tom, at last, when ho 
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 1 " 

" 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, I 
like you," said Eva. " So, Uncle Tom, where are you going 1 " 

11 1 don't know, Miss Eva." 

" Don't know 1 " said Eva. 

" No. I am going to be sold to somebody. I don't know 

"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 in 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 railings 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 out 
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-hearted strife among the female occupants generally, as to 
who should do the most things to make a disturbance, and to 
hinder her recovery in every way possible. 

It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamer 
drew near to New Orleans. A general bustle of expectation 
and preparation was spread through the boat ; in the cabin, 
one and another were gathering their things together, and 
arranging them, preparatory to going ashore. The steward 
and chambermaid, and all, were busily engaged in cleaning, 
furbishing, and arranging the splendid boat, preparatory to a 
grand entree. 

On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded, 
and anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes towards a 
group on the other side of the boat. 

There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day 
before, but otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accident 
which had befallen her. A graceful, elegantly formed young 
man stood by her, carelessly leaning one elbow on a bale of 
cotton, while a large pocket-book lay open before him. It 
was quite, evident, at a glance, that the gentleman was Eva's 
father. There was the same noble cast of head, the same 
large blue eyes, the same golden-brown hair ; yet the expres- 
sion 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 beauti- 
fully cut mouth had a proud and somewhat sarcastic expres- 
sion, while an air of free-and-easy superiority sat not ungrace- 
fully in every turn and movement of his fine form. He was 
listening, with a good-humored, negligent air, half comic, halt 
contemptuous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating on 
the quality of the article for which they were bargaining. 

"All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black mo- 



rocco, complete ! " he said, when Haley had finished. " Well, 
now, my good fellow, what 's the damage, as they say in Ken- 
tucky ; in short, what 's to be paid out for this business ] How 
much are you going to cheat me, now ? Out with it ! " 

" Wai," said Haley, " if I should say thirteen hundred dol- 
lars for that ar fellow, I should n't but just save myself; I 
should n't, now, re'ly." 

" Poor fellow ! " said the young man, fixing his keen, mock- 
ing blue eye on him ; "but I suppose you '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." 

" 0, 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 ] " 


"Wai, now, just think on't," said the trader ; "just look at 
them limbs, --broad-chested, strong as ahorse. Look at his 
head ; them high forrads allays shows calculatin' niggers, that '11 
do any kind o' thing. 1 've marked that ar. Now, a nigger of 
that ar heft and build is worth considerable, 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 do, in the world. Your smart fellows 
are always running off, stealing horses, and raising the devil 
generally. I think you '11 have to take off a couple of hundred 
for his smartness." 

" Wai, 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, the most humble, 
prayin', pious crittur ye ever did see. Why, he 's been called 
a preacher in them parts he came from." 

"And I might use him for a family chaplain, possibly," 
added the young man, dryly. " That 's quite an idea. Relig- 
ion is a remarkably scarce article at our house." 

" You 're joking, now." 

" How do you know I am 1 Did n't you just warrant him 
for a preacher 1 Has he been examined by any synod or coun- 
cil 1 Come, hand over your papers." 

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 Eva, softly, getting up on a package, and putting her 
arm around her father's neck. " You have money enough, I 
know. I want him." 

" What for, pussy ? Are you going to use him for a rattle- 
box, or a rocking-horse, or what 1 " 

" I want to make him happy." 


"An original reason, certainly." 

Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby, 
which the young man took with the tips of his long lingers, 
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 '11 cheat him next. I don't know, either, about religion's 
being up in the market, just now. I have not looked in the 
papers lately, to see how it sells. How many hundred dollars, 
now, do you put on for this religion 1 " 

" You like to be a jokin', now," said the trader ; " but, then, 
there 's sense under all that ar. I know there 's differences in 
religion. Some kinds is mis'rablc : there 's your meetin' pious ; 
there 's your singin', roarin' pious ; them ar an't no account, in 
black or white ; but these rayly is ; and I 've seen it in nig- 
gers as often as any, your rail softly, quiet, stiddy, honest 
pious, that the hull world could n't tempt 'em to do nothing 
that they thinks is wrong ; and ye see in this letter what Tom's 
old master says about him." 

" Now," said the young man, stooping gravely over his book 
of bills, " if you can assure me that 1 :really can buy this kind 
of pious, and that it will be set down to my account in the 
book up above, as something belonging to me, I would n't care 
if I did go a little extra for it. How d' ye say ] " 

" Wai, raily, I can't do that,'' said the trader. " I 'm a 
thinkin' that every man '11 have to hang on his own hook, in 
them ar quarters." 

" Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and 
can't trade with it in the state where he wants it most, an't it, 
now 1 ?" said the young man, who had been making out a roll 
of bills while he was speaking. " There, count your money, 
old boy ! " he added, as he handed the roll to the trader. 

" 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. 

" I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried," said 
the latter, as he ran over the paper, " how much I might 
bring. Say so much for the shape of my head, so much forn 


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 think- 
ing. But come, Eva," he said ; and taking the hand of his 
daughter, he stepped across the boat, and carelessly putting the 
tip of his linger under Tom's chin, said, good-humoredly, 
"Look up, Tom, and see how you like your new master." 

Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, 1 
young, handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure ; and Tom 
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 1 ? Tom 1 ? Quite 
as likely to do it for your asking as mine, from all accounts. 
Can you drive horses, Tom 1 " 

"I've been allays used to horses," said Tom. "Mas'r 
Shelby raised heaps on 'em." 

"Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition 
that you won't be drunk more than once a week, unless in 
cases of emergency, Tom." 

Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, " I never 
drink, Mas'r." 

" I 've heard that story before, Tom ; but then we '11 see. 
It will be a special accommodation to all concerned, if you 
don't. j> T 3ver mind, my boy," he added, good-humoredly, 
seeing Tom still looked grave ; " I don't doubt you mean to do 

" I sartin do, Mas'r," said Tom. 

" And you shall have good times," said Eva. " Papa is very 
good to everybody, only he always will laugh at them." 

" Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation," 
said St. Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked 




INGE the thread of our humble hero's life has now 
become interwoven with that of higher ones, it is 
necessary to give some brief introduction to them. 

Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy 
planter of Louisiana. The family had its origin in 
Canada. Of two brothers, very similar in temperament and 
characcer, one had settled on a flourishing farm in Vermont, 
and the other became an opulent planter in Louisiana. The 
mother of Augustine was a Huguenot French lady, whose 
family had emigrated to Louisiana during the days of its early 
settlement. Augustine and another brother were the only 
children of their parents. Having inherited from his mother 
an exceeding delicacy of constitution, he was, at the instance 
of physicians, during many years of his boyhood, sent to the 
care of his uncle in Vermont, in order that his constitution 
might be strengthened by the cold of a more bracing climate. 

In childhood, he was remarkable for an extreme and marked 
sensitiveness of character, more akin to the softness of woman 
than the ordinary hardness of his own sex. Time, however, 
overgrew this softness with the rough bark of manhood, and 
but few knew how living and fresh it still lay at the core. 
His talents were of the very first order, although his mind 
showed a preference always for the ideal and the assthetic, and 
there was about him that repugnance to the actual business of 
life which is the common result of this balance of the faculties. 
Soon after the completion of his college course, his whole nature 
was kindled into one intense and passionate effervescence o/ 
romantic passion. His hour came, the hour that comes onli 
once ; his star rose in the horizon, that star that rises s( 
often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams ; 
and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure, he saw and 
won the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of 


the northern states, and they were affianced. He returned 
south to make arrangements for their marriage, when, most 
unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by mail, with a 
short note from her guardian, stating to him that ere this 
reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung to 
madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling 
the whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort. Too 
proud to supplicate or seek explanation, he threw himself at 
once into a whirl of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from 
the time of the fatal letter was the accepted lover of the reign- 
ing belle of the season ; and as soon as arrangements could be 
made, he became the husband of a tine figure, a pair of bright 
dark eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and, of course, 
everybody thought him a happy fellow. 

The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and 
entertaining a brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa, 
near Lake Pontchartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought 
to him in that well-remembered writing. It was handed to him 
while he was in full tide of gay and successful conversation, in a 
whole roomful of company. He turned deadly pale when he 
saw the writing, but still preserved his composure, and finished 
the playful warfare of badinage which he was at the moment 
carrying on with a lady opposite ; and, a short time after, was 
missed 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, which were more bitter than 
death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to her imme- 
diately : 

" I have received yours, but too late. I believed all I 
heard. I was desperate. / am married, and all is over. Only 
forget, -- it is all that remains for either of us." 

And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for 
Augustine St. Clare. But the real remained, -- the real, like 
the flat, bare, oozy tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave, 


with all its company of gliding boats and white-winged ships, 
its music of oars and chiming waters, has gone down, and there 
it lies, flat, slimy, bare, exceedingly real. 

Of course, in a novel, people's hearts break, and they die, 
and that is the end of it j and in a story this is very convenient. 
But in real life we do not die when all that makes life bright 
dies to us. There is a most busy and important round of eating, 
drinking, dressing, walking, visiting, buying, .selling, talking, 
reading, and all that makes up what is commonly called living, 
yet to be gone through'; and this yet remained to Augustine. 
Had his wife been a whole woman, she might yet have done 
something as woman can to mend the broken threads of 
life, and weave them again into a tissue of brightness. BUG 
Marie St. Clare could not even see that they had been broken. 
As before stated, she consisted of a fine figure, a pair of splen- 
did 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 un- 
fortunate thing for her, because he did n'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 iindiscerning a woman ; but as the 
glosses and civilities of the honeymoon wore away, he dis- 
covered that a beautiful young woman, who has lived all her 
life to be caressed and waited on, might prove quite a hard 
mistress in domestic life. Marie never had possessed much 
capability of affection, or much sensibility, and the little that 
she had, had 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 oidy to study her caprices ; the idea that they had either 
feelings or rights had never dawned upon her, even in distant 
perspective. Her father, whose only child she had been, had 
never denied her anything that lay within the compass of 
human possibility ; and when she entered life, beautiful, ac- 
complished, and an heiress, she had, of course, all the eligibles 


and non-eligibles of the other sex sighing at her feet, and she 
had no doubt that Augustine was a 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 attentions 
which flowed at first through the habitude of courtship, he 
found his sultana no way ready to resign her slave ; there were 
abundance of tears, poutings, and small tempests, there were 
discontents, pinings, upbraidings. St. Clare was good-natured 
and self-indulgent, and sought to buy off with presents and 
flatteries ; and when Marie became mother to a beautiful 
daughter, he really felt awakened, for a time, to something like 

St. Clare's mother had been a woman of uncommon elevation 
and purity of character, and he gave to this child his mother's 
name, fondly fancying that she would prove a reproduction of 
her image. The thing had been remarked with petulant jeal- 
ousy by his wife, and she regarded her husband's absorbing 
devotion to the child with suspicion and dislike ; all that was 
given to her seemed so much taken from herself. From the 
time of the birth of this child, her health gradually sunk. A 
life of constant inaction, bodily and mental, the friction of 
ceaseless ennui and discontent, united to the ordinary weakness 
which attended the period of maternity, --in course of a few 
years changed the blooming young belle into a yellow, faded, 
sickly woman, whose time was divided among a variety of 
fanciful diseases, and who considered herself, in every sense, 
the most ill-used and suffering person in existence. 

There was no end of her various complaints ; but her prin- 
cipal forte appeared to lie in sick-headache, which sometimes 
would confine her to her room three days out of six. As, of 
course, all family arrangements fell into the hands of servants, 
St. Clare found his menage anything but comfortable. His 
only daughter was exceedingly delicate, and he feared that, with 
no one to look after her and attend to her, her health and life 
might yet fall a sacrifice to her mother's inefficiency. He had 
taken her with him on a tour to Vermont, and had persuaded 
his cousin, Miss Ophelia St. Clare, to return with him to his 



southern residence ; and they are now returning on this boat, 
where we have introduced them to our readers. 

And now, while the distant domes and spires of New Orleans 
rise to our view, there is yet time for an introduction to Miss 

Whoever has travelled in the New England States will re- 
member, 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 particle of litter in the 
turfy yard, with its clumps of lilac-bushes growing up under 
the windows. Within, he will remember wide, cleau 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 arrangements move with tha punctual exactness 
of the old clock in the corner. In the family " keeping-room," 
las it is termed, he will remember the staid, respectable old book- 
case, with its glass doors, where liollin'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 ser- 
vants in the house, but the lady in the snowy cap, with the 
spectacles, who sits sewing every afternoon among her daugh- 
ters, as if nothing ever had been done, or were to be done, - 
she and her girls, in some long-forgotten fore part of the day, 
" did up the work" and for the rest of the time, probably, at 
all hours when you would see them, it is "'done up." The old 
kitchen floor never seems stained or spotted ; the tables, the 
chairs, and the various cooking utensils never seem deranged 
or 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 existence. 

On such a farm, in such a house and family, Miss Ophelia 
had spent a quiet existence of some forty-five years, when her 
cousin invited her to visit his southern mansion. The eldest 
of a large family, she was still considered by her father and 
mother as one of " the children," and the proposal that she 
should go to Orleans was a most momentous one to the family 
circle. The old gray-headed father took down Morse's Atlas, 
out of the bookcase, 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 was n't an 
awful wicked place," saying, " that it seemed to her most equal 
to going to the Sandwich Islands, or anywhere among the 

It was known at the minister's, and at the doctor's, and at 
Miss Peabody's milliner shop, that Ophelia St. Clare was 
" talking about" going away down to Orleans with her cousin; 


and of course the whole village could do no less than help this 
very important process of talking about the matter. The min- 
ister, who inclined strongly to abolitionist views, was quite 
doubtful whether such a step might not tend somewhat to en- 
courage the southerners in holding on to their slaves ; while 
the doctor, who was a stanch colonizationist, inclined to the 
opinion that Miss Ophelia ought to go, to show the Orleans 
people that we don't think hardly of them, after all. He was 
of opinion, in fact, that southern people needed encouraging. 
When, however, the fact that she had resolved to go was 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. 
Miss Moseley, who came into the house to help to do the dress- 
making, acquired daily accessions of importance from the de- 
velopments with regard to Miss Ophelia's wardrobe which she 
had been enabled to make. It was credibly ascertained that 
Squire Sinclare, as his name was commonly contracted in the 
neighborhood, had counted out fifty dollars, and given them to 
Miss Ophelia, and told her to buy any clothes she thought best ; 
and that two new .silk dresses, and a bonnet, had been sent for 
from Boston. As to the propriety of this extraordinary outlay, 
the public mind was divided, some affirming that it was well 
enough, all things 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 hemstitched pocket-hand- 
kerchief ; 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 satisfactorily ascertained, and remains, in 
fact, unsettled to this day. 

Miss Ophelia, as you now behold her, stands before you, in 
a very shining brown linen travelling-dress, tall, square-formed, 
and angular. Her face was thin, and rather sharp in its out- 
lines ; the lips compressed, like those of a person who is in the 
habit of making up her mind definitely on all subjects ; while 
the keen, dark eyes had a peculiarly searching, advised move- 
ment, and travelled over everything, as if they were looking for 
something to take care of. 


All her movements were sharp, decided, and energetic ; and, 
though she was never much of a talker, her words were re- 
markably direct, and to the purpose, when she did speak. 

In her habits, she was a living impersonation of order, 
method, and exactness. In punctuality, she was as inevitable 
as a clock, and as inexorable as a railroad engine ; and she held 
in most decided contempt and abomination anything of a con- 
trary character. 

The great sin of sins, in her eyes, the sum of all evils, 
was expressed by one very common and important word in her 
vocabulary, --" shiftlessness." Her h'nale and ultimatum of 
contempt consisted in a very emphatic pronunciation of the 
word " shiftless " ; and by this she characterized all modes of 
procedure which had not a direct and inevitable relation to 
accomplishment of some purpose then definitely had in mind. 
People who did nothing, or who did not know exactly what 
they were going to do, or who did not take the most direct 
way to accomplish what they set their hands to, were objects 
of her entire contempt, a contempt shown less frequently by 
anything she said, than by a kind of stony grimness, as if she 
scorned to say anything about the matter. 

As to mental cultivation, she had a clear, strong, active 
mind, was well and thoroughly read in history and the older 
English classics, and thought with great strength within cer- 
tain narrow limits. Her theological tenets were all made up, 
labelled 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 matters of practical life, such as 
housekeeping in all its branches, and the various political rela- 
tions of her native village. And, underlying all, deeper than 
anything else, higher and broader, lay the strongest principle 
of her being, conscientiousness. Nowhere is conscience so 
dominant and all-absorbing as with New England women. It 
is the granite formation, which lies deepest, and rises out, even 
to the tops of the highest mountains. 

Miss Ophelia was the absolute bond-slave of the " ought." 
Once make her certain that the " path of duty," as she com- 
monly phrased it, lay in any given direction, and fire and water 
could not keep her from it. She would walk straight down 
into a well, or up to a loaded cannon's mouth, if she were only 
i^uite sure that there the path lay. Her standard of right wad 


so high, so all-embracing, so minute, and making so few con- 
cessions 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 constant and often harassing sense of defi- 
ciency ; this gave a severe and somewhat gloomy cast to her 
religious character. 

But, how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with 
Augustine St. Clare, gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical, scep- 
tical, in short, walking with impudent and nonchalant free- 
dom 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 hers to teach him his catechism, mend his 
clothes, comb his hair, and bring him up generally in the way 
he should go ; and her heart having a warm side to it, Augus- 
tine had, as he usually did with most people, monopolized a 
large share of it for himself, and therefore it was that he suc- 
ceeded very easily in persuading her that the " path of duty " 
lay in the direction of New Orleans, and that she must go with 
him to take care of Eva, and keep everything from going to 
wreck and ruin during the frequent illnesses of his wife. The 
idea of a house without anybody to take care of it went to her 
heart ; then she loved the lovely little girl, as few could help 
doing ; and though she regarded Augustine as very much of a 
heathen, yet she loved him, laughed at his jokes, and forbore 
with his failings, to an extent which those who knew him 
thought perfectly incredible. But what more or other is to be 
known of Miss Ophelia our reader must discover by a personal 

There she is, sitting now in her state-room, surrounded by a 
mixed multitude of little and big carpet-bags, boxes, baskets, 
each containing some separate responsibility which she is ty- 
ing, binding up, packing, or fastening, with a face of great ear- 

" Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things] Of course 
you have n't, children never do : there 's the spotted carpet- 
bag and the little blue bandbox with your best bonnet, 
that 's two ; then the India-rubber satchel is three ; and my 
tape and needle box is four ; and my bandbox, five ; and my 
collar-box, six ; and that little hair trunk, seven. What have 
you done with your sunshade 1 Give it to me, and let me put 
a paper round it, and tie it to my umbrella with my shade ; 
there, now." 


" Why, aunty, we are only going up home ; what is the 

" To keep it nice, child ; people must take care of their 
things, if they ever mean to have anything ; and now, Eva, is 
your thimble put up ? " 

" Really, aunty, I don't know." 

"Well, never mind; I '11 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 1 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 whatever it 


" Mercy on us, child, - what a way ! " 

" It was a very easy way, aunty," said Eva. 

" It 's a dreadful shiftless one," said aunty. 

" Why, aunty, what '11 you do now ? " said Eva ; " that 
trunk is too full to be shut down." 

" It muxt shut down," said aunty, with the air of a general, 
as she squeezed the things in, and sprung upon the lid ; - 
still a little gap remained about the mouth of the trunk. 

" Get up here, Eva ! " said Miss Ophelia, courageously ; 
" what has been done can be done again. This trunk has got 
to be shut and locked, -- there are no two ways about it." 

And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute state- 
ment, gave iu. The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss 
Ophelia turned the key, and pocketed it in triumph. 

" Now we 're ready. Where 's your papa ] I think it time 
this baggage was set out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you 
see your papa." 

" 0, 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 ; " had 
n't you better run and speak to him 1 " 

" Papa never is in a hurry about anything," said Eva, " and 
we have n't come to the landing. Do step on the guards, aunty 
Look ! there 's our house, up that street ! " 

The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast, tired 
monster, to prepare to push up among the multiplied steamers 
at the levee. Eva joyously pointed out the various spires, 
domes, and waymarks, by which she recognized her native city. 


" Yes, yes, dear ; very fine," said Miss Ophelia, "But mercy 
on us ! the boat has stopped ! where is your father 1 " 

And now ensued the usual turmoil of landing, waiters 
running twenty ways at once, men tugging trunks, carpet- 
bags, boxes, women anxiously calling to their children, and 
everybody crowding in a dense mass to the plank towards the 

Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the lately van- 
quished trunk, and marshalling all her goods and chattels in 
line military order, seemed resolved to defend them to the last. 

" Shall I take your trunk, ma'am 1 " " Shall I take your 
baggage 1 " " Let me 'tend to your baggage, Missis 1 ' 
"Shan't I carry out these yer, Missis V rained down upon 
her unheeded. She sat with grim determination, upright 
as a darning-needle stuck in a board, holding on her bundle 
of umbrella and parasols, and replying with a determination 
that was enough to strike dismay even into a hackrnan, won- 
dering to Eva, in each interval, " what upon earth her papa 
could be thinking of; he couldn't have fallen over, now, - 
but something must have happened " ; and just as she had 
begun to work herself into a real distress, he came up, with 
his usually careless motion, and giving Eva a quarter of the 
orange he was eating, said, - 

"Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready." 

" I 've been ready, waiting, nearly an hour," said Miss 
Ophelia ; "I began to be really concerned about you." 

" That 's a clever fellow, now," said he. " Well, the car- 
riage 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." 

" I '11 go and see to his putting them in," said Miss Ophelia. 

" 0, 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- 


" My dear Miss Vermont, positively, you must n'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 '11 take you for a waiting-maid ; give 
them to this fellow ; he '11 put them down as if they were eggs, 



Miss Ophelia looked despairingly, as her cousin took all her 
treasures from her, and rejoiced to tind herself once moreiii the 
carriage with them, in a state of preservation. 

" Where 's Tom ? " said Eva. 

" 0, 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." 

" 0, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know," said Eva } 
" he '11 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 enclosing a 
courtyard, into which the carriage drove through an arched 
gateway. The court, in the inside, had evidently been ar- 
ranged to gratify a picturesque and voluptuous ideality. Wide 
galleries ran all around the four sides, whose Moorish arches, 
slender pillars, and arabesque ornaments, carried the mind 
back, as in a dream, to the reign of oriental romance in Spain. 
In the middle of the court, a fountain threw high its silvery 
water, falling in a never-ceasing spray into a marble basin, 
fringed with a deep border of fragrant violets. The water in 
the fountain, pellucid as crystal, was alive with myriads of 
gold and silver fishes, twinkling and darting through it like so 
many living jewels. Around the fountain ran a walk, paved 
with a mosaic of pebbles, laid in various fanciful patterns ; 
and this, again, was surrounded by turf, smooth as green vel- 
vet, while a carriage-drive enclosed the whole. Two large 
orange-trees, now fragrant with blossoms, threw a delicious 
shade ; and, ranged in a circle round upon the turf, were mar- 
ble vases of arabesque sculpture, containing the choicest flow- 
ering plants of the tropics. Huge pomegranate trees, with 
their glossy leaves and flame-colored flowers, dark -leaved Ara- 
bian jessamines, with their silvery stars, geraniums, luxuriant 
roses bending beneath their heavy abundance of flowers, golden 
jessamines, lemon-scented verbenas, 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 en- 
chanter, 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 


drawn down at pleasure, to exclude the beams of the sun. OP 
the whole, the appearance of the place was luxurious and ro- 

As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready to 
burst from a cage, with the wild eagerness of her delight. 

" 0, is n't it beautiful, lovely ! my own dear, darling home !" 
she said to Miss Ophelia. " Is n't it beautiful 1 " 

" 'T is a pretty place," said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted ; 
"though it looks rather old and heathenish to me." 

Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an 
air of calm, still enjoyment. The negro, it must be remem- 
bered, 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 passion which, rudely in- 
dulged 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, hi? 
beaming black face perfectly radiant with admiration, he said, 

" Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you." 

" Yes, Mas'r, it looks about the right thing," said Tom. 

All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being 
hustled off, hackman paid, and while a crowd, of all ages and 
sizes, men, women, and children, came running through 
the galleries, both above and below, to see Mas'r come in. 
Foremost among them was a highly dressed young mulatto 
man, evidently a very distingue personage, attired in the ultra 
extreme of the mode, and gracefully waving a scented cambric 
hankerchief 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 

" 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 1 " 

All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with 
quite an air, and stood huddled together at a respectful dis- 
tance, except two stout porters, who came up and began con- 
veying away the baggage. 

Owing to Mr. Adolph's systematic arrangements, when St 
Clare turned round from paying the hackman, there was no- 


body in view but Mr. Adolph himself, conspicuous in satin 
vest, gold guard-chain, and white pants, and bowing with inex- 
pressible 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 before. 

" Well, well," said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air 
of negligent drollery, " that 's very well got up, Adolph. See 
that the baggage is well bestowed. . I '11 come to the people in 
a minute " ; and, so saying, he led Miss Ophelia to a large par- 
lor that opened on the veranda. 

While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird, 
through the porch and parlor, to a little boudoir opening like- 
wise on the veranda. 

A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman half rose from a couch on 
which she was reclining. 

"Mamma ! " said Eva, in a sort of rapture, throwing herself 
on her neck, and embracing her over and over again. 

" That '11 do, take care, child, don't, you make my head 
ache," said the mother, after she had languidly kissed her. 

St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, hus- 
bandly 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 respectable appearance, stood foremost, 
in a tremor of expectation and joy, at the door. 

" 0, there 's Mammy ! " said Eva, as she flew across the 
room ; and, throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her re- 

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 re- 
leased from her, Eva flew from one to another, shaking hands 
and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia afterwards declared 
fairly turned her stomach. 

" Well !" said Miss Ophelia, "you southern children can dc 
something that / could n't." 

" What, now, pray ] " said St. Clare. 

" Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I would n't 
have anything hurt ; but as to kissing " 



" Niggers," said St. Clare, " that you 're not up to, hey ? " 

" Yes, that 's it. How can she 1 " 

St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. " Halloa, 
here, what's to pay out here? Here, you all, Mammy, 
Jimmy, Polly, Sukey, glad to see Mas'r 1 " 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 tilling with apples, 
nuts, candy, ribbons, laces, and toys of every description, dur- 
ing 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, examin- 
ing 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." 

" 0, Master, this vest all stained with wine ; of course, a 
gentleman in Master's standing never wears a vest like this. 
I understood I was to take it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow, 
like me." 

And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through 
his scented hair, with a grace. 

" So, that 's it, is it 1 " 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, laughing. 
" I 'in delighted to see 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 splendors of mirrors, pic- 
tures, statues, and curtains, and, like the Queen of Sheba be- 
fore 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, to order. I tell you, he 's a 
regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you 
like a funeral, if you want. Open your eyes, now, and look 
at him. Now, don't say I never think about you when I 'm 

Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without 

" I know he '11 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 lumber- 
ing tread, went after. 

" He 's a perfect behemoth ! " said Marie. 

" Come, now, Marie," said St. Clare, seating himself on a 
stool beside her sofa, " be gracious, and say something pretty 
to a fellow." 

" You 've been gone a fortnight beyond the time," said the 
lady, pouting. 

" Well, you know I wrote you the reason." 

" Such a short, cold letter ! " said the lady. 

" Dear me ! the mail was just going, and it had to be that 
or nothing." 

" That 's just the way, always," said the lady ; " always 
something to make your journeys long, and letters short." 

" See here, now," he added, drawing an elegant velvet case 
out of his pocket, and opening it, " here 's a present I got for 
you in New York." 

It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, rep- 
resenting Eva and her lather sitting hand in hand. 

Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air. 

" What made you sit in such an awkward position ] '' she 

" Well, the position may be a matter of opinion ; but what 
do you think of the likeness 1 " 

" If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I 
suppose you would n't in another," said the lady, shutting the 

" Hang the woman ! " said St. Clare, mentally ; but aloud 
he added, " Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the like- 
ness ] 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, 1 'm half dead." 

" You 're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am ] " said Miss 
Ophelia, suddenly rising from the depths 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." 

" I '11 have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our gar- 
len by the lake brought in for that especial purpose," said 
ot. Clare, gravely pulling the bell as he did so ; " meanwhile, 
cousin, you must be wanting to retire to your apartment, and 
refresh yourself a little, after your journey. Dolph," he added, 
" tell Mammy to come here." The decent mulatto woman 
whom Eva had caressed so rapturously soon entered ; she was 
dressed neatly, with a high red and yellow turban 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 un- 
der 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. 




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 hand- 
some. The ceremony of delivering the keys had better come 
off forthwith." 

This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few morn- 
ings after Miss Ophelia had arrived. 

" I 'm sure she 's welcome," said Marie, leaning her head 
languidly on her hand. " I think she '11 find one thing, if she 
does, and that is, that it 's we mistresses that are the slaves, 
down here." 

" 0, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of whole- 
some truths besides, no doubt," said St. Clare. 

" Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our con- 
venience" 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 1 ?" 

" I don't know, I 'm sure, except for a plague ; they are the 
plague of my life. I believe that more of my ill health is 
caused by them than by any one thing ; and ours, I know, are 
the very worst that ever anybody was plagued with." 

" 0, come, Marie, you 've got the blues, this morning," said 
St. Clair. " You know 't is n't so. There 's Mammy, the best 
creature living, -- what could you do without her 1 ?" 

" Mammy is the best I ever knew," said Marie ; " and yet 
Mammy, now, is selfish, dreadfully selfish ; it 's the fault of 
the whole race." 

" Selfishness is a dreadful fault," said St. Clare, gravely. 


" Well, now, there 's Mammy," said Marie ; " I think it 's 
selfish of her to sleep so sound nights ; she knows I need little 
attentions almost every hour, when my worst turns are on, and 
yet she 's so hard to wake. I absolutely am worse this very 
morning, for the efforts I had to make to wake her last night." 

" Has n't she sat up with you a good many nights, lately, 
mamma 1 " said Eva. 

" How should you know that 1 " said Marie, sharply ; " she 's 
been complaining, I suppose." 

" She did n't complain ; she only told me what bad nights 
you 'd had, so many in succession." 

" Why don't you let Jane or Eosa take her place, a night or 
two," said St. Clare, " and let her rest ] " 

"How can you propose it? "said Marie. "St. Clare, you 
really are inconsiderate. So nervous as I am, the least breath 
disturbs me ; and a strange hand about me would drive me 
absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt the interest in me shb 
ought to, she 'd wake easier, --of course, she would. I 'v& 
heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never 
was my luck " ; and Marie sighed. 

Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an ai> 
of shrewd, observant gravity ; and she still kept her lips tightly- 
compressed, as if determined fully to ascertain her longitude 
and position before she committed herself. 

" Now Mammy has a sort of goodness," said Marie ; " she 's 
smooth and respectful, but she 's selfish at heart. Now, she 
never will be done fidgeting and worrying about that husband of 
hers. You see, when I was married and came to live here, 
of course, I had to bring her with me, and her husband my 
father could n'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 was n't 
likely to be convenient for them ever to live together again. 
I wish, now, I 'd insisted on it, and married Mammy to some- 
body else ; but I was foolish and indulgent, and did n't want 
to insist. I told Mammy, at the time, that she must n't ever 
expect to see him more than once or twice in her life again, for 
the air of father's place does n'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 of obsti- 
nacy about her, in spots, that everybody don't see as I do." 

" Has she children 1 " said Miss Ophciia. 


" Yes ; she has two." 

" I suppose she feels the separation from them 1" 

"Well, of course, I could n't bring them. They were little 
dirty things, I could n't have them about ; and, besides, 
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 know? 
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 seltish, 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 sometimes 
whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her ready to 
go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She 
never was whipped more than once or twice in her whole life. 
She has her strong coffee or her tea every day, with white 
sugar in it. It 's abominable, to be sure ; but St. Clare will 
have high life below-stairs, and they every one of them live 
just as they please. The fact is, our servants are over-indulged. 
I suppose it is partly our fault that they are selfish, and act 
like spoiled children ; but I 've talked to St. Clare till I am 

"And I, too," said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper. 

Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother, 
with that expression of deep and mystic earnestness which was 
peculiar to her. She walked softly round to her mother's chair, 
and put her arms round her neck. 

" Well, Eva, what now 1 " said Marie. 

"Mamma, couldn't I take care of you one night, just 
one? I know I should n't make you nervous, and I should n't 
sleep. I often lie awake nights, thinking - 

"0, nonsense, child, nonsense!" said Marie; "you are 
such a strange child ! " 

"But may I, mamma 1 ? I think," she said, timidly, "that 
Mammy is n't well. She told me her head ached all the time, 


" 0, 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 '11 never do to encourage it, 
never ! I 'm principled about this matter," said she, turning 
to Miss Ophelia ; " you '11 find the necessity of it. If you 
encourage servants in giving way to every little disagreeable 
feeling, and complaining of every little ailment, you '11 have 
your hands full. I never complain myself, nobody knows 
what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do." 

Miss Ophelia's round eyes expressed an undisguised amaze- 
ment at this peroration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely 
ludicrous, that he burst into a loud laugh. 

" St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to 
my ill health," said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr. 
" I only hope the day won't come when he '11 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 engage- 
ment down street. Eva tripped away after him, arid 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. If I was one of the complaining sort, or ever 
made any fuss about my ailments, there would be some reasoo 
for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining wife. 
But I 've kept tilings 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 general sort of 
way, as a dove might be supposed to make toilet after a shower, 
and began a housewifely chat with Miss Ophelia, concerning 
cupboards, closets, linen-presses, store-rooms, and other matters, 
of which the latter was, by common understanding, to assume 
the direction, giving 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 '11 bo 


able to go forward entirely, without consulting me ; only 
about Eva, she requires watching." 

" She seems to be a good child, very," said Miss Ophelia ; 
" I never saw a better child." 

" Eva 's peculiar," said her mother, " very. There are things 
about her so singular ; she is n't like me, now, a particle " ; 
and Marie sighed, as if this was a truly melancholy considera- 

Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, " I hope she is n'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 always played 
witli father's little negroes, --it never did me any harm. But 
Eva somehow always seems to put herself on an equality with 
every creature that comes near her. It 's a strange thing 
about the child. I never have been able to break her of it. 
St. Clare, I believe, encourages her in it. The fact is, St. 
Clare indulges every creature under this roof but his own 

Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence. 

" Now, there 's no way with servants," said Marie, " but to 
put them down, and keep them down. It was always natural 
to me, from a child. Eva is enough to spoil a whole house- 
ful. What she will do Avhen she comes to keep house herself, 
I 'm sure I don't know. I hold to being kind to servants, I 
always am ; but you must make 'em knoiv their place. Eva 
never does ; there 's no getting into the child's head the first 
beginning of an idea what a servant's place is ! You heard her 
offering to take care of me nights, to let Mammy sleep ! That 's 
just a specimen of the way the child would be doing all the 
time, if she was left to herself," 

" Why," said Miss Ophelia, bluntly, " I suppose you think 
your 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 does n't 
put one at all out of the way, you know. Mammy can make 
up her sleep, some time or other; there's no difficulty about 
that. She 's the sleepiest concern that ever I saw ; sewing, 
standing, or sitting, that creature will go to sleep, and sleep any- 
where 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 towards her an elegant cut-glass vinaigrette. 

" You see," she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice, 
like the last dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or some- 
thing equally ethereal, " you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don't often 
speak of myself. It is n't my habit ; 't is n't agreeable to me. 
In fact. I have n't strength to do it. But there are points 
where St. Clare and I differ. St. Clare never understood 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 impression." 

Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New 
England caution, and a very particular horror of being drawn 
into family 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 \iabit 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 
need n'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 interfering. He has 
wild, extravagant notions about things, particularly about the 
treatment of servants. He really does act as if he set his ser- 
vants before me, and before himself, too ; for he lets them make 
him all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a finger. Now, about 
some things, St.. Clare is really frightful, he frightens me, 
good-natured as he looks, in general. Now, he has set down 
his foot that, come what will, there shall not be a blow struck 
in this house, except what he or I strike ; and he does it in a 
way that I really dare not cross him. Well, you may see what 


that leads to ; for St. Clare would n't raise his hand, if every 
one of them walked over him, and I - - you see how cruel it 
would be to require me to make the exertion. Now, you know 
these servants are nothing but grown-up children." 

" I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that 
I don't ! " said Miss Ophelia, shortly. 

" Well, but yoa will have to know something, and know it 
to your cost, if you stay here. You don't know what a pro- 
voking, stupid, careless, unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set 
of wretches they are." 

Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got 
upon this topic ; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed 
quite to forget her languor. 

" You don't know, and you can't, the daily, hourly trials 
that beset a housekeeper from them, everywhere and every 
way. But it 's no use to complain to St. Clare. He talks the 
strangest stuff. He says we have made them what they are, 
and ought to bear with them. He says their faults are all 
owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the fault and 
punish it too. He says we should n'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 1 " said Miss Ophelia, shortly. 

" No, indeed, not I ! A pretty story, truly ! They are a 
degraded race." 

"Don't you think they 've got immortal souls'?" said Miss 
Ophelia, with increasing indignation. 

"0, well," said Marie, yawning, "that, of course, nobody 
doubts that. But as to putting them on any sort of equality with 
us, you know, as if we could be compared, why, it 's impos- 
sible ! Now, St. Clare really has talked to me as if keeping 
Mammy from her husband was like keeping me from mine. 
There 's no comparing in this way. Mammy could n't have the 
feelings that I should. It 's a different thing altogether, of 
course, it is, and yet St. Clare pretends not to see it. And 
just as if Mammy could love her little dirty babies as I love 
Eva ! Yet St. Clare once really and soberly tried to persuade 
me that it was my duty, with my weak health, and all I suffer, 
to let Mammy go back, and take somebody else in her place. 
That was a little too much even for me to bear. I don't often 
show my feelings. I make it a principle to endure everything 
in silence ; it 's a wife's hard lot, and I bear it. But I did 


break out, that time ; so that he has never alluded to the sub- 
ject since. But I know by his looks, and little things that he 
says, that he thinks so as much as ever ; and it 's so trying, so 
provoking ! " 

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 their own way, do what they please, and have what they 
please, except so far as I, with my feeble health, have kept up 
government. I keep my cowhide about, and sometimes I do 
lay it on ; but the exertion is always too much for me. If St. 
Clare would only have this thing done as others do 

" And how 's that 1 " 

" Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other 
places to be flogged. That 's the only way. If I was n'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 1 " 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 could n'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. 0, there 's no trouble about St. Clare ; 
that 's the reason he 's no more feeling for me. But you '11 
find, when you come to manage, that there 's no getting along 
without severity, they are so bad, so deceitful, so lazy." 

" The old tune," said St. Clare, sauntering in. " What an 
awful account these wicked creatures will have to settle, at 
last, especially for being lazy ! You see, cousin," said he, as he 
stretched himself at full length on a 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, 


" You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare," said Marie. 

"0, I must have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my 
dear, for setting me right." 

" You do really try to be provoking," said Marie. 

" 0, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have just 
had a long quarrel with Dolph, which has fatigued me exces- 
sively ; so, pray be agreeable, now, and let a fellow repose in 
the light of your smile." 

" What 's the matter about Dolph 1 " said Marie. " That fel- 
low's impudence has been growing to a point that is perfectly 
intolerable to me. I only wish I had the undisputed manage- 
ment of him awhile. I 'd bring him down ! " 

" What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual acute- 
ness and good sense," said St. Clare. "As to Dolph, the case 
is this : that he has so long been engaged in imitating my 
graces and perfections, that he has, at last, really mistaken 
himself for his master ; and I have been obliged to give him a 
little insight into his mistake." 

"How?" said Marie. 

" Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that 
I preferred to keep some of my clothes for my own personal 
wearing ; also, I put his magnificence upon an allowance of 
cologne- water, and actually was so cruel as to restrict him to 
one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs. Dolph was particu- 
larly huffy about it, and I had to talk to him like a father, to 
bring him round." 

" 0, St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your ser- 
vants 1 It 's abominable, the way you indulge them ! " said 

" Why, after all, what 's the harm of the poor dog's wanting 
to be like his master ; and if I have n't brought him up any 
better than to find his chief good in cologne and cambric 
handkerchiefs, why should n't I give them to him 1 " 

"And why haven't you brought him up better 1 ?" said Miss 
Ophelia, with blunt determination. 

" Too much trouble, laziness, cousin, laziness, which 
ruins more souls than you can shake a stick at. If it were n'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 'a 
an awful consideration, certainly." 

" I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility upon 


you," said Miss Ophelia. " I would n't have it, for a thousand 
worlds. You ought to educate your slaves, and treat them like 
reasonable creatures, -- like immortal creatures, that you've 
got to stand before the bar of God with. That's my mind," 
said the good lady, breaking suddenly out with a tide of zeal 
that had been gaining strength in her mind all the morning. 

" 0, come, come," said St. Clare, getting up quickly ; " whaf 
lo you know about us 1 " And he sat down to the piano, and 
"attled a lively piece of music. St. Clare had a decided genius 
i'or music. His touch was brilliant and firm, and his lingers 
flew over the keys with a rapid and birdlike 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 the better of you for it. I make no manner 
of doubt that you threw a very diamond of truth at me, though 
you see it hit me so directly in the face that it was n't exactly 
appreciated, at first." 

" For my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk," said 
Marie. " I 'm sure, if anybody does more for servants than 
we do, I 'd like to know who ; and it don't do 'em a bit good, 
not a particle, --they get worse arid worse. As to talking 
to them, or anything like that, I 'm sure I have talked till I 
was tired and hoarse, telling them their duty, and all that ; 
and I 'm sure they can go to church when they like, though 
they don't understand a word of the sermon, more than so 
many pigs, so it is n't of any great use for them to go, as 
J see ; 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 is n't any help for them ; you can't make anything of 
them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia, I 've tried, and you 
have n't ; I was born and bred among them, and I know." 

Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore sat 
silent. St. Clare whistled a tune. 

" St. Clare, I wish you would n't whistle," said Marie : " It 
makes my head worse." 

" I won't," said St. Clare. " Is there anything else you 
would n't wish me to do 1 " 

" I 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. 


" It 's provoking to be talked to in that way." 

" Then, how will you be talked to? I '11 talk to order, 
any way you '11 mention, -- only to give satisfaction." 

A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtains 
of the veranda. St. Clare stepped out, and lifting up the cur- 
tain, laughed too. 

" What is it 1 " 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 his neck ; and 
then she sat down on his knee, like a chip-sparrow, still laugh- 


" 0, Tom, you look so funny ! " 

Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet 
way, to be enjoying the fun quite as much as his little mistress. 
He lifted his eyes, when he saw his master, with a half-.depre- 
cating, apologetic air. 

" How can you let her 1 ?" said Miss Ophelia. 

" Why not 1 " 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 is immortal, you shudder at ; confess it, 
cousin. I know the feeling among some of you northerners 
well enough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in our not 
having it ; but custom with us does what Christianity ought 
to do, obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. 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 
or a toad, yet you are indignant at their wrongs. You would 
not have them abused ; but you don't want to have anything 
to do with them yourselves. You would send them to Africa, 
out of your sight and smell, and then send a missionary or two 
to do up all the self-denial of elevating them compendiously. 
Is n't that it 1 " 

" Well, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, " there 
may be some truth in this." 

" What would the poor and lowly do, without children 1 ' 
said St. Clare, leaning on the railing, and watching 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 evei- 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 lew enough of any other kind." 

" It 's strange, cousin/' said Miss Ophelia ; " one might a! 
most think you were -A professor, to hear you talk." 

" A professor 1 " said St. Clare. 

" Yes ; a professor of religion.'' 

" Not at all ; not a professor, as your town-folks have it ; 
and, what is worse, I 'm afraid, not a practiser, either." 

" What makes you talk so, then '( " 

" Nothing is easier than talking," said St. Clare. " I believe 
Shakespeare makes somebody say, ' I could sooner show twenty 
what were good to be done, than be one ot the twenty to 
follow my own showing.' Nothing like division of labor. My 
forte lies in talking, and yours, cousin, lies in doing." 

In Tom's external situation, at this time, there was, as the 
world says, nothing to complain of. Little Eva's fancy for 
him the instinctive gratitude and loveliness of a noble 
nature had led her to petition her father that he might be 
her especial attendant, whenever she needed the escort of a 
servant, in her walks or rides ; and Tom had general orders 
to let everything else go, and attend to Miss Eva wheneveb 
she wanted him, orders which our readers may fancy were 
far from disagreeable to him. He was kept well dressed, fot 
St. Clare was fastidiously particular on this point. His stable 
services were merely a sinecure, and consisted simply in a daily 
care and inspection, and directing an 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 per- 
fume, and light and beauty of the court, the silken hangings, 
and pictures, and lustres, 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 western tribes 
faintly have conceived. In that far-off mystic land of gold, 
and gems, and spices, and waving palms, 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, and, perhaps, as God chasten- 
eth whom he loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnace 
of affliction, to make her the highest and noblest in that king- 
dom which he will set up, when every other kingdom has been 
tried, and failed ; for the first shall be last, and the last first. 

Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood, 
gorgeously dressed, on the veranda, on Sunday morning, clasp- 
ing a diamond bracelet on her slender wrist 1 Most likely it 
was. Or, if it was n't that, it was something else ; for Marie 
patronized good things, and she was going now, in full force, 
diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels, and all, to a fashionable 
church, to be very religious. Marie always made a point to be 
very pious on Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so elegant, 
so airy and undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf en- 
veloping her like a mist. She looked a graceful creature, and 
she felt very good and very elegant indeed. Miss Ophelia 
stood at her side, a perfect contrast. It was not that she had 
not as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and as fine a pocket- 
handkerchief ; but stiffness, and squareness, and bolt-upright- 
ness enveloped her with as indefinite yet appreciable a presence 
as did grace her elegant neighbor ; not the grace of God, how- 
ever, that is quite another thing ! 



" Where 's Eva 1 " said Marie. 

" The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to 

And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs ] Listen, 
reader, and you will hear, though Marie does not. 

"Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully." 

" Lord bless you, Miss Eva ! my head allers aches lately. 
You don't need to worry." 

" Well, I 'mi glad you 're going out ; and here," - and the 
little girl threw her arms around her, -- " Mammy, you shall 
take my vinaigrette." 

" What ! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them dia- 
monds ! Lor, Miss, 't would n't be proper, no ways." 


" Why not 1 You need it, and I don't. Mamma always 
uses it for headache, and it '11 make you feel better. No, you 
shall take it, to please me, now." 

" Do hear the darling talk ! " said Mammy, as Eva thrust it 
into her bosom, and, kissing her, ran down stairs to her mother. 

" What were you stopping for? " 

" I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take 
to church with her." 

" Eva ! " said Marie, stamping impatiently, " your gold 
vinaigrette to Mammy ! When will you learn what 's proper ? 
Go right and take it back, this moment ! " 

Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly. 

" I say, Marie, let the child alone ; she shall do as she 
pleases," said St. Clare. 

" St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world ? " said 

" The Lord knows," said St. Clare ; " but she '11 get along in 
heaven better than you or I." 

" O, papa, don't," said Eva, softly touching his elbow ; " it 
troubles mother." 

" Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting 1 " said Miss 
Ophelia, turning square about on St. Clare. 

" I 'in not going, thank you." 

" I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church," said Marie ; 
" but he has n't a particle of religion about him. It really 
is n't respectable." 

" I know it," said St. Clare. " You ladies go to church to 
learn how to get along in the world, I suppose, and your piety 
sheds respectability on us. If I 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 1 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." 

" Is n't it dreadful tiresome 1 " said St. Clare. 

" I think it is tiresome, some," said Eva ; " and I am sleepy, 
too, but I try to keep awake." 

" What do you go for, then ? " 

" Why, you know, papa," she said, in a whisper, " cousin 
told me that God wants to have us ; and he gives us everything 


you know ; and it is n't much to do it, if he wants us to. It 
\s n'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. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her, as 
the carriage drove away ; large tears were in his eyes. 

" 0, Evangeline ! rightly named," he said ; " hath not God 
made thee an evangel to me 1 " 

So he felt a moment ; and then he smoked a cigar, and read 
the Picayune, and forgot his little gospel. Was he much un- 
like other folks 1 

" You see, Evangeline," said her mother, " it 's always right 
and proper to be kind to servants, but it is n'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 would n't want to put 
her in your own bed." 

" I 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 hers." 

Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral per- 
ception evinced in this reply. 

" What can I do to make this child understand me 1 " she 

" Nothing," said Miss Ophelia, significantly. 

Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment ; but chil- 
dren, luckily, do not keep to one impression long, and in a few 
moments she was merrily laughing at various things which she 

aw 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?" 

" 0, Dr. G - preached a splendid sermon," said Marie. 
" It was just such a sermon as you ought to hear; it expressed 
all my views exactly." 

" It must have been very improving," said St. Clare. " The 
subject must have been an extensive one." 

" Well, I mean all my views about society, and such things," 
said Marie. " The text was, ' He hath made everything beau- 
tiful in its season ' ; and he showed how all the orders and 


distinctions in society came from God ; and that it was so appro- 
priate, 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 dis- 
tinctly that the Bible was on our side, and supported all our 
institutions so convincingly. I only wish you 'd heard him." 

" 0, I did n'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 1 can't do, you know, in a 

" Why," said Miss Ophelia, " don't you believe in these 
views ? " 

" Who, 1 1 You know I 'm such a graceless dog that these 
religious aspects of such subjects don't edify me much. If I 
was to say anything on this slavery matter, I would say out, 
fair and square, ' We 're in for it ; we 've got 'em, and mean to 
keep 'ein, it 's for our convenience and our interest ' ; for 
that 's the long and short of it, that 's just the whole of what 
all this sanctified stuff amounts to, after all ; and I think that 
will be intelligible to everybody, everywhere." 

" I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent ! " said Marie. 
" I think it 's shocking to hear you talk." 

" Shocking ! it 's the truth. This religious talk on such 
matters, - - why don't they carry it a little further, and show 
the- beauty, in its season, of a fellow's taking a glass too much, 
and sitting a little too late over his cards, and various provi- 
dential arrangements of that sort, which are pretty frequent 
among us young men ; we 'd like to hear that those are right 
and godly, too." 

" Well," said Miss Ophelia, " do you think slavery right or 
wrong 1 " 

" I 'ni not going to have any of your horrid New England 
directness, cousin," said St. Clare, gayly. " If I answer that 
question, I know you '11 be at me with half a dozen others, each 
one harder than the last ; and I 'm not a going to define my 
position. 1 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 running out in this way 
he 's been doing." 


" Religion ! " said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladies 
look at him. " Religion ! Is what you hear at church religion ] 
Is that which can bend and turn, and descend and ascend, to 
fit every crooked phase of selfish, worldly society, religion 1 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 for a religion, I must look 
for something 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 it 
she lived and died, and I would be very sorry to think it did. 
I 'd as soon desire to have it proved that my mother could drink 
brandy, chew tobacco, and swear, by way of satisfying me that 
I did right in doing the same. It would n't make me at all 
more satisfied with these things in myself, and it would take 
from me the comfort of respecting her ; and it really is a com- 
fort, 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 different things be kept in different boxes. The whole 
framework of society, both in Europe and America, is made up 
of various things which will not stand the scrutiny of any very 
ideal standard of morality. It 's pretty generally understood 
that men don't aspire after the absolute right, but only to dc 
about as well as the rest of the world. Now, when any one 
speaks up, like a man, and says slavery is necessary to us, we 
can't get along without it, we should be beggared if we give it 
up, and, of course, we mean to hold on to it, this is strong, 
clear, well-defined language ; it has the respectability of truth 
to it ; and if we may judge 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 is n'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 ] What a 
flood of light would pour into the church, all at once, and how 
immediately it would be discovered that everything in the Bible 
and reason went the other way ! " 

" Well, at any rate," said Marie, as she reclined herself on a 



lounge, " I 'm thankful I 'm born where slavery exists ; and I 
believe it 's right, indeed, I feel it must be ; and, at any rate, 
I 'ni sure I could n't get along without it." 

" I say, what do you think, Pussy 1 " said her father to Eva, 
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 houseful of servants, 
as we do? " 

" 0. 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." 

" Is it an odd speech, papa 1 ?" 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 ? " 


" 0, I 've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing, and 
A.unt Dinah gave me my dinner." 

" Hearing Tom sing, hey 1 " 

" 0, yes ! he sings such beautiful things about the New 
Jerusalem, and bright angels, and the land of Canaan." 

" I dare say ; it 's better than the opera, is n't it ] " 

" Yes, and he 's going to teach them to me." 

" Singing lessons, hey 1 you are coming on." 

" Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible ; and 
he explains what it means, you know." 

" On my word," said Marie, laughing, " that is the latest joke 
of the season." 

" Tom is n't a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I '11 
dare swear," said St. Clare. " Tom has a natural genius for 
religion. I wanted the horses out early, this morning, and I 
stole up to Tom's cubiculum there, over the stables, and there 
I heard him holding a meeting by himself; and, in fact, I 
have n't heard anything quite so savory as Tom's prayer, this 
some time. He put in for me, with a zeal that was quite apos- 

" Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I 've heard of that 
trick before." 

" If he did, he was n't very politic ; for he gave the Lord his 
opinion of me, pretty freely. Tom seemed to think there was 
decidedly room for improvement in me, and seemed very earnest 
that I should be converted." 

" I hope you '11 lay it to heart," said Miss Ophelia. 

" I suppose you are much of the same opinion," said St. Clare. 
"Well, we shall see, shan't we, Eva?" 




HERE was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as 
g^j; the afternoon drew to a close. Rachel Halliday 
moved quietly to and fro, collecting from her house- 
hold stores such needments as could be arranged 
in the smallest compass, for the wanderers who 
were to go forth that night. The afternoon shadows stretched 
eastward, and the round red sun stood thoughtfully on the 
horizon, and his beams shone yellow and calm into the little 
bedroom where George and his wife were sitting. He was 
sitting with his child on his knee, and his wife's hand in his. 
Both looked thoughtful and serious, and traces of tears were on 
their cheeks. 

" Yes, Eliza," said George, " I know all you say is true. 
You are a good child, a great deal better than I am ; and I 
will try to do as you say. I '11 try to act worthy of a free man. 
I '11 try to feel like a Christian. God Almighty knows that 
I 've meant to do well, tried hard to do well, -- when every- 
thing has been against me ; and now I '11 forget all the past, 
and put away every hard and bitter feeling, and 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 wash- 
ing and ironing ; and between us we can find something to 
live on." 

" Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy. 
0, Eliza, if these people only knew what a blessing it is for a 
man to feel that his wife and child belong to him ! I 've often 
wondered to see men that could call their wives and children 
their own fretting and worrying about anything else. Why, 
I feel rich and strong, though we have nothing but our bare 
hands. I feel as if I could scarcely ask God for any more. 
Yes, though I 've worked hard every day, till I am twenty-five 



years old, and have not a cent of money, nor a roof to cover 
me, nor a spot of land to call niy own, yet, if they will only 
let nie alone now, I will be satisfied, thankful ; I will work, 
and send back the money for you and my boy. As to my old 
master, he has been paid five times over for all he ever spent 
for me. I don't owe him anything." 

"But yet Ave 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 apartment, 
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 particu- 
larly wide-awake and au fait appearance, like a man who 


rather prides himself on knowing what he is about, and keep 
ing a bright lookout ahead ; peculiarities which sorted rather 
oddly with his broad brim and formal phraseology. 

"- Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of impor- 
tance to the interests of thee and thy party, George," said Sim- 
eon ; " it were well for thee to hear it." 

" That I have," said Phineas, " and it shows the use of a 
man's always sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as 
I 've always said. Last night I stopped at a little lone tavern, 
back on the road. Thee remembers the place, Simeon, where 
we sold some apples, last year, to that fat woman, Avith 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, especially as I heard 
them say something about the Quakers. ' So,' says one, ' they 
are up in the Quaker settlement, no doubt,' says he. Then I 
listened with both ears, and I found that they Avere 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 consta- 
bles, in a town a little piece ahead, who would go in with 'en 
to get 'em taken up, and the young woman was to be taken 
before a judge ; and one of the fellows, who is small and 
smooth-spoken, was to swear to her for his property, and get 
her delivered over to him to take south. They 've got a right 
notion of the track we are going to-night ; and they '11 be down 
after us, six or eight strong. So, now, what 's to be done 1 " 

The group that stood in various attitudes, after this commu- 


nication, v/ere worthy of a painter. Ilachel HalliJay, 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 husband, and was looking up to 
him. George stood with clenched hands and glowing eyes, and 
looking as any other man might look, whose wife was to be 
sold at auction, and sou sent to a trader, all under the shelter 
of a Christian nation's laws. 

" What shall we do, George 1 ?" said Eliza, faintly. 

" I know what / 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." 

" I see," said Simeon, sighing ; " I pray it come not to 

" I don't want to involve any one with or for me," said 
George. " If you will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I 
will drive alone to the next stand. Jim is a giant in strength, 
and brave as death and despair, and so am I." 

"Ah, well, friend," said Phineas, " but thee'll need a driver, 
for all that. Thee 's quite welcome to do all the fighting, thee 
knows ; but I know a thing or two about the road, that thee 
does n't." 

" 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 

" Phineas is a wise and skilful man," said Simeon. " Thee 
does well, George, to abide by his judgment ; and," he added, 
laying his hand kindly on George's shoulder, and pointing to 
the pistols, "be not over hasty with these, --young blood is 

" I will attack no man," said George. " All I ask of this 
country is to be let alone, and I will go out peaceably ; but,' f 
he paused, and his brow darkened and his face worked, - 
" I 've had a sister sold in that New Orleans market. I know 
what they are sold for ; and am I going to stand by and see 
them take my wife and sell her, when God has given me a 
pair of strong arms to defend her] No; God help me! I'll 
fight to the last breath, before they shall take my wife and son. 
Can you blame me ] " 


" Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood 
could not do otherwise," said Simeon. " Woe unto the world 
because of offences, but woe unto them through whom the 
offence cometh." 

"Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?" 

" I pray that I be not tried," said Simeon ; " the flesh is 

" I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in such 
a case," said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the 
sails of a windmill. " I an't sure, friend George, that I 
should n't hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any accounts to 
settle with him." 

" If man should ever resist evil," said Simeon, " then George 
should feel free to do it now : but the leaders of our people 
taught a more excellent way ; 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 
it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be not tempted." 

" And so / do," said Phineas ; " but if we are tempted too 
much, -- why, let them look out, that 's all." 

" It 's quite plain thee was n't born a Friend," said Simeon, 
smiling. " The old nature hath its way in 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 the society 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 developments. 

" Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own," said 
Eachel Halliday, smiling ; " but we all think that his heart is 
in the right place, after all." 

" Well," said George, " is n't it best that we hasten our 

" I got up at four o'clock, and came on with all speed, full 
two or three hours ahead of them, if they start at the time 
they planned. It is n'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 houra 


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 ; this is n't the first ugly 
scrape that I 've been in with thy people," said Phineas, as he 
closed the door. 

" Phineas is pretty shrewd," said Simeon. " He will do the 
best that can be done for thee, George." 

" All I am sorry for," said George, " is the risk to you." 
" Thee '11 much oblige us, friend George, to say no more 
about that. What we do we are conscience bound to do ; we 
can do no other way. And now, mother," said he, turning to 
Rachel, " hurry thy preparations for these friends, for we must 
not send them away fasting." 

And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn- 
cake, and cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the et 
ceteras of the 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. 

" Eliza," 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, heart-broken 
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 f you, poor boy 1 ' And I got up and threw my 
arms round her, and cried and sobbed, and she cried too ; and 
those were the last kind words I got for ten long years ; and 
my heart all withered up, and felt as dry as ashes, till I met 
you. And your loving me, - - why, it was almost like raising 
one from the dead ! I 've been a new man ever since ! And 
now, Eliza, I '11 give my last drop of blood, but they shall wf 
take you from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my 
dead body." 


" O Lord, have mercy ! " said Eliza, sobbing. " It' he will 
only let us get out of this country together, that is all we ask." 

" Is God on their side 1 " said George, speaking less to his 
wife than pouring out his own bitter thoughts. " Does he see 
all they do 1 Why does he let such things happen ? And 
they tell us that the Bible is on their side ; certainly all the 
power is. They are rich, and healthy, and happy ; they are 
members of churches, expecting to go to heaven ; and they get 
along so easy in the world, and have it all their own way ; 
and poor, honest, faithful Christians Christians as good or 
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 her 
tears, came forward also to listen, while Simeon read as fol- 
lows : 

" ' But as for me, my feet were almost gone ; my steps had 
wellnigh 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 cover- 
eth them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness ; 
they have more than heart could wish. They are corrupt, 
and speak wickedly concerning oppression ; they speak loftily. 
Therefore his people return, and the waters of a full cup are 
wrung out to them, and they say, How doth God know ] and 
is there knowledge in the Most High ? ' Is not that the way 
thee feels, George ] " 

" It is so, indeed," said George, "as well as I could have 
written it myself." 

" Then, hear," said Simeon : " ' When I thought to know this, 
it was too painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary of 
God. Then understood I their end. Surely thou didst sefi 
them in slippery places, thou castedst them down to destruc- 
tion. As a dream when one awaketh, so, Lord, when thou 
awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Nevertheless, I am 
continually with thee ; thou hast holden me by my right hand. 
Thou shalt guide me by thy counsel, and afterwards receive me 
to glory. It is good for me to draw near unto God. I have 
put my trust in the Lord God.' " 


The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man, 
Btole like sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of 
George ; and after he ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued 
expression on his fine features. 

" If this world were all, George," said Simeon, " thee might, 
indeed, ask, Where is the Lord 1 But it is often those wlu 
have least of all in this life whom he chooseth for the king- 
dom. 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-indulgent 
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 impris- 
onment for the cause of God and man, they 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 Rachel 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. 

" I just ran in," she said, " with these little stockings for the 
"boy, three pair, nice, warm woollen ones. It will be so cold, 
thee knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good courage, 
Eliza 1 " she added, tripping round to Eliza's side of the table, 
and shaking her warmly by the hand, and slipping a seed-cake 
into Harry's hand. " I brought a little parcel of these for him," 
she said, tugging at her pocket to get out the package. " Chil- 
dren, thee knows, will always be eating." 

" 0, thank you ; you are too kind," said Eliza. 

" Come, Ruth, sit down to supper," said Rachel. 

" I could n'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 Phineas 
jumped briskly down from his seat to arrange his passengers. 
George walked out. of the door, with his child on one arm and 
his wife on the other. His step was firm, his face settled and 
resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out after them. 


" You get out, a moment," said Phineas to those inside, 
" and let me fix the back of the wagon, there, for the women- 
folks and the boy." 

" Here are the two buffaloes." said Eachel. " 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 1 " said George, in a low, 
firm voice. 

"Yes, indeed," said Jim. 

" Ami you 've no doubt what you shall do, if they come 1 " 

" I rather think I have n't," said Jim, throwing open his 
broad chest, and taking a deep breath. " Do you think I '11 
let them get mother again 1 " 

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 witli her boy, sat 
down among the buffalo-skins. The old woman was next handed 
in and seated, and George and Jim placed on a rough board 
seat 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 

There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the 
roughness of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle, 
therefore, rumbled on, through long, dark stretches of wood- 
land, 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 certain very unquaker-like songs, as he went on. 

But about three o'clock George's ear caught the hasty and 
decided click of a horse's hoof coming behind them at some 
distance, and jogged Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up 
his horses, and listened. 

" That must be Michael," he said ; " I think I know the 
sound of his gallop " ; and lie 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 ! " said 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 
towards the expected messenger. On he came. Now he went 
down into a valley, where they could not see him ; but theyj 
heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer and nearer ; at last, 1 
they saw him emerge on the top of an eminence, within hail. 

" Yes, that 's Michael ! " said Phineas ; and, raising his voice, 
" Halloa, there, Michael ! " 

"Phineas ! is that thee 1 " 

" Yes ; what news they coming ? " 

" Eight on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy, 
swearing and foaming like so many wolves." 

And, just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of 
galloping horsemen towards them. 

" In with you, quick, boys, in ! " said Phineas. " If you 
must tight, 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 pursuers had evidently caught sight of their wagon, 
whose white cloth-covered top made it conspicuous at some 
distance, and a loud yell of brutal triumph came forward on the 
wind. Eliza sickened, and strained her child closer to her 
bosom ; the old woman prayed and groaned, and George and 
Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of despair. The pur- 
suers gained on them fast ; the carriage made a sudden turn, 
and brought them near a ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that 
rose in an isolated ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all 
around it, quite clear and smooth. This isolated pile, 01 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 thest 

In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage. 

" There," said Phineas, catching up Harry, " you, each of you, 
see to the women ; and run, now, if you ever did run ! " 

There needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, 
the whole party were over the fence, making with all speed 
for the rocks, while Michael, throwing himself from his horse, 
and fastening the bridle to the wagon, began driving it rapidly 


" 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 fuotpath leading up among them ; " this is one 
of our old hunting-dens. Come up ! " 

Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, 
with the boy in his arms. Jim came second, bearing his 
trembling old mother over his shoulder, and George and Eliza 
brought up the rear. The party of horsemen came up to 
the fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths, were dismount- 
ing, to prepare to follow them. A few moments' scrambling 
brought them to the top of the ledge ; the path then passed 
between a narrow defile, where only one could walk at a time, 
till suddenly they came to a rift or chasm more than a yard 
in breadth, and beyond which lay a pile of rocks, separate 
from the rest of the ledge, standing full thirty feet high, with 
its sides steep and perpendicular as those of a castle. Phineas 
easily leaped the chasm, and set down the boy on a smooth, 
flat platform of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the 

" Over with you ! " he called ; " spring, now, once, for 
your lives ! " said he, as one after another sprang across. 
Several fragments of loose stone formed a kind of breastwork, 
which sheltered their position from the observation of thos 

"Well, here we all are," said Phineas, peeping over the 
stone breastwork to watch the assailants, who were coming 
tumultuously up under the rocks. " Let 'em get us, if they 
t-an. Whoever comes here has to walk single file between 
those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys, d' ye see 1 r 


" I do see," said George ; " and now, as this matter is ours, 
let us take all the risk, and do all the lighting." 

" Thee 's quite welcome to do the tight-ing, 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 looking up, like 
hens when they are going to fly up on to the roost. Hadn't 
thee better give 'em a word of advice, before they come up, 
just to tell 'em handsomely they '11 be shot if they do 1 " 

The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the 
dawn, consisted of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker and 
Marks, with two constables, and a posse consisting of such 
rowdies at the last tavern as could be engaged by a little 
brandy to go and help the fun of trapping a set of niggers. 

" Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed," said one. 

" Yes, I see 'em go up right here," said Tom ; " and here 's. 
a path. I 'm for going right up. They can't jump down in a 
hurry, and it won't take long to ferret 'em out." 

" But, Tom, they might lire at us from behind the rocks," 
said Marks. "That would be ugly, you know." 

" Ugh ! " said Tom, with a sneer. " Always for saving 
your skin, Marks ! iS'o danger ! niggers are too plaguy 
scared ! " 

"I don't know why I shouldn't save my skin," said Marks. 
" It 's the best I 've got ; and niggers do tight like the devil, 

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 1 " 

" We want a party of runaway niggers," said Tom Loker. 
u One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim 
Selden, and an old woman. We 've got the officers, here, and 
a warrant to take 'em ; and we 're going to have 'em, too. 
D' ye hear 1 An't you George Harris, that belongs to Mr 
Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky 1 " 

" I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, die 
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 our- 
selves, and we mean to do it. You can come up, if you like ; 
but the first one of you that comes within the range of our 


bullets is a dead man, and the next, and the next ; and so on 
till the last." 

" O, come ! come ! " said a short, puffy man, stepping for- 
ward, and blowing his nose as he did so. " Young man, this 
nn't no kind of talk at all for you. You see, we 're officers of 
justice. We 've got the law on our side, and the power, and so 
forth ; so you 'd better give up peaceably, you see ; for you '11 
certainly have to give, up, at last." 

" I know very well that you 've got the law on your side, 
and the power," said George, bitterly. " You mean to take 
my wife to sell in New Orleans, and put my boy like a calf 
in a trader's pen, and send Jim's old mother to the brute that 
whipped and abused her before, 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 trill bear you out in it, 
more shame for you and them ! But you have n't got us. 
We don't own your laws ; we don't own your country ; we 
stand here as free, under God's sky, as you are ; and, by the 
great God that made us, we '11 fight for our liberty till we 

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 de- 
spair 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 defend- 
ing in some mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping 
from Austria into America, this would have been sublime hero- 
ism ; but as it was a youth of African descent, defending the 
retreat of fugitives through America into Canada, of course we 
are too well instructed and patriotic to see any heroism in it ; 
and if any of our readers do, they must do it on their own 
private responsibility. When despairing Hungarian fugitives 
make their way, against all the search-warrants and authorities 
of tl'.^ir lawful government, to America, press and political cab- 
inet ring with applause and welcome. When despairing Afri- 
can fugitives do the same thing, --it is what is it 1 

Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice, 
manner, of the speaker, for a moment struck the party below 
to silence. There is something in boldness and determination 
that for a time hushes even the rudest nature. Marks was the 


only one who remained wholly untouched. He was deliberately 
cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary silence that followed 
George's speech, he tired at him. 

" Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Ken- 
tucky," he said, coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat- 

George sprang backward, -- Eliza uttered a shriek, the 
ball had passed close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek 
of his wife, and struck in the tree above. 

" It 's nothing, Eliza," said George, quickly. 

" Thee 'd better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying," 
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 h're 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 r t " 

11 1 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. 

" I think you must have hit some on 'em," said one of the 
men. " I heard a squeal ! " 

" I 'm going right up for one," said Tom. " I never was 
afraid of niggers, and I an't going to be now. Who goes 
after 1 " he said, springing up the rocks. 

George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol, 
examined it, pointed it towards that point in the defile where 
the first man would appear. 

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and, 
the way being thus made, the whole party began pushing up 
the rock, the hindermost pushing the front ones faster than 
they would have gone of themselves. On they came, and in a 
moment the burly form of Tom appeared in sight, almost at 
the verge of the chasm. 

George fired, the shot entered his 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 is n't 
wanted here." 



' 'Friend,' said Phiueas, meeting him with a push from his long arms, 'thee 
is n't wanted here. ' " 


Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees, 
bushes, logs, loose stones, till he lay, bruised and groaning, 
thirty feet below. The fall might have killed him, had it not 
been broken and moderated by his clothes catching in the 
branches of a large tree ; but he came down with some force, 
however, more than was at all agreeable or convenient. 

" Lord help us, they are perfect devils ! " said Marks, head- 
ing 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, iu particular, blow- 
ing and puffing in a very energetic manner. 

" I say, fellers," said Marks, -' you jist go round and pick 
up Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse, to go back 
for help, that's you"; and, without minding the hootings 
and jeers of his company, Marks \vas as good as his word, and 
was soon seen galloping away. 

" Was ever such a sneaking varmint 1 " 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. " Cuss 
me if I much care whether h-e is dead or alive." 

The men, led by the groan? of Tom, scrambled nnd crackled 
through stumps, logs, and bushes, to where that hero lay groan- 
ing and swearing, with alternate vehemence. 

"Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom," said one. "Ye 
much hurt 1 " 

" Don't know. Get me up, can't ye 1 Blast that infernal 
Quaker ! If it had n'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 assisted 
to rise ; and, with one holding him up under each shoulder, 
they got him as far as the horses. 

"If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. j 
Give me a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place, 
and stop this infernal bleeding." 

George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift 
the burly form of Tom into the saddle. After two or three in- 
effectual attempts, he reeled, and fell heavily to the ground. 

" 0, I hope he is n't killed ! " said Eliza, who, with all the 
party, stood watching the proceeding. 

" Why not] " said Phineas ; " serves him right." 

" Because, after death comes the judgment," said Eliza. 


" Yes," said the old woman, who had been groaning and 
praying, in her Methodist fashion, during all the encounter, 
" it 's an awful case for the poor crittur's soul." 

" On my word, they 're leaving him, I do believe," said 

It was true ; for after some appearance of irresolution and 
consultation, the whole party got on their horses and rode 
away. When they were quite out of sight, Phineas began to 
bestir himself. 

" Well, we must go down and walk a piece," he said. " I 
told Michael to go forward and bring help, and be along back 
here with the 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 an't much more than two miles from 
our stopping-place. If the road had n'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, accom- 
panied by some men on horseback. 

" Well, now, there 's Michael, and Stephen, and Amariah," 
exclaimed Phineas, joyfully. " Now we are, made, as safe 
as if we 'd got there." 

"Well, do stop, then," said Eliza, "and do something foi- 
that poor man : he 's groaning dreadfully." 

" It would be no more than Christian," said George ; " let 's 
take him up and carry him on." 

" And doctor him up among the Quakers ! " said Phineas ; 
" pretty well, that ! Well, I don't care if we do. Here, let 's 
have a look at him " ; and Phineas, who, in the course of his 
hunting and backwoods life, had acquired some rude experi- 
ence of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded man, and be- 
gan a careful examination of his condition. 

" Marks," said Tom, feebly, " is that you, Marks ? " 

"No; I reckon 't an't, friend," said Phineas. "Much 
Marks cares for thee, if his own skin 's safe. He 's off, long 


" I believe I 'm done for," said Tom. " The cussed sneak- 
ing dog, to leave me to die alone ! My poor old mother always 
told me 't would be so." 

" La sakes ! jist hear the poor crittur. He 's got a mammy, 
now," said the old negress. " I can't help kinder pityin' on 



" Softly, softly ; don't thee snap and snarl, friend," said 
Phineas, as Tom winced and pushed his hand away. "Thee 
has no chance, unless I stop the bleeding." And Phineas 
busied himself with making some off-hand surgical arrange- 
ments 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 had n't, thee would have pushed us down, thee 
sees," said Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. 
"There, there, let me fix this bandage. We mean well to 
thee ; we bear no malice. Thee shall be taken to a house where 
they '11 nurse thee iirst-rate, as well as thy own mother 

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 

" What do you think of him 1 " 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 '11 get over it, and may be learn 
a thing or two by it." 

" I 'm glad to hear you say so," said George. " It would 
always be a heavy thought to me, if I 'd caused his death, even 
in a just cause." 

" Yes," said Phineas, " killing is an iigly operation, any way 
they'll fix it, man or beast. I've been a great hunter, in 
my day, and I tell thee I 've seen a buck that was shot down, 
and a dying, look that way on a feller with his eye, that it reely 
most made a feller feel wicked for killing on 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 too strict ; 
and, considerin' how I was raised, I fell in with them pretty 

" What shall you do with this poor fellow 1 " said George. 

" 0, carry him along to Amariah's. There 's old Grandmam 
Stephens there, Dorcas, they call her, she's most an 
jniazin' nurse. She takes to nursing real natural, and an't 
never better suited than when she getc a sick body to tend. 
We may reckon on turning him over to her for a fortnight or 

A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farm- 
house, where the weary travellers were received to an abundant 
breakfast. Tom Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much 
cleaner arid softer bed than he had ever been in the habit of 
occupying. His Avound 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. 




'UR friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often 
compared his more fortunate lot, in the bondage 
1 into which he was cast, with that of Joseph in 
Egypt ; and, in fact, as time went on, and he 
developed more and more under the eye of his 
master, the strength of the parallel increased. 

St. Clare was indolent and careless of money. Hitherto the 
providing and marketing had been principally done by Adolph, 
who was, to the full, as careless and extravagant as his master ; 
and, between them both, they had carried on the dispersing 
process with great alacrity. Accustomed, for many years, to 
regard his master's property as his own care, Tom saw, with an 
uneasiness he could scarcely repress, the wasteful expenditure 
of the establishment ; and, in the quiet, indirect way which his 
class often acquire, would sometimes make his own suggestions. 

St. Clare at first employed him occasionally ; but, struck with 
his soundness of mind and good business capacity, he confided 
in him more and more, till gradually all the marketing and 
providing for the family were intrusted to him. 

" No, no, Adolph," he said, one day, as Adolph was depre- 
cating 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, by and 
by, if we don't let somebody do that." 

Trusted to an unlimited extent by a careless master, who 
handed him a bill without looking at it, and pocketed the 
change without counting it, Tom had every facility and temp- 
tation to dishonesty ; and nothing but an impregnable simplicity 
of nature, strengthened by Christian faith, could have kept him 
from it. But, to that nature, the very unbounded trust reposed 
in him was bond and seal for the most scrupulous accuracy. 

With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless and 


self-indulgent, and unrestrained by a master who found it easier 
to indulge than to regulate, he had fallen into an absolute con- 
fusion as to meum and tuum with regard to himself and his 
master, which sometimes troubled even St. Clare. His own 
good sense taught him that such a training of his servants was 
unjust and dangerous. A sort of chronic remorse went with him 
everywhere, although not strong enough to make any decided, 
change in his course ; and this very remorse reacted again into 
indulgence. He passed lightly over the most serious faults, 
because he told himself that, if he had done his part, his de- 
pendants had not fallen into them. 

Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an 
odd mixture of fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That 
he never read the Bible ; never went to church ; that he jested 
and made free with any and every thing that came in the way 
of his wit ; that he spent his Sunday evenings at the opera or 
theatre ; that he went to wine parties, and clubs, and suppers 
oftener than was at all expedient, were all things that Tom 
could see as plainly as anybody, and on which he based a con- 
viction that " Mas'r was n't a Christian " ; a conviction, how- 
ever, which he would have been very slow to express to any one 
else, but on which he founded many prayers, in his own simple 
fashion, when he was by himself in his little dormitory. Not 
that Tom had not his own way of speaking his mind occasion- 
ally, 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 decidedly attained 
the upper hand of the intellectual. Tom and Adolph assisted 
to get him composed for the night, the latter in high spirits, 
evidently regarding the matter as a good joke, and laughing 
heartily at the rusticity of Tom's horror, who really was simple 
enough to lie awake most of the rest of the night, praying for 
his young master. 

" Well, Tom, what are you waiting for ? " said St. Clare, the 
next day, as he sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers. 
St. Clare had just been intrusting Tom with some money, and 
various commissions. " Is n't all right there, Tom 1 " he added, 
as Tom still stood waiting. 

" I 'in '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 1 You look as solemn as a 

" I feel very bad, Mas'r. I allays have thought that Mas'r 
would be good to everybody." 

" Well, Tom, have n't I been ] Come, now, what do you 
want 1 There 's something you have n't got, I suppose, and 
this is the preface." 

" Mas'r allays been good to me. I have n't nothing to com- 
plain of, on that head. But there is one that Mas'r is n't good 

"Why, Tom, what's got into you 1 ? Speak out; what do 
you mean ! " 

" Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied 
upon the matter then. Mas'r is n't good to Itimself." 

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 

" 0, that 's all, is it 1 " he said, gayly. 

" All ! " said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on 
his knees. " 0, my dear young Mas'r ! I 'm 'fraid it will be 
loss of all all - - body and soul. The good Book says, ' it 
biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder ! ' my dear 
Mas'r ! " 

Tom's voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks. 

" You poor, silly fool ! " said St. Clare, with tears in his own 
eyes. " Get up, Tom. I 'm not worth crying over." 

But Tom would n't rise, and looked imploring. 

" Well, I won't go to any more of their cursed nonsense, 
Tom," said St. Clare ; " on my honor, I won't. 1 don't know 
why I have n't stopped long ago. I 've always despised it, and 
myself for it, so now, Tom, wipe up your eyes, and go about 
your errands. Come, come," he added, " no blessings. I 'm 
not so wonderfully good, now," he said, as he gently pushed 
Tom to the door. " There, I '11 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. 

" I '11 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 manifold 
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 ol 
southern establishments, according to the character and capa- 
city of the mistresses who have brought them up. 

South as well as north, there are women who have an ex- 
traordinary talent for command, and tact in educating. Such 
are enabled, with apparent ease, and without severity, to sub- 
ject 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 compensate the deficien- 
cies of one by the excess of another, as to produce a harmonious 
and orderly system. 

Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have al- 
ready 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. 

Such a housekeeper Marie St. Clare. was not, nor her mother 
before her. Indolent and childish, unsystematic and improvi- 
dent, it was not to be expected that servants trained under her 
care should not be so likewise ; and she had very justly de- 
scribed to Miss Ophelia the state of confusion she would find 
in the family, though she had not ascribed it to the proper 

The first morning of her regency, Miss Ophelia was up at 
four o'clock ; and having attended to all the adjustments of 
her own chamber, as she had done ever since she came there, 
to the great amazement of the chambermaid, she prepared for 
a vigorous onslaught on the cupboards and closets of the estab- 
lishment of which she had the keys. 

The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, the 
kitchen and cellar, that day, all went under an awful review. 
Hidden things of darkness were brought to light to an extent 
that alarmed all the 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 in- 
justice to her memory not to give the reader a little idea of her. 
She was a native and essential cook, as much as Aunt Chloe, 
cooking being an 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, 
ind, like geniuses in general, was positive, opinionated, and er- 
ratic, to the last degree. 

Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectly 
scorned logic and reason in every shape, and always took ref- 
uge in intuitive certainty ; and here she was perfectly impreg- 
nable. No possible amount of talent, or authority, or explana- 
tion could ever make her believe that any other way was better 
than her own, or that the course she had pursued in the small- 
est 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, found it easier to submit than con- 
tend ; and so Dinah had ruled supreme. This was the easier, 
in that she was perfect mistress of that diplomatic art which 
unites the utmost subservience of manner with the utmost in- 
flexibility 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 everything was pecul- 
iarly meandering and circuitous, and without any sort of calcu- 
lation 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 dinner. 


Dinah, who required large intervals of reflection and repose, 
and was studious of ease in all her arrangements, was seated on 
the kitchen floor, smoking a short, stumpy pipe, to which she 
was much addicted, and which she always kindled up, as a sort 
of censer, whenever she felt the need of an inspiration in her 
arrangements. It was Dinah's mode of invoking the domestic 

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 operators, with the pudding-stick that 
lay by her side. In fact, Dinah ruled over the woolly heads of 
the younger members with a rod of iron, and seemed to con- 
sider them born 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 extent. 

Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through 
all the other parts of the establishment, now entered the 
kitchen. Dinah had heard, from various sources, what was 
going on, and resolved to stand on defensive and conservative 
ground, mentally determined to oppose and ignore every 
new measure, without any actual and observable contest. 

The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a great 
old-fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of it, an ar- 
rangement which St. Clare had vainly tried to persuade Dinah 
to exchange for the convenience of a modern cook-stove. Not 
she. No Pnseyite, or conservative of any school, was ever 
more inflexibly attached to time-honored inconveniences than 

When St. Clare had first returned from the north, impressed 
with the system and order of his uncle's kitchen arrangements, 
he had largely provided his own with an array of cupboards, 
drawers, and various apparatus, to induce systematic regulation, 
under the sanguine illusion that it would be of any possible as- 
sistance to Dinah in her arrangements. He might as 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, 
wher-ein her soul delighted. 





When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen, Dinah did not rise, 
but smoked on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements 
obliquely out of the corner of her eye, but apparently intent 
only on the operations around her. 

Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers. 

" What is this drawer for, Dinah 1 " she said. 

"It's handy for most anything, Missis," said Dinah. So il 
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's best table-cloths 1 " 

" Lor, Missis, no ; the towels was all a missin', so 1 
jest did it. I laid out to wash that ar, that 's why I put it 

" Shifless ! " 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 carefully 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 

" 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, holding 
them up. 

" Laws, yes, I put 'em there this morning, -- 1 likes to keep 
my things handy," said Dinah. " You, Jake ! what are you 
stopping for ! You '11 cotch it ! Be still, that ! " she added, 
with a dive of her stick at the criminal. 

" What 's this ? " said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of 

"Laws, it's my har grease ;--! put it thar to have it 

" Do you use your mistress's best saucers for that 1 " 

" 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 1 " 

" Well, Mas'r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat ; 
but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some 
days, and then it an't handy a liftin' up the lid." 

"Why don't you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, 
there 1 " 

" Law, Missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and 
another, der an't no room, noways 

" But you should ivash 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 1 When 'd Mas'r evei 
get his dinner, if I was to spend all ruy time a washin' and a 
puttin' up dishes 1 Miss Marie never telled me so, no how." 

" Well, here are these onions." 

" Laws, yes ! " said Dinah ; " thar is whar I put 'em, now. i 
could n't 'member. Them 's particular onions I was a savin' 
for dis ver very stew. I 'd forgot they was in dat ar old 

Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs. 

" I wish Missis would n't touch dem ar. I likes to keep my 
things where I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, rather 

" 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 '11 have everything right ; but I 
can't do nothin' when ladies is round, a henderin'. You, Sam, 
don't you gib the baby dat ar sugar-bowl ! I '11 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 '11 expect you to keep 
it so." 

" Lor, now ! Miss Phelia ; dat ar an't no way for ladies to 
do. I never did see ladies doin' no sich ; my old Missis nor 
Miss Marie never did, and I don't see no kinder need on 't " ; 
and Dinah stalked indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia piled 
and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering bowls of sugar 
into one receptacle, sorted napkins, table-cloths, and towels, for 
washing ; washing, wiping, and arranging with her own hands, 
and with a speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah. 

" Lor, now ! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey 
an't ladies, no how," she said to some of her satellites, when at 
?i safe hearing distance. " I has things as straight as anybody, 
when my clarin' up time comes ; but 1 don't want ladies round, 
a henderin', and getting my things all where I can't find 'em." 

To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, paroxysms 
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 sevenfold more confounded. 
Then she would light her pipe, and leisurely go over her ar- 
rangements, 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 confusion, which she would explain to the satisfaction of all 
inquirers, by the remark that she was a " clarin' up." " She 
could n't hev things a gwine on so as they had been, and she 
was gwine to make these yer young ones keep better order " ; 
for Dinah herself, some how, indulged the illusion that she, her- 
self, was the soul of order, and it was only the young uns, and 
the everybody else in the house, that were the cause of any- 
thing that fell short of perfection in this respect. When all the 
tins were scoured, and the tables scrubbed snowy white, and 
everything that could offend tucked out of sight in holes and 
corners, Dinah would dress herself up in a smart dress, clean 
apron, and high, brilliant Madras turban, and tell all marauding 
" young uns " to keep out of the kitchen, for she was gwine to 
have things kept nice. Indeed, these periodic seasons were 
often an inconvenience to the whole household ; for Dinah 
would contract such an immoderate attachment to her scoured 
tin, as to insist upon it that it should n'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 de- 
partment of the house to a systematic pattern ; but her labors 
in all departments that depended on the co-operation of ser- 
vants 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 is n't," said St. Clare. 

" Such shiftless management, such waste, such confusion, I 
never saw ! " 

" I dare say you did n't." 

" You would not take it so coolly, if you were housekeeper." 

" My dear cousin, you may as well understand, once for all, 
that we masters are divided into two classes, oppressors and 
oppressed. We who are good-natured and hate severity make 
Hp our minds to a good deal of inconvenience. If we will keep 
a shambling, loose, untaught set in the community, for our con- 
venience, why, we must take the consequence. Some rare cases 


I have seen, of persons, who, by a peculiar tact, can produce 
order and system without severity ; but I 'm not one of 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 the 
staff is in their own hands." 

" But to have no time, no place, no order, all going on in 
this shiftless way ! " 

" My dear Vermont, you natives up by the North Pole set 
an 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 1 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 is n't of much account. Now, 
there 's Dinah gets you a capital dinner, soup, ragout, roast 
fowl, dessert, ice-creams, and all, and she creates it all out of 
chaos and old night down there, in that kitchen. I think it 
really sublime, the way she manages. But, Heaven bless us ! 
if we are to go down there, and view all the smoking and 
squatting about, and hurryscurryation of the preparatory pro- 
cess, 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 '11 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 1 
But the upshot is, she gets up glorious dinners, makes superb 
coffee ; and you must judge her as warriors and statesmen are 
judged, by her success." 

" But the waste, the expense ! " 

" 0, well ! Lock everything you can, and keep the key. 
Give out by driblets, and never inquire for odds and ends, 
it is n't best." 

" That troubles 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. 


" 0, cousin, that 's too good, honest ! as if that 's a thing 
io be expected ! Honest ! - - why, of course, t.hey arn't. Why 
should they be ] What upon earth is to make them so "? " 

" Why don't you instruct 1 " 

" Instruct ! 0, fiddlestick ! What instructing do you think 
I should do ] I look like it ! As to Marie, she has spirit 
bAough, to be sure, to kill off a whole plantation, if I 'd let her 
manage ; but she would n't get the cheatery out of them." 

"Are there no honest ones'?" 

" Well, now and then one, whom Nature makes so impracti- 
cably 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, its ypung master and missie play- 
fellows. Cunning and deception become necessary, inevitable 
habits. It is n'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 can be honest. Such a fellow as Tom, here, is is a 
moral miracle ! " 

"And what becomes of their souls'? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" That is n't my affair, as I know of," said St. Clare ; " I am 
only dealing in facts of the present life. The fact is, that the 
whole race are pretty generally understood to be turned over to 
the devil, for our benefit, in this world, however it may turn 
out in another ! " 

" This is perfectly horrible ! " said Miss Ophelia ; " you ought 
to be ashamed of yourselves ! " 

" I don't know as I am. We are in pretty good company, 
for all that," said St. Clare, "as people in the broad road gen- 
erally 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 Christendom stands aghast, with 
virtuous indignation, because we do the thing in a little differ- 
ent shape from what they do it." 

" It is n't so in Vermont." 

" Ah, well, in New England, and in the free states, you have 
the better of us, J grant. But there 's the bell ; so, cousin, let 


us for a while lay aside our sectional prejudices, and come out 
to dinner." 

As Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen in the latter part of the 
afternoon, some of the sable children called out, " La, sakes 1 
thar 's Prue a coming, grunting along like she allers does." 

A tall, bony colored woman now entered the kitchen, bear- 
ing 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, 

" Lord ! I wish 't I 's dead ! " 

" Why do you wish you were dead 1 " said Miss Ophelia. 

" I 'd be out o' my misery," said the woman, gruffly, without 
taking her eyes from the floor. 

" What need you getting drunk, then, and cutting up, Prue ? " 
said a spruce quadroon chambermaid, dangling, as she spoke, a 
pair of coral ear-drops. 

The woman looked at her with a sour, surly glance. 

" Maybe you '11 come to it, one of these yer days. I 'd be 
glad to see you, I would ; then you '11 be glad of a drop, like 
me, to forget your misery." 

"Come, Prue," said Dinah, " let's look at your rusks. 
Here 's Missis will pay for them." 

Miss Ophelia took out a couple of dozen. 

"Thar's some tickets in that ar old cracked jug on the top 
shelf," said Dinah. " You, Jake, climb up and get it down." 

"Tickets, what are they for 1 ?" said Miss Ophelia. 

" We buys tickets of her Mas'r, and she gives us bread for 


"And they counts my money and tickets, when I gets home, 
to see if I 's got the change ; and if I han't, they half kills 


"And serves you right," said Jane, the pert chambermaid, 
" if you will take their money to get drunk on. That 's what 
she does, Missis." 

"And that 's what I will do, I can't live no other ways, 
drink and 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. 
Lord ! I wish I 's dead, I do. I wish I 's dead, and out 



of my misery ! " and slowly and stiffly the old creature rose, and 
got her basket on her head again ; but before she went out, she 
looked at the quadroon girl, who still stood playing with her 

" 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 ; then see if ye won't 
drink drink drink yerself into torment ; and sarve ye 
right, too, ugh ! " and, with a malignant howl, the woman left 
the room. 

" Disgusting old beast ! " said Adolph, who was getting his 
master's shaving-water. " If I was her master, I 'd cut her 
up worse than she is." 

" Ye could n't do that ar, no ways," said Dinah. " Her 
back 's a far sight now, she can't never get a dress together 
over it." 


" I think such low creatures ought not to be allowed to go 
round to genteel families," said Miss Jane. " What do you 
think, Mr. St. Clare ? " she said, coquettishly tossing her head 
at Adolph. 

It must be observed that, among other appropriations from 
his master's stock, Adolph was in the habit of adopting his 
name and address; and that the style under which he moved, 
among the colored circles of New Orleans, was that of Mr. St. 

" I 'm certainly of your opinion, Miss Benoir," said Adolph. 

Benoir was the name of Marie St. Clare's family, and Jane 
was one of her servants. 

"Pray, Miss Benoir, may I be allowed to ask if those drops 
are for the ball, to-morrow night 1 They are certainly bewitch- 
ing !" 

" I wonder, now, Mr. St. Clare, what the impudence of you 
men will come to!" said Jane, tossing her pretty head till the 
ear-drops twinkled again. " I shan't dance with you for a 
whole evening, if you go to asking me any more questions." 

" O, you could n't be so cruel, now ! I was just dying to 
know whether you would appear in your pink tarlatan," said 

" What is it ] " said Eosa, a bright, piquant little quadroon, 
who came skipping down stairs at this moment. 

" Why, Mr. St. Clare 's so impudent ! " 

" On my honor," said Adolph, " I '11 leave it to Miss Eosa, 


" I know he 's always a saucy creature," said Eosa, poising 
herself on one of her little feet, and looking maliciously at 
Adolph. " He 's always getting me so angry with him." 

" O, ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart, be- 
tween you," said Adolph. " I shall be found dead in my bed, 
some morning, and you '11 have it to answer for." 

" Do hear the horrid creature talk ! " said both ladies, laugh- 
ing immoderately. 

" Come, clar out, you ! I can't have you cluttering up 
the kitchen," said Dinah ; " in my way, foolin' round here." 

" Aunt Dinah 's glum, because she can't go to the ball," said 

"Don't want none o' your light-colored balls," said Dinah ; 
" cuttin' round, makin' b lieve you 's white folks. Arter all, 
you 's niggers, much as I am." 


" Aunt Dinah greases her wool stiff, every day, to make it 
lie straight," said Jane. 

" And it will be wool, after all," said Rosa, maliciously shak- 
ing down her long, silky curls. 

" Well, in the Lord's sight, an't wool as good as har any 
time 1 ?" said Dinah. "I'd like to have Missis say which is 
worth the most, a couple such as you, or one like me. Get 
out wid ye, ye trumpery, -- I won't have ye round ! " 

Here the conversation was interrupted in a twofold manner. 
St. Clare's voice was heard at the head of the stairs, asking 
Adolph if he meant to stay all night with his shaving water ; 
and Miss Ophelia, coming out of the dining-room, said, - 

" Jane and Rosa, what are you wasting your time for, here 1 
Go in and attend to your muslins." 

Our friend Tom, who had been in the kitchen during the 
conversation with the old rusk- woman, had followed her out 
into the street. He saw her go on, giving every once in a 
while a suppressed groan. At last she set her basket down on 
a doorstep, and began arranging the old, faded shawl which 
covered her shoulders. 

" I '11 carry your basket a piece," said Tom, compassionately. 

" Why should ye 1 " said the woman. " I don't want no 

" You seem to be sick, or in trouble, or somethin'," said 

" I an't sick," said the woman, shortly. 

" I 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 ? " 

" I knows I 'm gwine to torment," said the woman, sullenly. 
" Ye don't need to tell me that ar. I 's ugly, I 's wicked, 
- I 's gwine straight to torment. 0, Lord ! I wish I 's thar ! " 

Tom shuddered at these frightful words, spoken with a sul- 
len, impassioned earnestness. 

" 0, Lord have mercy on ye ! poor crittur. Han't ye never 
heard of Jesus Christ *? " 

" Jesus Christ, who 's he 1 " 

" 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 did n't anybody ever tell you of the Lord Jesus, that 
loved us poor sinners, and died for us 1 " 


" Don't know nothin' 'bout that," said the woman ; " nobody 
han't never loved me, since niy old man died." 

" Where was you raised ] " said Tom. 

" Up in Kentuck. A man kept me to breed ehil'en for mar- 
ket, and sold 'em as fast as they got big enough ; last of all, he 
sold me to a speculator, and my Mas'r got me o' him." 

" What set you into this bad way of drinkin' 1 " 

" 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 
was n't a speculator. It was de peartest little thing ! and 
Missis she seemed to think a heap on 't, at first ; it never cried, 
it was likely and fat. But Missis tuck sick, and I tended 
her ; and I tuck the fever, and my milk all left me, and the 
child it pined to skin and bone, and Missis wouldn't buy milk 
for it. She would n't hear to me, when I telled her I had n't 
milk. She said she knowed I could feed it on what other folks 
eat; and the child kinder pined, and cried, and cried, and cried, 
day and night, and got all gone to skin and bones, and Missis 
got sot agin it, and she said 't warn't nothin' but crossness. She 
wished it was dead, she said ; and she would n't let me have it 
o' nights, 'cause, she said, it kept me awake, and made me good, 
for nothing. She made me sleep in her room ; and I had to put 
it away 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 ! I will, if 
I do go to torment for it ! Mas'r says I shall go to torment, 
and I tell him I 've got thar now ! " 

" 0, ye poor crittur ! " said Tom, "han't nobody never telled 
ye how the Lord Jesus loved ye, and died for ye ? Han't they 
telled ye that he '11 help ye, and ye can go to heaven, and have 
rest, at last ] " 

" I looks like gwine to heaven," said the woman ; " an't thai 
where white folks is gwine 1 S'pose they 'd have me thar 1 
I 'd rather go to torment, and get away from Mas'r and Missis. 
I had so," she said, as, with her usual groan, she got her basket 
on her head, and walked sullenly away. 

Tom turned, and walked sorrowfully back to the house. In 
the court he met little Eva, a crown of tuberoses on hei 
head, a,nd her eyes radiant with delight. 

" O, 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 mat- 
ter, Tom 1 you look sober." 


" I feel bad, Miss Eva," said Tom, sorrowfully. " But I '11 
get the horses for you." 

" But do tell me, Tom, what is the matter. I saw you talk- 
ing to cross old Prue." 

Tom, in simple, earnest phrase, told Eva the woman's his- 
tory. She did not exclaim, or wonder, or weep, as other chil- 
dren do. Her cheeks grew pale, and a deep, earnest shadow 
passed over her eyes. She laid both hands on her bosom, and 
sighed heavily. 




OM, you need n't get me the horses. I don't want 
to go," she said. 

" Why not, Miss Eva?" 

" These things sink into my heart, Tom," said 
Eva, " they sink into my heart," she repeated, 
earnestly. " I don't want to go " ; and she turned from Tom, 
and went into the house. 

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 is n't coming any more," said the woman, mysteri- 

" Why not 1 " said Dinah. " She an't dead, is she 1 " 

" We does n'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, any how 1 " she said. 

The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and 
answered, in a low, mysterious tone, - 

" Well, you must n't tell nobody. Prue, she got drunk agin, 
- and they had her down cellar, and thar they left her all 
day, and I hearn 'eni saying that the flies had got to her, 
and she 's dead ! " 

Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by he! 
side the spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large, mystic eyes 
dilated with horror, and every drop of blood driven from her 
lips and cheeks. 

" Lor bless us ! Miss Eva 's gwine to faint away ! What 
got us all, to let her bar such talk 1 Her pa '11 be rail mad." 

" I shan't faint, Dinah," said the child, firmly; "and why 
should n't I hear it ] It an't so much for me to hear it. as for 
poor Prue to suffer it." 



" Lor sakes ! it is n't for sweet, delicate young ladies, like 
you, these yer stories is n'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 Torn 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 reading 
his paper. 

" Pray, what iniquity has turned up now ] " said he. 

" What now 1 why, those folks have whipped Prue to death ! " 
said Miss Ophelia, going on, with reat strength of detail, into 
the story, and enlarging on its most shocking particulars. 

" I thought it would come to that, some time," said St. Clare, 
going on with his paper. 

" Thought so ! an't you going to do anything about it ? " 
said Miss Ophelia. " Have n't you got any selectmen, or any- 
body, to interfere and look after such matters ? " 

" It 's commonly supposed that the property interest is a 
sufficient guard in these cases. If people choose to ruin their 
own possessions, I don't know what 's to be done. It seems 
the poor creaturj was a ttiief and a drunkard ; and so then 
won't be much hope to get up sympathy for hei\" 

"It is perfectly outragec is, -- it is horrid, Augustine! It 
will certainly bring down vengeance upon you." 

" My dear cousin, I did n't do it, and I can't help it ; I would, 
if I could. If low-minded, brutal people will act like them- 
selves, what am I to do 1 They have absolute control ; they 


are irresponsible despots. There would be no use in interfering ; 
there is no law that amounts to anything practically, for such a 
case. The best we can do is to shut our eyes and ears, and let 
it alone. It 's the only resource left us." 

" How can you shut your eyes and ears 1 How can you let 
such things alone ] " 

" My dear child, what do you expect 1 Here is a whole 
class, debased, uneducated, indolent, provoking, -- put, with- 
out any sort of terms or conditions, entirely into the hands of 
such people as the majority in our world are ; people who have 
neither consideration nor self-control, who have n't even an 
enlightened regard to their own interest, for that 's the case 
with the largest half of mankind. Of course, in a community 
so 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 annoyed, but, suddenly calling up a gay smile, he said, 

" Come, cousin, don't stand there looking like one of the 
Fates ; yon '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. "T is 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, 

" I tell you, Augustine, I can't get over things so, if you can. 
It 's a perfect abomination for you to defend such a system, 
that 's my mind ! " 

" What now 1 " said St. Clare, looking up. "At it again, hey 1 " 

" I say it 's perfectly abominable for you to defend such a 
system ! " said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth. 

" / defend it, my dear lady 1 Who ever said I did defend 
it 1 " 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 1 " 

"Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose nobody in 


this world ever does what they don't think is right 1 Don't 
you, or did n't you ever, do anything that you did not think 
.quite right]" 

" If I do, I repent of it, I hope," said Miss Ophelia, rat- 
tling her needles with energy. 

" 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 ? " 

" Did n't you ever keep on doing wrong, after you 'd re- 
pented, my good cousin 1 " 

" Well, only when I 've been very much tempted," said Miss 

" 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 have n't, some how, got clear. 
Have you got clear of all your sins, cousin?" 

" Cousin Augustine," said Miss Ophelia, seriously, and lay- 
ing down her knitting-work, " I suppose I deserve that you 
should reprove my shortcomings. I know all you say is true 
enough ; nobody else feels them more than I do ; but it does 
seem to me, after all, there is some difference between me and 
you. It seems to me I would cut off my right hand sooner 
than keep on, from day to day, doing what I thought was wrong. 
But, then, my conduct is so inconsistent with my profession, I 
don't wonder you reprove me." 

" 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 al- 
ways was. I love to poke you up, that 's all, just to see 
you get earnest. I do think you are desperately, distressingly 
good ; it tires me to death to think of it." 

" But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste," said Miss 
Ophelia, laying her hand on his forehead. 

" Dismally so," said he ; " and I - - well, I never want to 
talk seriously in hot weather. What with 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." 


" 0, Auguste, you are a sad rattlebrain ! " 

" Am I 'I Well, so I am, I suppose ; but for once I will be 
serious, now ; but you must hand me that basket of oranges ; 
you see, you '11 have to ' stay me with flagons and comfort me 
with apples/ if I 'm going to make this effort. Now," said 
Augustine, drawing the basket up, " I '11 begin : When, in 
the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a fellow 
to hold two or three dozen of his fellow-worms in captivity, a 
decent regard to the opinions of society requires - 

" I don't see that you are growing more serious," said Miss 

" Wait, -- 1 'm coming on, you '11 hear. The short of the 
matter is, cousin," said he, his handsome face suddenly set- 
tling 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 na- 
ture and the Bible, and nobody knows what else, into the ser- 
vice ; 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, 
I '11 make a clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed 
of God and man, what is it ] Strip it of all its ornament, run 
it down to the root and nucleus of the whole, and what is it? 
Why, because my brother Quashy is ignorant and weak, and I 
am intelligent and strong, -- because I know how, and can do 
it, therefore, I may steal all he has, keep it, and give him 
only such and so much as suits my fancy. Whatever is too 
hard, too dirty, too disagreeable, for me, I may set Qnashy tc 
doing. Because I don't like work, Quashy shall work. Be- 
cause the sun burns me, Quashy shall stay in the sun. Quashy 
shall earn the money, and I will spend it. Quashy shall lie 
down in every puddle, that I may walk over dry-shod. Quashy 
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 I find 
convenient. This I take to be about Avhat slavery is. I defy 


anybody on earth to read our slave-code, as it stands in our 
law-books, and make anything else of it. Talk of the abuses of 
slavery ! Humbug ! The thing itself is the essence of all 
abuse ! And the 'only reason why the land don't sink under 
it, like Sodom and Gomorrah, is because it is used in a way 
infinitely better than it is. For pity's sake, for shame's sake, 
because we are men born of women, and not savage beasts, 
many of us do not, and dare not, we would scorn to use tl.e 
full power which our savage laws put into our hands. And 
he who goes the furthest, and does the worst, only uses within 
limits the power that the law gives him." 

St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when ex- 
cited, 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 unconscious eagerness. Miss 
Ophelia had never seen him in this mood before, and she sat 
perfectly silent. 

" I declare to you," said he, suddenly stopping before his 
cousin, " it 's no sort of use to talk or to feel on this subject, 
but I declare to you, there have been times when I have 
thought, if the whole country would sink, and hide all this in- 
justice and misery from the light, I would willingly sink with 
it. When I have been travelling up and down on our boats, 
or about on my collecting tours, and reflected that every brutal, 
disgusting, mean, low-lived fellow I met, was allowed by our 
laws to become absolute desput 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, " I 'in 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. 

" 0, yes, to be sure, the question is, and a deuce of a ques- 
tion it is ! How came you in this state of sin and misery 1 


Well, I shall answer in the good old words you used to teach 
me, Sundays. I came so by ordinary generation. My ser- 
vants were my father's, and, what is more, my mother's ; and 
now they are mine, they and their increase, which bids fair to 
be a pretty considerable item. My father, you know, came 
first from New England ; and he was just such another man as 
your father, a regular old Koman, 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 exist- 
ence out of Nature ; and mine settled in Louisiana, to rule 
over men and women, and force existence out of them. My 
mother," said St. Clare, getting up, and walking to a picture 
at the end of the room, and gazing upward with a face fervent 
with veneration, " she was divine ! l)on't look at me so ! 
you know what I mean ! She probably was of mortal birth ; 
but, as far as ever I could observe, there was no trace of any 
human weakness or error ahout her ; and everybody that lives 
to remember her, whether bond or free, servant, acquaintance, 
relation, all say the same. Why, cousin, that mother has been 
all that has stood between me and utter unbelief for years. 
She was a direct embodiment and personification of the New 
Testament, a living fact, to be accounted for, and to be ac- 
counted for in no other way than by its truth. 0, mother ! 
mother ! " said St. Clare, clasping his hands, in a sort of trans- 
port ; and then suddenly checking himself, he came back, and 
seating himself on an ottoman, he went on : 

" My brother and I were twins ; and they say, you know, 
that twins ought to resemble each other ; but we were in all 
points a contrast. He had black, fiery eyes, coal-black hair, a 
strong, fine Roman profile, and a rich brown complexion. I 
had blue eyes, golden hair, a Greek outline, and fair complex- 
ion. He was active and observing, I dreamy and inactive. 
He was generous to his friends and equals, but proud, domi- 
nant, overbearing, to inferiors, and utterly unmerciful to what- 
ever 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. 

" There was a morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feeling 
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 


quarrelled with Alfred, and father looked sternly on me, I 
used to go off to mother's room, and sit by her. I remember 
just how she used to look, with her pale cheeks, her deep, soft, 
serious eyes, her white dress, she always wore white ; and I 
used to think of her whenever I read in Eevelations about the 
saints that were arrayed in tine linen, clean and white. She 
had a great deal of genius of one sort and another, particularly 
in music ; and she used to sit at her organ, playing tine 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, O im- 
measurably ! things that I had no language to say ! 

" In those days, this matter of slavery had never been can- 
vassed as it has now ; nobody dreamed of any harm in it. 

" My father was a born aristocrat. I think, in some pre- 
existeut state, he must have been in the higher circles of spir- 
its, and brought all his old court pride along with him ; for it 
was ingrain, bred in the bone, though he was originally of poor 
and not in any way of noble family. My brother was begotten 
in his image. 

" Now, an aristocrat, you know, the world over, has no hu- 
man sympathies, beyond a certain line in 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 countries 
never goes over it. What would be hardship and distress and 
injustice in his own class, is a cool matter of course in another 
one. My father's dividing line was that of color. Among his 
equals, never was a man more just and generous ; but he con- 
sidered the negro, through all possible gradations of color, as 
an intermediate link between man and animals, and graded all 
his ideas of justice or generosity on this hypothesis. I sup- 
pose, 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 a man much 
troubled with spiritualism ; religious sentiment he had none, 
beyond a veneration for God, as decidedly the head of the 
upper classes. 

" Well, my father worked some five hundred negroes ; he 
was an inflexible, driving, punctilious business man ; everything 
was to move by system, -- to be sustained with unfailing ac- 
curacy and precision. Now, if you take into account that all 
this was to be worked out 'oy a set of lazy, twaddling, shift- 


less laborers, who had grown up, all their lives, in the ahsence 
of every possible motive to learn how to do anything but 
' shirk,' as you Vermonters say, you '11 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-listed renegade son of Vermont (begging your pardon), 
who had gone through a regular apprenticeship in hardness 
and brutality, and taken his degree to be admitted to practice. 
My mother could never endure him, nor I, but he obtained an 
entire ascendency over my father ; and this man was the abso- 
lute despot of the estate. 

" I was a little fellow then, but I had the same love that I 
have now for all kinds of human things, a kind of passion 
for the study of humanity, come in what shape it would. I 
was found in the cabins and among the field-hands a great 
deal, and, of course, was a great favorite ; and all sorts of com- 
plaints and grievances were breathed in my ear ; and I told 
them to mother, and we, between us, formed a sort of com- 
mittee 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 could n't manage the 
hands, and must resign his position. Father was a fond, in- 
dulgent 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 ex- 
plicit, that over the house-servants she should be entire mis- 
tress, but that with the field-hands he could allow no inter- 
ference. He revered and respected her above all living beings ; 
but he would have said it all the same to the Virgin Mary her- 
self, if she had come in the way of his system. 

" I 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 polite- 
ness and equanimity. ' It all resolves itself into this,' he would 
say ; ' must I part with Stubbs, or keep him 1 Stubbs is the 
soul of punctuality, honesty, and efficiency, a thorough busi- 
ness hand, and as humane as the general run. We can't have 
perfection ; and if I keep him, I must sustain his administra- 
tion as a whole, even if there are, now and then, things that are 



exceptionable. All government includes some necessary hard- 
ness. General rules will bear hard on particular cases.' This 
last maxim my father seemed to consider a settler in most 
alleged cases of cruelty. After he had said that, he 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 newspaper, as the 
case might be. 

" The fact is, my father showed the exact sort of talent for 
a statesman. He could have divided Poland as easily as an 
orange, or trod on Ireland as quietly and systematically as any 
man living. At last my mother gave up, in despair. It never 
will be known, till the last account, what noble and sensitive 
natures like hers have felt, cast, utterly helpless, into what 
seems to them an abyss of injustice and cruelty, and which 
seems so to nobody about them. It has been an age of long 
sorrow of such natures, in such a hell-begotten sort of world as 
ours. What remained for her, but to train her children in her 
own views and sentiments 1 Well, after all you say about 
training, children will grow up substantially what they are by 
nature, and only that. From the cradle, Alfred was an aristo- 
crat ; and as he grew up, instinctively all his sympathies and 
all his reasonings were in that line, and all mother's exhorta- 
tions went to the winds. As to rne, 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. I have looked in her face with solemn awe, when she 
would 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 all these stars are gone forever, will live as long 
as God lives ! ' 

" 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 loathsome ; therefore, 
he would not heal him afar off ! He called him to him, and 
put his hands on him ! Remember this, my boy.' If I had 
lived to grow up under her care, she might have stimulated me 
to I know not what of enthusiasm. I might have been a saint, 
reformer, martyr, but, alas! alas! I went from her when I 
was only thirteen, and I never saw her again ! " 


St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not speak foi 
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 lather, foi 
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 con- 
stitution and habit, a duplicate of my father. I can see it 
leaking out in fifty different ways, just that same strong, 
overbearing, dominant spirit. You know very well how im- 
possible it 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 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 

" Now, I know every word you are going to say. I do not 
say they ivere alike, in fact. One fell into a condition where 
everything acted against the natural tendency, and the othei 
where everything acted for it ; and so one turned out a pretty 
wilful, stout, overbearing old democrat, and the other a wilful, 
stout old despot. If both had owned plantations in Louisiana, 
they would have been as like as two old bullets cast in th 
same mould." 

" What an undutiful boy you are ! " said Miss Ophelia. 

" I don't mean them any disrespect," said St. Clare. " You 
know reverence is not my forte. But, to go back to my his- 
tory : - 

" When father died, he left the whole property to us twin 
boys, to be divided as we should agree. There does not breathe 
on God's earth a nobler-souled, more generous fellow, than 
Alfred, in 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 wonder- 
fully 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 in- 
terest in, bought and driven, housed, fed, worked like so many 
horned cattle, strained up to military precision, the question 
of how little of life's commonest enjoyments would keep them 
in working order being a constantly recurring problem, the 
necessity of drivers and overseers, the ever-necessary whip, 
first, last, and only argument, the whole thing was insufferably 
disgusting and loathsome to me ; and when I thought of my 
mother's estimate of one poor human soul, it became even 
frightful ! 

" It 's all nonsense to talk 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 their 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 of a master, without 
the power of putting forth one irresponsible volition, on the 
same dreary, monotonous, unchanging toil, and all for two pairs 
of pantaloons and a pair of shoes a year, with enough food and 
shelter to keep him in working order ! Any man who thinks 
that human beings can, as a general thing, be made about as 
comfortable that way as any other, I wish he might try it. I 'd 
buy the dog, and work him, with a clear conscience ! " 

" I always have supposed," said Miss Ophelia, " that you, all 
of you, approved of these things, and thought them right, 
according to scripture." 

" Humbug ! We are not quite reduced to that yet. AlfreO 
who is as determined a despot as ever walked, does not pretend 
to this kind of defence ; no, he stands, high and haughty, on 
that good old respectable ground, the right of the strongest ; anJ 
he says, and I think quite sensibly, that the American plantei 
is 'only doing, in another form, what the English aristocracy 
and capitalists are doing by the lower classes ' ; that is, I taki 
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 civiliza- 
tion without enslavement of the masses, either nominal or real. 
There must, he says, be a lower class, given up to physical toil 
and confined to an animal nature ; and a higher one thereby 
acquires leisure and wealth for a more expanded intelligence 


and improvement, and becomes the directing soul of the lower. 
3o he reasons, because, as I said, he is born an aristocrat ; so 
I don't believe, because I was born a democrat." 

' How in the world can the two things be compared ? " said 
Miss Ophelia. " The English laborer is not sold, traded, parted 
from his family, whipped." 

" He is as much at the will of his employer as if he were 
sold to him. The slave-owner can whip his refractory slave 
to death, the capitalist can starve him to death. As to 
family security, it is hard to say which is the worst, to have 
one's children sold, or see them starve to death at home." 

" But it 's no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it 
is n't worse than some other bad thing." 

" I didn't give it for one, -- nay, I '11 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 tangible form, though the thing 
done be, after all, in its nature, the same ; that is, appropriating 
one set of human beings to the use and improvement of another, 
without any regard to their own." 

" I never thought of the matter in this light," said Miss 

" Well, I 've travelled in England some, and T 've looked 
over a good many documents as to the state of their lower 
classes ; and I really think there is no denying Alfred, when 
he says that his slaves are better off than a large class of the 
population of England. You see, you must not infer, from 
what I have told you, that Alfred is what is called a hard 
master ; for he is n't. He is despotic, and unmerciful to insub- 
ordination ; he would shoot a fellow down with as little re- 
morse as he would shoot a buck, if he opposed him. But, in 
general, he takes a sort of pride in having his slaves comforta- 
bly fed and accommodated. 

" When I was with him, I insisted that he should do some- 
thing for their instruction ; and, to please me, he did get a 
chaplain, and used to have them catechized Sunday, though, 1 
Relieve, 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 animalized by every bad in-. 


flueuce from the hour of hirth, 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 planta- 
tion-hands in our country, could perhaps testify to the same 
result, there and here. Yet some striking exceptions there are 
among us, from the fact that the negro is naturally more im- 
pressible to religious sentiment than the white." 

" Well," said Miss Ophelia, " how came you to give up your 
plantation life 1 " 

" 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 THING that I hated, the using these 
men and women, the perpetuation of all this ignorance, bru- 
tality, 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 cot- 
ton at the top, it seemed so exactly like what I should do if I 
were they, I could n't and would n't have them flogged for it. 
Well, of course, there was an end of plantation discipline ; and 
Alf and I came to about the same point that I and my 
respected father did, years before. So he told me that I was 
a womanish sentimentalist, and would never do for business 
life ; and advised me to take the bank-stock and the New 
Orleans family mansion, and go to writing poetry, and let him 
manage the plantation. So we parted, and I came here." 

" But why did n't you free your slaves ] " 

" Well, I was n't up to that. To hold them as tools for 
money-making, I could not ; have them to help spend money, 
you know, did n't look quite so ugly to me. Some of them 
were old house-servants, to whom I was much attached ; and 
the younger ones were children to the old. All were well sat- 
isfied 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 did n't you 1 " said Miss Ophelia ; " you ought 
not to put your hand to the plough, and look back." 

" O, well, things did n'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 be- 
came a piece of drift-wood, and have been floating and eddying 
about, ever since. Alfred scolds me, every time we meet ; and 
he has the better of me, I grant, for he really does some- 
thing ; his life is a logical result of his opinions, and mine is a 
contemptible non sequitur." 

" My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way of 
spending your probation 1 " 

" Satisfied ! Was I not just telling you I despised it ] But, 
then, to come back to this point, we were on this liberation 
business. I don't think my feelings about slavery are peculiar. 
I find many men who, in their hearts, think of it just as I do. 
The land groans under it ; and, bad as it is for the slave, it is 
worse, if anything, for the master. It takes no spectacles to 
see that a great class of vicious, improvident, degraded people, 
imong us, are an evil to us, as well as to themselves. The 
capitalist and aristocrat of England cannot feel that as we do, 
because they do not mingle with the class they degrade as we 
do. They are in our houses ; they are the associates of our 
children, and they form their minds faster than we can ; for 
they are a race that children always will cling to and assimi- 
late 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 chil- 
dren will not be affected by that. Yet our laws positively 
and utterly forbid any efficient general educational system, and 
they do it wisely, too ; for, just begin and thoroughly educate 
one generation, and the whole thing would be blown sky high. 
If we did not give them liberty, they would take it." 

" And what do you think will be the end of this 1 " said 
Miss Ophelia. 

" I don't know. One thing is certain, that there is a 
mustering among the masses, the world over ; and there is a> 


dies irce coming on, sooner or later. The same thing is work- 
ing 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 1 " 

" Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the 
kingdom," s.iid 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 have n't had one downright betious talk, for 
once in my life." 

At table, Marie alluded to the incident of Prue. " I suppose 
you '11 think, cousin," she said, " that we are all barbarians." 

" I think that 's a barbarous thing," said Miss Ophelia, " but 
I don't think you are all barbarians." 

"Well, now," said Marie, "I know it's impossible to get 
along with some of these creatures. They are so bad they 
ought not to live. I don't feel a particle of sympathy for such 
cases. If they 'd only behave themselves, it would not happen." 

" But, mamma," said Eva, " the poor creature was unhappy ; 
that 's what made her drink." 

" 0, fiddlestick ! as if that were any excuse ! I 'm unhappy, 
very often. I presume," she said, pensively, ''that I've had 
greater trials than ever she had. It's just because they are so 
bad. There 's some of them that you cannot break in by any 
kind of severity. I remember father had a man that was so 
lazy he would run away just to get rid of work, and lie round 
in the swamps, stealing and doing all sorts of horrid things. 
That man was caught and whipped, time and again, and it 
never did him any good ; and the last time he crawled off, 
though he could n't but just go, and died in the swamp. There 
was no sort of reason for it, for father's hands were always 
treated kindly." 

" I broke a fellow in, once," said St. Clare, " that all the over- 
seers and masters had tried their hands on in vain." 

" You ! " said Marie ; " well, I 'd be glad to know when you 
ever did anything of the sort." 



" Well, he was a powerful, gigantic fellow, a native-born 
African ; and he appeared to have the rude instinct of freedom 
in him to an 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 was on a visit to Alf's plantation, for it 
was after Ave 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 waf 
agreed that, if I caught him, I should have him to experiment 
on. So they mustered out a party of some six or seven, with 
guns and dogs, for the hunt. People, you know, can get up 
just as much enthusiasm in hunting a man as a deer, if it is 
only customary ; in fact, 1 got a little excited myself, though I 
had only put in as a sort of mediator, in case he was caught. 



" Well, the dogs bayed and howled, and we rode and scam- 
pered, and finally we started him. He ran and bounded like a 
buck, and kept us well in the rear for some time ; but at last 
he got caught in an 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 ot 
them with only his naked h'sts, when a shot from a gun brought 
him down, and he fell, wounded and bleeding, almost at my 
feet. The poor fellow looked up at me with manhood and 
despair both in his eye. I kept back the dogs and the party, 
as they came pressing up, and claimed him as my prisoner. It 
was all I could do to keep them from shooting him, in the flush 

of success ; but I persisted in my bargain, and Alfred'sold him 
to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in one fortnight I had 
him tamed down as submissive and tractable as heart could 

" What in the world did you do to him 1 " said Marie. 

" Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my own 


room, had a good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, and 
tended him myself, until he got fairly on his feet again. And, 
in process of time, I had free papers made out for him, and told 
him he might go where he liked." 

" And did he go ] " said Miss Ophelia. 

" No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and abso- 
lutely refused to leave me. I never had a braver, better fellow, 
trusty and true as steel. He embraced Christianity after- 
wards, 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 for me. For 
I was sick, almost to death ; and when, through the panic, every- 
body 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," he added, " ought not to hear 
any of this kind of thing, she 's nervous." 

" No, papa, I 'm not nervous," said Eva, controlling herself, 
suddenly, with a strength of resolution singular in such a child. 
" I 'm not nervous, but these things sink into my heart." 

" What do you mean, Eva '<," 

" I can't tell you, papa. I think a great many thoughts. 
Perhaps some day I shall tell you." 

" Well, think away, dear, only don't cry and worry your 
papa," said St. Clare. "Look here, see what a beautiful 
peach I have got for you ! " 

Eva took it, and smiled, though there was still a nervou? 
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. A few moments, and 
merry laughs were heard through the silken curtains, as Eva 
and St. Clare were pelting each other with roses, and chasing 
each other among the alleys of the court. 


There is danger that our humble friend Tom be neglected 
amid the adventures of the higher born ; but, if our readers 
will accompany us up to a little loft over the stable, they may, 
perhaps, learn a little of his affairs. It was a decent room, 
containing a bed, a chair, and a small, rough stand, where 
lay Tom's Bible and hymn-book ; and where he sits, at 
present, with his slate before him, intent on something that 
seems to cost him a great deal of 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 attainment acquired 
by Mas'r George's instructions, he conceived the bold idea of 
writing a letter ; and he was busy now, on his slate, getting 
out his first draft. Tom was in a good deal of trouble, for the 
forms of some of the letters he had forgotten entirely ; and of 
what he did remember, he did not know exactly which to use. 
And while he was working, and breathing very hard, in his 
earnestness, Eva alighted, like a bird, on the round of his 
chair behind him, and peeped over his shoulder. 

" 0, Uncle Tom ! what funny things you are making there ! " 

" I 'm trying to write to my poor old woman, Miss Eva, 
and my little chil'en," said Tom, drawing the back of his hand 
over his eyes ; " but, some how, I 'm 'feard I shan't make it 

" I wish I could help you, Tom ! I 've learnt to write some. 
Last year I could make all the letters, but I 'm afraid I 've 

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 con- 
sulting and advising over every word, the composition began, 
as they both felt very sanguine, to look quite like writing. 

" Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful," said 
Eva, gazing delightedly on it. " How pleased your wife '11 be, v 
and the poor little children ! 0, it 's a shame you ever had to 
go away from them ! I mean to ask papa to let you go back, 
some time." 

" Missis said that she would send down money for me, as 
soon as they could 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 '11 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 I was well off, 'cause 
she felt so drefful, poor soul ! " 

" I say, Tom ! " said St. Clare's voice, coming in the door at 
this moment. 

Tom and Eva both sta,rted. 

" What 's here ? " said St. Clare, coming up and looking at 
the slate. 

" 0, it 's Tom's letter. I 'm helping him to write it," said 
Eva ; " is n't it nice ? " 

" I would n't discourage either of you," said St. Clare, " but 
I rather think, Tom, you 'd better get me to write your letter 
for you. I '11 do it, when I come home from my ride." 

" It's very important he should write," said Eva, "becaust 
his mistress is going to send down money to redeem him, you 
know, papa ; he told me they told him so." 

St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably only 
one of those things which good-natured owners say to their 


servants, to alleviate their horror of being sold, without any 
intention of fulfilling the expectation thus excited. But he 
did not make any audible comment upon it, only ordered 
Tom to get the horses out for a ride. 

Tom's letter was written in due form for him that evening, 
and safely lodged in the post-office. 

Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labors in the house- 
keeping line. It was universally agreed, among all the house- 
hold, from Dinah down to the youngest urchin, that Miss 
Ophelia was decidedly " curis," - - a term by which a southern 
servant implies that his or her betters don't exactly suit them. 

The higher circle in the family to wit, Adolph, Jane, and 
Eosa agreed that she was no lady ; ladies never kept work- 
ing 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 day- 
light 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. 




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 1 " said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with her 
sewing in her hand. 

"I've made a purchase for your department, see here," 
said St. Clare ; and, with the word, he pulled along a little 
negro girl, about eight or nine years of age. 

She was one of the blackest of her race ; and her round, 
shining eyes, glittering as glass beads, moved with quick and 
restless glances over everything in the room. Her mouth, half 
open with astonishment at the wonders of the new Mas'r's 
parlor, displayed a white and brilliant set of teeth. Her 
woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails, which stuck out 
in every direction. The expression of 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 wfts dressed in a single filthy, 
ragged garment, made of bagging ; and stood with her hands 
demurely folded before her. Altogether, there was something 
odd and goblin-like about her appearance, something, as 
Miss Ophelia afterwards said, "so heathenish," as to inspire 
that good lady with utter dismay ; and, turning to St. Clare, 
she said, - 

"Augustine, what in the world have you brought that thing 
here for ?" 

" For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way she 
should go. I thought she was rather a funny specimen in the 
Jim Crow line. Here, Topsy," he added, giving a whistle, as a 
man would to call the attention of a dog, " give us a song, now, 
and show us some of your dancing." 



The black, glassy eyes glittered with a kind of wicked droll- 
ery, 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 guttural sounds which distinguish tho 
native music of her race ; and finally, turning a somerset or 
two, and giving a prolonged closing note, as odd and unearthly 
as that of a steam-whistle, she came suddenly down on thu 
carpet, and stood with her hands folded, and a most sanctimo- 
nious expression of meekness and solemnity over her face, only 
broken by the cunning glances which she shot askance from 
the corners of her eyes. 


Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with amaze- 

St. Clare, like a mischievous fellow as he was, appeared to en- 
joy her astonishment ; and, addressing the child again, said, 

" Topsy, this is your new mistress. I 'in 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. 

" 0, yes, Mas'r," said Topsy, with another twinkle, her 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, did n't I tell you 1 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." 

" / don't want her, I am sure ; I have more to do with 
'em now than I want to." 

" That 's you Christians, all over ! you '11 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 conver- 
sion on yourselves ! No ; when it cornes to that, they are dirty 
and disagreeable, and it's too much care, and so on." 

" Augustine, you know I did n't think of it in that light," 
said Miss Ophelia, evidently softening. " Well, it might be a 
real missionary work," said she, looking rather more favorably 
on the child. 

St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia's con- 
scientiousness was ever on the alert. " But," she added, " I 
really did n't see the need of buying this one ; there are 
enough now, in your house, to take all my time and skill." 

"Well, then, cousin," said St. Clare, drawing her aside, "I 


ought to beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing speeches. 
You are so good, after all, that there 's no sense in them. Why, 
the fact is, this concern belonged to a couple of drunken crea- 
tures that keep a low restaurant that I have to pass by every 
<lay, and I was tired of hearing her screaming, and them beat 
ing and swearing at her. She looked bright and funny, too, 
is if something might be made of her, so I bought her, and 
( '11 give her to you. Try, now, and give her a good orthodox 
New England bringing up, and see what it '11 make of hei % . 
You know I have n't any gift that way ; but I 'd like you to 

" Well, I '11 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 nigger ! " 
said Dinah, surveying the new arrival with no friendly air. 
" Won't have her round under my feet, / know ! " 

" Pah ! " said Rosa and Jane, with supreme disgust ; " let her 
keep out of our way ! What in the world Mas'r wanted another 
of these low niggers for, I can't see ! " 

" You go 'long ! No more nigger dan you be, Miss Rosa," 
said Dinah, who felt this last remark a reflection on herself. 
" You seem to tink yourself white folks. You an't nerry one, 
black nor white. I 'd like to be 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 do it herself, with some 
very ungracious and reluctant assistance from Jane. 

It is not for ears polite to hear the particulars of the first 
toilet of a neglected, abused child. In fact, in this world, mul- 
titudes 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 de- 
scribed. 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 confessed, with no 
very gracious air, for endurance was the utmost to which 
her principles could bring her. When she saw, on the back 


and shoulders of the child, great welts and calloused spots, 
ineffaceable marks of the system under which she had grown 
up thus far, her heart became pitiful within her. 

" See there ! " said Jane, pointing to the marks, " don't that 
show she 's a limb 1 We '11 have tine works with her, I reckon. 
I hate these nigger young uns ! so disgusting ! I wonder that 
Mas'r would buy her ! " 

The " young un " alluded to heard all these comments with 
the subdued and doleful air which seemed habitual to her, only 
scanning, with a keen and furtive glance of her nickering eyes, 
the ornaments which Jane wore in her ears. When arrayed at 
last in a suit of decent and whole clothing, her hair cropped 
short to her head, Miss Ophelia, with some satisfaction, said she 
looked more Christian-like than she did, and in her own mind 
began to mature some plans for her instruction. 

Sitting down before her, she began to question her. 

" How old are you, Topsy ? " 

" Dunno, Missis," said the image, with a grin that showed 
all her teeth. 

" Don't know how old you are 1 Did n't anybody ever tell 
you 1 Who was your mother ] " 

" Never had none ! " said the child, with another grin. 

" Never had any mother 1 What do you mean 1 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 ner- 
vous, 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 

" You must n't answer me in that way, child ; I 'ni not play- 
ing with you. Tell me where you were born, and who your 
father and mother were." 

" Never was born," reiterated the creature, more emphat- 
ically ; " never had no father nor mother, nor nothin'. I was 
raised by a speculator, with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used 
\Q take car on us." 

The child was evidently sincere ; and Jane, breaking into a 
short laugh, said, - 

" Laws, Missis, there 's heaps of 'em. Speculators buys 'em 
np cheap, when they 's little, and gets 'em raised for market." 

" How long have you lived with your master and mistress ? '' 


"Dunno, Missis." 

" Is it a year, or more, or less 1 " 

" Dunno, Missis." 

"Laws, Missis, those low negroes, --they can't tell; they 
don't know anything about time," said Jane ; " they don't know 
what a year is ; they don't know their own ages." 

" Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy 1 " 

The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual. 

" Do you know who made you 1 " 

" Nobody, as I knows on," said the child, with a short laugh. 

The idea appeared to amuse her considerably ; for her eyes 
twinkled, and she added, - 

"I spect I grow'd. Don't think nobody never made me." 

" Do you know how to sew ] " said Miss Ophelia, who thought 
she would turn her inquiries to something more tangible. 

" No, Missis." 

" What can you do 1 what did you do for your master and 
mistress 1 " 

" Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and wait on 

" Were they good to you ? " 

" Spect they was," said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia 

Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy ; St. Clare 
was leaning over the back of her chair. 

" You find virgin soil there, cousin ; put in your own ideas, 
you won't find many to pull up." 

Miss Ophelia's ideas of education, like all her other ideas, 
were very set and definite ; and of the kind that prevailed in 
New England a century ago, and which are still preserved in 
some very retired and unsophisticated parts, where there are no 
railroads. As nearly as could be expressed, they could be com- 
prised in very few words : to teach them to mind when they 
were spoken to ; to teach them the catechism, sewing, and read- 
ing ; and to whip them if they told lies. And though, of course, 
in the flood of light that is now poured on education, these are 
left far away in the rear, yet it is an undisputed fact that our 
grandmothers raised some tolerably fair men and women under 
this regime, as many of us can remember and testify. At all 
events, Miss Ophelia knew of nothing else to do ; and, therefore, 
applied her mind to her heathen with the best diligence she 
could command. 


The child was announced and considered in the family as 
Miss Ophelia's girl ; and, as she was looked upon Avith no 
gracious eye in the kitchen, Miss Ophelia resolved to confine 
her sphere of operation and instruction chiefly to her own cham- 
ber. With a self-sacrifice which some of our readers will 
appreciate, she resolved, instead of comfortably making her own 
bed, sweeping and dusting her own chamber, -- which she had 
hitherto done, in utter scorn of all offers of help from the 
chambermaid of the establishment, --to condemn herself to the 
martyrdom of instructing Topsy to perform these operations, 
ah, woe the day ! Did any of our readers ever do the same, 
they will appreciate the amount of her self-sacrifice. 

Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her cham- 
ber, the first morning, and solemnly commencing a course of 
instruction in the art and mystery of bed-making. 

Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all the little 
braided tails wherein her heart had delighted, arrayed in a 
clean gown, with well-starched apron, standing reverently be- 
fore Miss Ophelia, with an expression of solemnity well befit- 
ting a funeral. 

" Now, Topsy, I 'm going to show you just how my bed is 
to be made. I am very particular about rny bed. You must 
learn exactly how to do it." 

" Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face of 
woful earnestness. 

" Now, Topsy, look here ; this is the hem of the sheet, 
this is the right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong ; will 
you remember 1 " 

" Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with another sigh. 

" Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over the bolster, 
so, and tuck it clear down under the mattress nice and 
smooth, so, - - do you see ? " 

" Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, with profound attention. 

" But the upper sheet," said Miss Ophelia, " must be brought 
down in this way, and tucked under firm and smooth at the 
foot, so, the narrow hem at the foot." 

" Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, as before ; but we will add, what 
Miss Ophelia did not see, that, during the time when the good 
lady's back was turned, in the zeal of her manipulations, the 
young disciple had contrived to snatch a pair of gloves and a 
ribbon, which she had adroitly slipped into her sleeves, and 
stood with her hands dutifully folded, as before. 


"Now, Topsy, let 's see you do this," said Miss Ophelia, 
pulling off the clothes, and seating herself. 

Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went through the 
exercise completely to Miss Ophelia's satisfaction ; smoothing 
the sheets, patting out every wrinkle, and exhibiting, through 
the whole process, a gravity and seriousness with which he? 
instructress was greatly edilied. By an unlucky slip, however, 
a fluttering fragment of the ribbon hung out of one of her 
sleeves, just as she was finishing, and caught Miss Ophelia's 
attention. Instantly she pounced upon it. " What 's this 1 
You naughty, wicked child, you 've been stealing this ! " 

The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy's own sleeve, yet was 
she not in the least disconcerted ; she only looked at it with an 
air of the most surprised and unconscious innocence. 

" Laws ! why, that ar 's Miss Feely's ribbon, an't it 1 How 
could it a got caught in my sleeve ? " 

" Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie, you 
stole that ribbon ! " 

" Missis, I declar for 't, I did n't ; never seed it till dis yer 
blessed ruinnit." 

" Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, "don't you know it's wicked 
to tell lies ? " 

"I never tells no lies, Miss Feely," said Topsy, with vir- 
tuous gravity ; " it 's jist the truth I 've been a tellin' now, and 
an't nothin' else." 

"Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so." 

" Laws, Missis, if you 's to whip all day, could n't say no 
other way," said Topsy, beginning to blubber. " I never seed 
dat ar, it must a got caught in my sleeve. Miss Feely must 
have left it on the bed, and it got caught in the clothes, and so 
got in my sleeve." 

Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that she 
caught the child and shook her. 

" Don't you tell me that again ! " 

The shake brought the gloves on to the floor/ from the other 

" There, you ! " said Miss Ophelia, " will you tell me now 
you did n't steal the ribbon ? " 

Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted in 
denying the ribbon. 

" Now, Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, " if you '11 confess all 
about it, I won't whip you this time." Thus adjured, Topsy 


confessed to the ribbon and gloves, with woful protestations of 

" Well now, tell me. I know you must have taken other 
things since you have been in the house, for I let you run 
about all day yesterday. Now, tell me if you took anything, 
and I shan't whip you." 

" Laws, Missis ! I took Miss Eva's red thing she wars on. 
her neck." 

" You did, you naughty child ! - - Well, what else 1 " 

" I took Rosa's yer-rings, them red ones." 

" Go bring them to me this minute, both of 'em." 

" Laws, Missis ! I can't, they 's burnt up ! " 

" Burnt up ! - - what a story ! Go get 'em, or I '11 whip 

Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, de- 
clared that she could not. " They 's burnt up, they was." 

" What did you burn 'em up for 1 " said Miss Ophelia. 

" 'Cause I 's wicked, I is. I 's mighty wicked, any how. 
I can't help it." 

Just at this moment, Eva came innocently into the room, 
with the identical coral necklace on her neck. 

"Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace ]" said Miss 

" Get it 1 Why, I 've had it on all day," said Eva. 

" Did you have it on yesterday 1 " 

" Yes ; and what is funny, Aunty, I had it on all night. 1 
forgot to take it off when I went to bed." 

Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered ; the more so, as 
Rosa, at that instant, came into the room, with a basket of 
newly ironed linen poised on her head, and the coral ear-drops 
shaking in her ears ! 

" I 'm sure I can't tell anything what to do with such a 
child ! " she said, in despair. " What in the world did you 
tell me you took those things for, Topsy ? " 

" Why, Missis said I must 'fess ; and I could n't think of 
nothin' else to 'fess," said Topsy, nibbing her eyes. 

" But, of course, I did n't want you to confess things you 
did n't do," said Miss Ophelia ; " that 's telling a lie, just as 
much as the other." 

" Laws, now, is it ? '' said Topsy, with an air of innocent 

" La, there an't any such thing as truth in that limb," said 


Rosa, looking indignantly at Topsy. " If I was Mas'r St. 
Clare, I 'd whip her till the blood run. I would, -- I 'd let 
her catch it ! " 

" JSfo, no, Ixosa," said Eva, with an air of command, which 
the child could assume at times ; " you must n't talk so, Kosa. 
I can't bear to hear it." 

" La sakes ! Miss Eva, you 's so good, you don't know noth- 
ing how to get along with niggers. There 's no way but to cut 
J em well up, I tell ye." 

" Eosa ! " said Eva, " hush ! Don't you say another word 
of that sort ! " and the eye of the child Hashed, and her cheek 
deepened its color. 

Rosa was cowed in a moment. 

" Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, that 's plain. 
She can speak, for all the world, just like her papa," she said, 
as she passed out of the room. 

Eva stood looking at Topsy. 

There stood the two children, representatives of the two ex- 
tremes of society. The fair, high-bred child, with her golden 
head, her deep eyes, her spiritual, noble brow, and prince-like 
movements ; and her black, keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute 
neighbor. They stood the representatives of their races. The 
Saxon, born of ages of cultivation, command, education, physi- 
cal and moral eminence ; the Afric, born of ages of oppression, 
submission, ignorance, toil, and vice ! 

Something, perhaps, of such thoughts struggled through 
Eva's mind. But a child's thoughts are rather dim, undefined 
instincts ; and in Eva's noble nature many such were yearning 
and working, for which she had no power of utterance. When 
Miss Ophelia expatiated on Topsy's naughty, wicked conduct, 
the child looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said, sweetly, - 

"Poor Topsy, why need you steal 1 ? You're going to be 
taken good care of, now. I 'm sure I 'd rather give you any- 
thing of mine, than have you steal it." 

It was the first word of kindness the child had ever heard in 
her life ; and the sweet tone and manner struck strangely on 
the wild, rude heart, and a sparkle of something like a tear 
shone in the keen, round, glittering eye ; but it was followed 
by the short laiigh and habitual grin. No ! the ear that has 
never heard anything but abuse is strangely incredulous of 
anything so heavenly as kindness ; and Topsy only thought 
Eva's speech something funny and inexplicable, she did not 
believe it. 



But what was to be done with Topsy ? Miss Ophelia found 
the case a puzzler ; her rules for bringing up did n't seem to 
apply. She thought she would take time to think of it ; and, 
by the way of gaining time, and in hopes of some indefinite 
moral virtues supposed to be inherent in dark closets, Miss 
Ophelia shut Topsy up in one till she had arranged her ideas 
further on the subject. 

" I don't see," said Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, " how I 'm 
going to manage that child, without whipping her." 

" Well, whip her, then, to your heart's content ; I '11 give 
you full power to do what you like." 

"Children always have to be whipped," said Miss Ophelia 
" I never heard of bringing them up without." 

" 0, well, certainly," said St. Clare ; " do as you think best. 
Only, I '11 make one suggestion : I 've seen this child whipped 
with a poker, knocked down with the shovel or tongs, which- 
ever came handiest ; and, seeing that she is used to that stylo 
of operation, I think your whippings will have to be pretty 
energetic, tc make much impression." 


" What is to be done with her, then 1 " said Miss Ophelia. 

" You have started a serious question," said St. Clare ; " I wish 
you 'd answer it. What is to be done with a human being 
that can be governed only by the lash, that fails, it 's a 
very common state of things down here ! " 

" I 'm sure I don't know ; I never saw such a child as this." 

" Such children are very common among us, and such men and 
women, too. How are they to be governed 'I " said St. Clare. 

" I 'm sure it 's more than I can say," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Or I either," said St. Clare. " The horrid cruelties and 
outrages that once in a while find their way into the papers, 
such cases as Prue's, for example, - - what do they come 
from ? In many cases, it is a gradual hardening process on 
both sides, the owner growing more and more cruel, as the 
servant more and more callous. Whipping and abuse are like 
laudanum ; you have to double the dose as the sensibilities 
decline. I saw this very early when I became an owner ; and 
I resolved never to begin, because I did not know when I 
should stop, and I resolved, at least, to protect my own 
moral nature. The consequence is, that my servants act like 
spoiled children ; but I think that better than for us both to 
be brutalized together. You have talked a great deal about 
our responsibilities in educating, cousin. I really wanted you 
to try with one child, who is a specimen of thousands among 


" It is your system makes such children," said Miss Ophelia. 

" I know it ; but they are made, they exist, and what 
is to be done with them '{ " 

" Well, I can't say I thank you for the experiment. But, 
then, as it appears to be a duty, I shall persevere and try, and 
do the best I can," said Miss Ophelia ; and Miss Ophelia, after 
this, did labor, with a commendable degree of zeal and energy, 
on her new subject. She instituted regular hours and employ- 
ments for her, arid undertook to teach her to read and to sew. 

In the former art, the child was quick enough. She learned 
her letters as if by magic, and was very soon able to read plain 
reading ; but the sewing was a more difficult matter. The 
creature was as lithe as a cat, and as active as a monkey, and 
the confinement of sewing was her abomination ; so she broke, 
her needles, threw them slyly out of windows, or down in 
chinks -of the walls ; she tangled, broke, and dirtied her thread, 
or, with a sly movement, would throw a spool away altogether. 


Her motions were almost as quick as those of a practised con- 
jurer, and her command of her face quite as great ; and though 
Miss Ophelia could not help feeling that so many accidents 
could not possibly happen in succession, yet she could not, 
without a watchfulness which would leave her no time for 
anything else, detect her. 

Topsy was soon a noted character in A he establishment. Her 
talent for every species of drollery, grimace, and mimicry - 
for dancing, tumbling, climbing, singing, whistling, imitating 
every sound that hit her fancy seemed inexhaustible. In 
her play-hours, she invariably had every child in the establish- 
ment at her heels, open-mouthed with admiration and wonder, 
not excepting Miss Eva, who appeared to be fascinated by 
her wild diablerie, as a dove is sometimes charmed by a glitter- 
ing serpent. Miss Ophelia was uneasy that Eva should fancy 
Topsy's society so much, and implored St. Clare to forbid it. 

" Poh ! let the child alone," said St. Clare. " Topsy will 
do her good." 

" But so depraved a child, are you not afraid she will 
teach her some mischief?" 

" She can't teach her mischief; she might teach it to some 
children, but evil rolls off Eva's mind like dew off a cabbage- 
leaf, not a drop sinks in." 

" Don't be too sure," said Miss Ophelia. " I know I 'd 
never let a child of mine play with Topsy." 

" Well, your children need n't," said St. Clare, " but mine 
may ; if Eva could have been spoiled, it would have been done 
years ago." 

Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the upper ser- 
vants. They soon found reason to alter their opinion. It was 
very soon discovered that whoever cast an indignity on Topsy 
was sure to meet with some inconvenient accident shortly 
after ; either a pair of ear-rings or some cherished trinket would 
be missing, or an article of dress would be suddenly found 
utterly ruined, or the person would stumble accidentally into a 
pail of hot water, or a libation of dirty slop would unaccount- 
ably deluge them from above when in full gala dress ; and 
on all these occasions, when investigation was made, there was 
nobody found to stand sponsor for the indignity. Topsy was 
cited, and had up before all the domestic judicatories, time and 
again ; but always sustained her examinations with most edify- 
ing innocence and gravity of appearance. Nobody in the worlu 


ever doubted who did the things ; but not a scrap of any direct 
evidence could be found to establish the suppositions, and Miss 
Ophelia was too just to feel at liberty to proceed to any lengths 
without it. 

The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, as 
further to shelter the aggressor. Thus, the times for revenge 
on Rosa and Jane, the two chambermaids, were always chosen 
in those seasons when (as not unfrequently happened) they 
were in disgrace with their mistress, when any complaint from, 
them would of course meet with no sympathy. In short, 
Topsy soon made the household understand the propriety of 
letting her alone ; and she was let alone accordingly. 

Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual operations, 
learning everything that was taught her with surprising quick- 
ness. With a few lessons, she had learned to do the proprie- 
ties of Miss Ophelia's chamber in a way with which even that 
particular lady could find no fault. Mortal hands could not 
lay spread smoother, adjust pillows more accurately, sweep and 
dust and arrange more perfectly, than Topsy, when she chose, - 
but she did n't very often choose. If Miss Ophelia, after three 
or four days of careful and patient supervision, was so sanguine 
as to suppose that Topsy had at last fallen into her way, could 
do without overlooking, and so go off and busy herself about 
something else, Topsy would hold a perfect carnival of confu- 
sion, for some one or two hours. Instead of making the bed, 
she would amuse herself with pulling on" the pilloAv-cases, but- 
tin"' her woolly head among the pillows, till it would sometimes 
be grotesquely ornamented with feathers sticking out in various 
directions ; she would climb the posts, and hang head down- 
ward from the tops ; flourish the sheets and spreads all over 
the apartment ; dress the bolster up in Miss Ophelia's night- 
clothes, and enact various scenic performances with that, - 
singing and whistling, and making grimaces at herself in the 
looking-glass ; in short, as Miss Ophelia phrased it, " raising 
Cain " generally. 

On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her very 
best scarlet India Canton crape shawl wound round her head 
for a turban, going on with her rehearsals before the glass in 
great style, - - Miss Ophelia having, with carelessness most 
unheard of in her, left the key for once in her drawer. 

" Topsy ! " she would say, when at the end of all patience, 
" what does make you act so 1 " 



" Dunno, Missis, I 
spects 'cause 1 's so wick- 
ed !" 

" I don't know any- 
thing what I shall do 
with you, Topsy." 

" Law, Missis, you 
must whip me ; my old 
Missis allers whipped 
me. I an't used to 
workin' unless I gets 

" Why, Topsy, I don't 
want to whip you. You 
can do well, if you 've a 
mind to ; what is the 
reason you won't 1 " 

" Laws, Missis, I 's 
used to whippin' ; I 
spects it 's good for me." 

Miss Ophelia tried the 
recipe, and Topsy inva- 
riably made a terrible 
commotion, screaming, 
groaning, and imploring, 
though half an hour af- 
terwards, when roosted 
on some projection of the 
balcony, and surrounded 
by a flock of admiring 
" young uns," she would 
express the utmost con- 
tempt of the whole affair. 

" Law, Miss Feeiy 
whip ! -- would n't kill 
a skeeter, her whippin's. 
Oughter see how old 
Mas'r made the flesh fly ; 
old Mas'r know'd how ! " 

Topsy always made 
great capital of her own 
sins and enormities, evi- 
dently considering them as something peculiarly distinguishing. 


" Law, you niggers," she would say to some of her auditors, 
" does you know you 's all sinners 1 Well, you is, everybody 
is. White folks is sinners too, - - Miss Feely says so ; but I 
spects niggers is the biggest ones ; but lor ! ye an't any on ye 
up to me. I 's so awful wicked there can't nobody do nothin' 
with me. I used to keep old Missis a swarin' at me half de 
time. 1 spects I 's the wickedest crittur in the world " ; and 
Topsy would cut a summerset, and come up brisk and shining 
on to a higher perch, and evidently plume herself on the die 

Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sundays, teach- 
ing Topsy the catechism. Topsy had an uncommon verbal 
memory, and committed with a liuency that greatly encouraged 
her instructress. 

" What good do you expect it is going to do her 1 " said St. 

" Why, it always has done children good. It 's what chil- 
dren always have to learn, you know," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Understand it or not," said St. Clare. 

" 0, children never understand it at the time ; but, after 
they are grown up, it'll come to them." 

" Mine has n't come to me yet," said St. Clare, " though I '11 
bear testimony that you put it into me pretty thoroughly when 
I was a boy." 

" Ah, you were always good at learning, Augustine. I used 
to have great hopes of you," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Well, have n't you now 1 " said St. Clare. 

" I wish you were as good as you were when you were a boy, 

" So do I, that 's a fact, cousin," said St. Clare. " Well, go 
ahead and catechize Topsy ; may be you '11 make out something 

Topsv, who had stood like a black statue during this discus- 
sion, with hands decently folded, now, at a signal from Miss 
Ophelia, went on, - 

" Our first parents, being left to the freedom of their own 
will, fell from the state wherein they were created." 

Topsy's eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly. 

" What is it, Topsy ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" Please, Missis, was clat ar state Kintuck 1 " 

" What state, Topsy 1 " 

" Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear Mas'r tell how 
we came down from Kintuck." 


St. Clare laughed. 

" You '11 have to give her a meaning, or she '11 make one," 
said he. " There seems to be a theory of emigration suggested 

" 0, Augustine, be still," said Miss Ophelia ; " how can I 
do anything, if you will be laughing 1 " 

" Well, I won't disturb the exercises again, on my honor " ; 
and St. Clare took his paper into the parlor, and sat down, till 
Topsy had finished her recitations. They were all very well, 
only that now and then she would oddly transpose some im- 
portant words, and persist in the mistake, in spite of every effort 
to the contrary ; and St. Clare, after all his promises of good- 
ness, took a wicked pleasure in these mistakes, calling Topsy to 
him whenever he ha,d a mind to amuse himself, and getting her 
to repeat the offending passages, in spite of Miss Ophelia's re- 

" How do you think I can do anything with the child, if you 
will go on so, Augustine 1 " she would say. 

" Well, it is too bad, - - I won't again ; but I do like to hear 
the droll little image stumble over those big words ! " 

" But you confirm her in the wrong way." 

" What 's the odds 1 One word is as good as another to her." 

" You wanted me to bring her up right ; and you ought to 
remember she is a reasonable creature, and be careful of your 
influence over her." 

" O, dismal ! so I ought ; but, as Topsy herself says, I 's so 

wicked ! ' " 

In very much this way Topsy's training proceeded, for a year 
or two, Miss Ophelia worrying herself, from day to day, with 
her, as a kind of chronic plague, to whose inflictions she became, 
in time, as accustomed as persons sometimes do to the neuralgia 
or sick-headache. 

St. Clare took the same kind of amusement in the child that 
a man might in the tricks of a parrot or a pointer. Topsy, 
whenever her sins brought her into disgrace in other quarters,, 
always took refuge behind his chair; and St. Clare, in one way; 
or other, would make peace for her. From him she got many' 
a stray picayune, which she laid out in nuts and candies, and 
distributed, with careless generosity, to all the children in the 
family ; for Topsy, to do her justice, was good-natured and lib- 
eral, and only spiteful in self-defence. She is fairly introduced 
into our corps <le. ballet, and will figure, from time to time, in 
her turn, with other performers. 





readers may not be unwilling to glance back, 
for a brief interval, at Uncle Tom's Cabin, on the 
Kentucky farm, and see what has been transpir- 
ing among those whom he had left behind. 
_ _ __ It was late in the summer afternoon, and the 
doors and windows of the large parlor all stood open, to invite 
any stray breeze, that might feel in a good humor, to enter. 
Mr. Shelby sat in a large hall opening into the room, and run- 
ning through the whole length of the house, to a balcony on 
either end. Leisurely tipped back in one chair, with his heels 
in another, he was enjoying his after-dinner cigar. Mrs. Shelby 
eat in the door, busy about some fine sewing ; she seemed like 
one who had something on her mind, which she was seeking an 
opportunity to introduce. 

" Do you know," she said, " that Chloe has had a letter from 

" Ah ! has she ? Tom 's got some friend there, it seems. 
How is the old boy 1 " 

" He has been bought by a very fine family, I should think," 
said Mrs. Shelby, " is kindly treated, and has not much to do." 

" Ah ! well, I 'm glad of it, very glad." said Mr. Shelby, 
heartily. " Tom, I suppose, will get reconciled to a southern 
residence ; hardly want to come up here again." 

" On the contrary, he inquires very anxiously," said Mrs. 
Shelby, "when the money for his redemption is to be raised." 

" I 'in sure / don't know," said Mr. Shelby. " Once get 
business running wrong, there does seem to be no end to it. 
It 's like jumping from one bog to another, all through a swamp ; 
borrow of one to pay another, and then borrow of another to 
pay one, and these confounded notes falling due before a 
man has time to smoke a cigar and turn round, dunning 
letters and dunning messages, all scamper and hurry-scurry." 


" It does seem to me, my dear, that something might be done 
to straighten matters. Suppose we sell off all the horses, and 
sell one of your farms, and pay up square ] " 

" 0, ridiculous, Emily ! You are the finest woman in Ken- 
tucky ; but still you have n't sense to know that you don't 
understand business ; women never do, and never can." 

" But, at least," said Mrs. Shelby, "could not you give me 
some little insight into yours ; a list of all your debts, at least, 
and of all that is owed to you, and let me try and see if I can't 
help you to economize." 

" O, bother! don't plague me, Emily!--! can't tell ex- 
actly. I know somewhere about what things are likely to be > 
but there 's no trimming and squaring my ali'airs, as Chloe trims 
crust off her pies. You don't know anything about business, 
I tell you." 

And Mr. Shelby, not knowing any other way of enforcing his 
ideas, raised his voice, a mode of arguing very convenient 
and convincing, when a gentleman is discussing matters of 
business with his wife. 

Mrs. Shelby ceased talking, with something of a sigh. The* 
fact was, that though her husband had stated she was a woman, 
she had a clear, energetic, practical mind, and a force of char- 
acter every way superior to that of her husband ; so that it 
would not have been so very absurd a supposition, to have 
allowed her capable of managing, as Mr. Shelby supposed. 
Her heart was set on performing her promise to Tom and Aunl 
Chloe, and she sighed as discouragements thickened around her. 

" Don't you think we might in some way contrive to raise 
that money 1 Poor Aunt Chloe ! her heart is so set on it ! " 

" I 'm sorry, if it is. I think I was premature in promising. 
I'm not sure, now, but it 's the best way to tell Chloe, and let 
her make up her mind to it. Tom '11 have another wife, in a 
year or two ; and she had better take up with somebody else." 

" Mr. Shelby, I have taught my people that their marriages 
are as sacred as ours. I never could think of giving Chloe such 

" It 's a pity, wife, that you have burdened them with a mo- 
rality above their condition and prospects. I always thought so." 
" It's only the morality of the Bible, Mr. Shelby." 
" Well, well, Emily, I don't pretend to interfere with youi 
religious notions ; only they seem extremely unfitted for people 
in that condition." 


" They are, indeed," said Mrs. Shelby, " and that is why, 
from my soul, I hate the whole thing. I tell you, my dear, 1 
cannot absolve myself from the promises I make to these help- 
less creatures. If 1 can get the money no other way, I will 
take music-scholars ; I could get enough, I know, and earn 
the money myself." 

" You would n't degrade yourself that way, Emily 1 I never 
could consent to it." 

" Degrade ! would it degrade me as much as to break my 
faith with the helpless 1 No, indeed ! " 

" Well, you are always heroic and transcendental," said Mr. 
Shelby, " but I think you had better think before you under- 
take such a piece of Quixotism." 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of 
Aunt Chloe, at the end of the veranda. 

" If you please, Missis,' 1 said she. 

" Well, Chloe, what is it 1 " said her mistress, rising, and 
going to the end of the balcony. 

" If Missis would come and look at dis yer lot o' poetry." 

Chloe had a particular fancy for calling poultry poetry, 
an application of language in which she always persisted, not- 
withstanding frequent corrections and advisings from the young 
members of the family. 

" La sakes ! " she would say, " I can't see ; one jis good as 
turry, poetry suthin good, any how "; and so poetry Chloe 
continued to call it. 

Mrs. Shelby smiled as she saw a prostrate lot of chickens and 
ducks, over which Chloe stood, with a very grave face of con- 

" I 'm a thinkin' whether Missis would be a havin' a chicken- 
pie o' dese yer." 

" Eeally, Aunt Chloe, I don't much care ; serve them any 
way you like." 

Chloe stood handling them over abstractedly ; it was quite 
evident that the chickens were not what she was thinking of. 
At last, with the short laugh with which her tribe often intro- 
duce a doubtful proposal, she said, - 

" Laws me, Missis ! what should Mas'r and Missis be a 
fcroublin' theirselves 'bout de money, and not a usin' what 's 
tight in der hands 1 " and Chloe laughed again. 

" I don't understand you, Chloe," said Mrs. Shelby, noth- 
ing doubting, from her knowledge of Chloe's manner, that she 


had heard every word of the conversation that had passed be- 
tween her and her husband. 

" Why, laws me, Missis ! " said Chloe, laughing again, " other 
folks hires out der niggers and makes money on 'em. Don't 
keep sich a tribe eatin' 'em out of house and home." 

" Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire 

" Laws ! I an't a proposin' nothin' ; only Sam he said der was 
one of dese yer perfectioners, dey calls 'em, in Louisville, said he 
wanted a good hand at cake and pastry ; and said he 'd give 
four dollars a week to one, he did." 

" Well, Chloe." 

" Well, laws, I 's a thinkin', Missis, it 's time Sally was put 
along to be doin' something. Sally 's been under my care, 
now, dis some time, and she does most as well as me, consider- 
in' ; and if Missis would only let me go, I would help fetch up 
de money. I an't afraid to put my cake, nor pies nother, 
'long side no perfectioner's." 

" Confectioner's, Chloe." 

" Law sakes, Missis ! 't an't no odds ; words is so curis, 
can't never get 'em right ! " 

" But, Chloe, do you want to leave your children ? " 

" Laws, Missis ! de boys is big enough to do day's works, 
dey does well enough ; and Sally, she '11 take de baby, she 's 
such a peart young \iu, she won't take no lookin' arter." 

" Louisville is a good way off." 

" Law sakes ! who 's afeard 1 it 's down river, somer neai 
my old man, perhaps]" said Chloe, speaking the last in the 
tone of a question, and looking at Mrs. Shelby. 

" No, Chloe, it 's many a hundred miles off," said Mrs. 

Chloe's countenance fell. 

" Never mind ; your going there shall bring you nearer, 
1 Chloe. Yes, you may go ; and your wages shall every cent of 
them be laid aside for your husband's redemption." 

As when a bright sunbeam turns a dark cloud to silver, so 
Chloe'.s dark face brightened immediately, it really shone. 

" Laws ! if Missis is n't too good ! I was thinking of dat 
ar very thing ; 'cause I should n't need no clothes, nor shoes, 
nor nothin', - - I could save every cent. How many weeks i? 
der in a year, Missis 1 " 

" Fifty-two," said Mrs. Shelby. 


" Laws ! now, dere is 1 and four dollars for each on 'em. 
Why, how much M dat ar be ? " 

" Two hundred and eight dollars," said Mrs. Shelby. 

" Why-e ! " said Chloe, with an accent of surprise and de- 
light ; " and how long would it take me to work it out, Missis 1 " 

" Some four or five years, Cbloe ; but, then, you need n't do 
it all, - - 1 shall add something to it." 

" I would n't hear to Missis' givin' lessons nor nothiri'. 
Mas'r 's quite right in dat ar ;- -'t would n't do, no ways. I 
hope none our family ever be brought to dat ar, while 1 's got 

" Don't fear, Chloe ; I '11 take care of the honor of the 
family," said Mrs. Shelby, smiling. " But when do you ex- 
pect to go 1 " 

" Well, I warn't 'spectin' notbin' ; only Sam, he 's a gwine to 
de river with some colts, and he said I could go 'long with 
him ; so I jes put my things together. If Missis was willin'. 
I 'd go with Sam to-morrow morning, if Missis would write my 
pass, and write me a commendation." 

" Well, Chloe, I '11 attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has no objeo 
tions. I must speak to him." 

Mrs. Shelby went up stairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted, 
went out to her cabin, to make her preparation. 

" Law sakes, Mas'r George ! ye did n't know I 's a gwine to 
Louisville to-morrow ! " she said to George, as, entering her 
cabin, he found her busy in sorting over her baby's clothes. 
" I thought I 'd jis look over sis's things, and get 'em straight- 
ened up. But I 'm gwine, Mas'r George, gwine to have 
four dollars a week ; and Missis is gwine to lay it all up, to 
buy back my old man agin ! " 

" Whew ! " said George, " here 's a stroke of business, to be 
sure ! How are you going] " 

" To-morrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas'r George, I knows 
you '11 jis sit down and write to my old man, and tell him all 
about it, - - won't ye 1 " 

" To be sure," said George ; " Uncle Tom '11 be right glad to 
hear from us. I '11 go right in the house, for paper and ink ; 
and then, you know, Aunt Chloe, I can tell about the new 
colts and all." 

" Sartin, sartin, Mas'r George ; you go 'long, and I '11 get ye 
\ip a bit o' chicken, or some sich ; ye won't have many more 
suppers wid yer poor old aunty." 




' IFE passes, with us all, a day at a time ; so it 
passed with our friend Tom, till two years were 
; gone. Though parted from all his soul held dear, 
and though often yearning for what lay beyond, 
still was he never positively and consciously mis- 
erable ; for, so well is the harp of human feeling strung, that 
nothing but a crash that breaks every string can wholly mar 
its harmony ; and, on looking back to seasons which in review 
appear to us as those of deprivation and trial, we can remember 
that each hour, as it glided, brought its diversions and allevi- 
ations, so that, though not happy wholly, we were not, either, 
wholly miserable. 

Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had 
" learned in whatsoever state he was, therewith to be content." 
It seemed to him good and reasonable doctrine, and accorded 
well with the settled and thoughtful habit which he had ac- 
quired from the reading of that same book. 

His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter, was 
in due time answered by Master George, in a good, round, 
school-boy hand, that Tom said might he read " most acrost 
the room." It contained various refreshing items of home 
intelligence, with which our reader is fully acquainted ; stated 
how Aunt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner in Louis- 
ville, where her skill in the pastry line was gaining wonderful 
sums of money, all of which, Tom was informed, was to be 
laid up to go to make up the sum of his redemption money ; 
Mose and Pete were> thriving, and the baby was trotting all 
about the house, under the care of Sally and the family gen- 

Tom's cabin was shut up for the present ; but George expa- 
tiated brilliantly on ornaments and additions to be made to it 
when Tom came back. 


The rest of this letter gave a list of George's school studies, 
each one headed by a flourishing capital ; and also told the 
names of four new colts that appeared on the premises since 
Tom left ; and stated, in the same connection, that father and 
mother were well. The style of the letter was decidedly 
concise and terse ; but Tom thought it the most wonderful 
specimen of composition that had appeared in modern times. 
He was never tired of looking at it, and even held a council 
with Eva on the expediency of getting it framed, to hang up 
in his room. Nothing but the difficulty of arranging it so that 
both sides of the page would show at once stood in the way of 
this undertaking. 

The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the 
child's growth. It would be hard to say what place she held 
in the soft, impressible heart of her faithful attendant. He loved 
her as something frail and earthly, yet almost worshipped 
her as something heavenly and divine. He gazed on her 
as the Italian sailor gazes on his image of the child Jesus, 
with a mixture of reverence and tenderness ; and to humor 
her graceful fancies, and meet those thousand simple wants 
which invest childhood like a many-colored rainbow, was 
Tom's chief delight. In the market, at morning, his eyes 
were always on the flower-stalls for rare bouquets for her, 
and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into his pocket 
to give to her when he came back ; and the sight that pleased 
him most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his 
distant approach, and her childish question, " Well, Uncle 
Tom, what have you got for me to-day 1 " 

Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though 
a child, she was a beautiful reader ; a fine musical ear, a 
quick poetic fancy, and an instinctive sympathy with what is 
grand and noble, made her such a reader of the Bible as Tom 
had never before heard. At first, she read to please her humble 
friend ; but soon her own earnest nature threw out its tendrils, 
and wound itself around the majestic book ; and Eva loved it, 
because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim 
emotions, such as impassioned, imaginative children love to 

The parts that pleased her most were the Revelations and 
the Prophecies, -- parts whose dim and wondrous imagery, 
and fervent language, impressed her the moi'e, that she ques- 
tioned vainly of their meaning ; and she and her simple 


friend, the old child and the young one, felt just alike about 
it. All that they knew was, that they spoke of a glory to be 
revealed, a wondrous something yet to come, wherein their 
soul rejoiced, yet knew not why ; and though it be not so in 
the physical, yet in moral science that which cannot be under- 
stood is not always profitless. For the soul awakes, a trem- 
bling stranger, between two dim eternities, the eternal past, 
the eternal future. The light shines only on a small space 
around her ; therefore, she needs must yearn towards the un- 
known ; and the voices and shadowy movings which come to 
her from out the cloudy pillar of inspiration have each one 
echoes and answers in her own expecting nature. Its mystic 
imageries are so many talismans and gems inscribed with un- 
known hieroglyphics ; she folds them in her bosom, and ex- 
pects to read them when she passes beyond the veil. 

At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment 
is, for the time being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchar- 
train. The heats of summer had driven all who were able to 
leave the sultry and unhealthy city, to seek the shores of the 
lake, and its cool sea-breezes. 

St. Clare's villa was an East- Indian cottage, surrounded by 
light verandas of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides into 
gardens and pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room 
opened on to a large garden, fragrant with every picturesque 
plant and flower of the tropics, where winding paths ran 
down to the very shores of the lake, whose silvery sheet of 
water lay there, rising and falling in the sunbeams, a picture 
never for an hour the same, yet every hour more beautiful. 

It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which 
kindles the whole horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes 
the water another sky. The lake lay in rosy or golden streaks, 
save where white-winged vessels glided hither and thither, 
like so many spirits, and little golden stars twinkled through 
the glow, and looked down at themselves as they trembled in 
the water. 

Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, in an 
arbor, at the foot of the garden. It was Sunday evening, and 
Eva's Bible lay open on her knee. She read, " And I saw 
a sea of glass, mingled with fire." 

" Tom," said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the 
lake, " there 't is." 
"What, Miss Eva?" 


" Don't you see, there 1 " said the child, pointing to the 
glassy water, which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden 
glow of the sky. " There 's a ' sea of glass, mingled with 
tire.' " 

" True enough, Miss Eva," said Tom ; and Tom sang : - 

" 0, had I the wings of the morning, 

I 'd fly away to Canaan's shore; 
Bright angels should convey me home, 
To the new Jerusalem." 

" Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, Tom 1 " 
said Eva. 

" 0, up in the clouds, Miss Eva." 

"Then I think I see it," said Eva. "Look in those 
clouds ! they look like great gates of pearl ; and you can see 
beyond them, far, far off, it 's all gold. Tom, sing about 
spirits bright.' ' 

Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn, 

" I see a band of spirits bright, 

That taste the glories there; 
They all are robed in spotless white, 
And conquering palms they bear." 

" Uncle Tom, I 've seen them," said Eva. 

Tom had no doubt of it at all ; it did not surprise him in 
the least. If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he 
would have thought it entirely probable. 

" They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits " ; 
and Eva's eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low 

" They are all robed in spotless white, 
And conquering palms they bear." 

" Uncle Tom," said Eva, " I 'm going there.' 5 

" Where, Miss Eva ? " 

The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky ; the 
glow of evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with a 
kind of unearthly radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly 
on the skies. 

" I 'm going there" she said, "to the spirits bright, Tom ; 

I 'm going before long." 

The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust ; and Tom thought 
how often he had noticed, within six months, that Eva's little 
hands had grown thinner, and her skin more transparent, and 
tier breath shorter ; and how, when she ran or played in the 







garden, as she once could for hours, she became soon so tired 
and languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak often of a 
cough, that all her medicaments could not cure ; and even now 
that fervent cheek and little hand were burning with hectio 
fever ; and yet the thought that Eva's words suggested had 
never come to him till now. 

Has there ever been a child like Eva 1 ? Yes, there have 
been ; but their names are always on gravestones, and their 
sweet smiles, their heavenly eyes, their singular words and 
ways, are among the buried treasures of yearning hearts. In 
how many families do you hear the legend that all the good- 
ness and graces of the living are nothing to the peculiar charms 
of one who is not ! It is as if heaven had an especial band 
of angels, whose office it was to sojourn for a season here, 
and endear to them the wayward human heart, that they might 
bear it upward with them, in their homeward flight. When 
you see that deep, spiritual light in the eye, when the little 
soul reveals itself in words sweeter and wiser than the ordi- 
nary words of children, hope not to retain that child ; for 
the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looks 
out from its eyes. 

Even so, beloved Eva ! fair star of thy dwelling ! Thou art 
passing away ; but they that love thee dearest know it not. 

The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a 
hasty call from Miss Ophelia. 

" Eva Eva ! why, child, the dew is falling ; you must n't 
be out there ! " 

Eva and Tom hastened in. 

Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. 
She was from New England, and knew well the first guileful 
footsteps of that soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so 
many of the fairest and loveliest, and, before one fibre of life 
seems broken, seals them irrevocably for death. 

She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening 
cheek ; nor could the lustre of the eye, and the airy buoyancy 
born of fever, deceive her. 

She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare ; but he 
threw back her suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his 
usual careless good-humor. 

"Don't be croaking, cousin,--! hate it!" he would say ; 
" don't you see that the child is only growing ] Children al- 
ways lose strength when they grow fast." 


" But she has that cough ! " 

" 0, nonsense of that cough ! it is not anything. She 
has taken a little cold, perhaps." 

" "Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and 
Ellen and Maria Sanders." 

" O, stop these hohgoblin nurse-legends. You old hands 
get so wise, that a child cannot cough, or' sneeze, but you see 
desperation and ruin at hand. Only take care of the child, 
keep her from the night air, and don't let her play too hard, 
and she '11 do well enough." 

So St. Clare said ; but he grew nervous and restless. He 
watched Eva feverishly day by day, as might be told by the 
frequency with which he repeated over that " the child was 
quite well," that there was n't anything in that cough, it 
was only some little stomach affection, such as children often 
had. But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener 
to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt 
or strengthening mixture, " not," he said, " that the child 
needed it, but then it would not do her any harm." 

If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to 
his heart than anything else was the daily increasing maturity 
of the child's mind and feelings. While still retaining all a 
child's fanciful graces, yet she often dropped, unconsciously, 
words of such a reach of thought, and strange unworldly wis- 
dom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At such times, 
St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, 
as if that fond clasp could save her ; and his heart rose up 
with wild determination to keep her, never to let her go. 

The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works 
of love and kindness. Impulsively generous she had always 
been ; but there was a touching and womanly thoughtfulness 
about her now, that every one noticed. She still loved to 
play with Topsy, and the various colored children ; but she 
now seemed rather a spectator than an actor of their plays, and 
she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at the odd 
tricks of Topsy, and then a shadow would seem to pass 
across her face, her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were 

" Mamma," she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day, 
" why don't we teach our servants to read 1 " 

" What a question, child ! People never do." 

" Why don't they 1 " said Eva. 


" Because it is no use for them to read. It don't help them 
to work any better, and they are not made for anything else." 

" But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God's 

" 0, they can get that read to them all they need." 

" It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to read 
themselves. They need it a great many times when there is 
nobody to read it." 

" Eva, you are an odd child," said her mother. 

" Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read," continued Eva. 

"Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the 
worst creature I ever saw ! " 

" Here 's poor Mammy ! " said Eva. " She does love the 
Bible so much, and wishes so she could read ! And what will 
she do when I can't read to her 1 " 

Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as 
she answered, - 

" Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other 
things to think of, besides reading the Bible round to servants. 
Not but that is very proper ; I 've done it myself, when I had 
health. But when you come to be dressing and going into 
company, you won't have time. See here !" she added, " these 
jewels I 'm going to give you when you come out. I wore 
them to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a sensa- 

Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond neck- 
lace. Her large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but it was 
plain her thoughts were elsewhere. 

" How sober you look, child ! " said Marie. 

" Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma ] " 

" To be sure, they are. Father sent to France for them. 
They are worth a small fortune." 

" I wish I had them," said Eva, " to do what I pleased 
(rith ! " 

" What would you do with them 1 " 

" I 'd sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take 
all our people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read 
and write." 

Eva was cut short by her mother's laughing. 

" Set up a boarding-school ! Would n't you teach them to 
play on the piano, and paint on velvet 1 " 

" I 'd teach them to read their own Bible, and write their 


own letters, and read letters that are written to them," said 
Eva, steadily. "I know, mamma, it does come very hard on 
them, that they can't do these things. Tom feels it, Mammy 
does, a great many of them do. I think it 's wrong." 

" Come, come, Eva ; you are only a child ! You don't know 
anything about these things," said Marie ; " besides, your talking 
makes my head ache." 

Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversation 
that did not exactly suit her. 

Eva stole away ; but after that, she assiduously gave Mamrrry 
reading lessons. 




r BOUT this time, St. Clare's brother Alfred, with 
his eldest son, a boy of twelve, spent a day or two 
with the family at the lake. 

No sight could be more singular and beautiful 
than that of these twin brothers. Nature, instead 
of instituting resemblances between them, had made them 
opposites on every point ; yet a mysterious tie seemed to unite 
them in a closer friendship than ordinary. 

They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys 
and walks of the garden, Augustine, with his blue eyes and 
golden hair, his ethereally flexible form and vivacious features ; 
and Alfred, dark -eyed, with haughty Roman profile, firmly 
knit limbs, and decided bearing. They were always abusing 
each other's opinions and practices, and yet never a whit the less 
absorbed in eacli other's society ; in fact, the very contrariety 
seemed to unite them, like the attraction between opposite 
poles of the magnet. 

Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed, 
princely boy, full of vivacity and spirit ; and, from the first 
moment of introduction, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by 
the spirituelle graces of his cousin Evangeline. 

Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. It was 
easy as a cradle, and as gentle as its little mistress ; and this 
pony was now brought up to the back veranda by Tom, while 
a little mulatto boy of about thirteen led along a small black 
Arabian, which had just been imported, at a great expense, for 

Henrique had a boy's pride in his new possession ; and, as he 
advanced and took the reins out of the hands of his little groom, 
he looked carefully over him, and his brow darkened. 

" What 's this, Dodo, you little lazy dog ! you have n't 
rubbed my horse down, this morning." 



" Yes, Mas'r," said Dodo, submissively ; " he got that dust 
on his own self." 

" You rascal, shut your mouth ! " said Henrique, violently 
raising his riding-whip. " How dare you speak 1 " 

The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mulatto, of just 
Henrique's size, and his curling hair hung round a high, bold 
forehead. He had white blood in his veins, as could be seen 
by the quick flush in his cheek, and the sparkle of his eye, as 
he eagerly tried to speak. 

" Mas'r Henrique ! - 'he began. 

Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip, 
and, seizing one of his arms, forced him on to his knees, and 
beat him till he was out of breath. 

" There, you impudent dog ! Now will you learn not to 
answer back when I speak to you ] Take the horse back, and 
clean him properly. I '11 teach you your place ! " 

" Young Mas'r," said Tom, " I specs what he was gwine to 
say was, that the horse would roll when he was bringing him 
up from the stable ; he 's so full of spirits, that 's the way he 
got that dirt on him ; I looked to his cleaning." 


" You hold your tongue till you 're asked to speak ! " said 
Henrique, turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to 
speak to Eva, who stood in her riding-dress. 

" Dear cousin, I 'm sorry this stupid fellow has kept you 
waiting," he said. " Let 's sit down here, on this seat, till they 
come. What 's the matter, cousin? you look sober." 

" How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo 1 " 
said Eva. 

" Cruel, wicked ! " said the boy, with unaffected surprise. 
" What do you mean, dear Eva 1 ? " 

" I don't want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so," 
said Eva. 

" Dear cousin, you don't know Dodo ; it 's the only way to 
manage him, he 's so full of lies and excuses. The only way is 
to put him down at once, not let him open his mouth ; that 's 
the way papa manages." 

" But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never tells 
what is n't true." 

" He 's an uncommon old nigger, then ! " said Henrique. 
"Dodo will lie as fast as he can speak." 

"You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so." 

" Why, Eva, you 've really taken such a fancy to Dodo, that 
I shall be jealous." 

" But you beat him, and he did n't deserve it." 

" 0, well, it may go for some time when he does, and don't 
get it. A few cuts never come amiss with Dodo, he 's a 
regular spirit, I can tell you; but I won't beat him again 
before you, if it troubles you." 

Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make 
her handsome cousin understand her feelings. 

Dodo soon appeared with the horses. 

" Well, Dodo, you 've done pretty well, this time," said his 
young master, with a more gracious air. " Come, now, and 
hold Miss Eva's horse, while I put her on to the saddle." 

Dodo came and stood by Eva's pony. His face was troubled ; 
his eyes looked as if he had been crying. 

Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroit- 
ness in all matters of gallantry, soon had his fair cousin in the 
saddle, and, gathering the reins, placed them in her hands. 

But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo 
was standing, and said, as he relinquished the reins, 
" That 's a good boy, Dodo ; thank you ! " 



Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face ; 
the blood rushed to his cheeks, and the tears to his eyes. 

" Here, Dodo," said his master, imperiously. 

Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted. 

" There 's a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo," 
said Henrique; "go get some." 

And Henrique cantered dov/n the walk after Eva. Dodo 
stood looking after the two children. One had given him 
money ; and one had given him what he wanted far more, 
a kind word, kindly spoken. Dodo had been only a few 
months away from his mother. His master had bought him 
at a slave warehouse, for his handsome face, to be a match to 
the handsome pony ; and he was now getting his breaking in, 
at the hands of his young master. 

The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the two 
brothers St. Clare, from another part of the garden. 


Augustine's cheek flushed ; but he only observed, with his 
usual sarcastic carelessness, 

" I suppose that 's what we may call republican education, 

" Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood 's up," said 
Alfred, carelessly. 

" I suppose you consider this an instructive practice fo> 
him," said Augustine, dryly. 

" I could n't help it, if I did n't. Henrique is a regular 
little tempest ; his mother and I have given him up, long 
ago. But, then, that Dudo is a perfect sprite, no amount 
of whipping can hurt him." 

" And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse of a 
republican's catechism, ' All men are born free and equal ! ' " 

" Poh ! " said Alfred ; " one of Tom Jefferson's pieces ot 
.French sentiment and humbug. It 's perfectly ridiculous to 
have that going the rounds among us, to this day." 

" I think it is," said St. Clare, significantly. 

" Because," said Alfred, " we can see plainly enough that 
all men are not born free, nor born equal ; they are born any- 
thing else. For my part, I think half this republican talk 
sheer humbug. It is the educated, the intelligent, the wealthy, 
the refined, who ought to have equal rights, and not the 

" If you can keep the canaille of that opinion," said 
Augustine. "They took their turn once, in France." 

" Of course, they must be kept down, consistently, steadily, 
KS I should" said Alfred, setting his foot hard down, as if he 
were standing on somebody. 

" It makes a terrible slip when they get up," said Augus- 
tine, " in St. Domingo, for instance." 

"Poh!" said Alfred, "we'll take care of that, in this 
rountry. We must set our face against all this ' educating, 
elevating talk, that is getting about now ; the lower class must 
not be educated." 

" That is past praying for," said Augustine ; " educated they 
will be, and we have only to say how. Our system is edu- 
cating them in barbarism and brutality. We are breaking all 
humanizing ties, and making them brute beasts ; and, if they 
7et the upper hand, such we shall find them." 

" They never shall get the upper hand ! " said Alfred. 

" That 's right," said St. Clare; "put on the steam, fasten 


down the escape-valve, and sit on it, and see where you '11 

" Well," said Alfred, "we will see. I'm not afraid to sit on 
the escape-valve, as long as the boilers are strong, and the ma- 
chinery works well." 

" The nobles in Louis XVI.'s time thought just so ; and 
Austria and Pins' IX. think so now ; and, some pleasant morn- 
ing, you may all be caught up to meet each other in the air,, 
when the boilers burst" 

" Dies declarabit" said Alfred, laughing. 

" 1 tell you," said Augustine, " if there is anything that is 
revealed with the strength of a divine law in our times, it is 
that the masses are to rise, and the under class become the 
upper one." 

" That 's one of your red republican humbugs, Augustine ! 
Why did n't you ever take to the stump ; you 'd make a 
famous stump orator ! Well, I hope I shall be dead before this 
millennium of your greasy masses comes on." 

" Greasy or not greasy, they will govern you, when their 
time comes," said Augustine; "and they will be just such 
rulers as you make them. The French noblesse chose to have 
the people ' sans culotte,' and they had ' sans culotte ' governors 
to their hearts' content. The people of Hayti - 

" 0, come, Augustine ! as if we had n't had enough of that 
abominable, contemptible Hayti ! The Haytiens were not 
Anglo-Saxons ; if they had been, there would have been 
another story. The Anglo-Saxon is the dominant race of the 
world, and is to be so." 

" Well, there is a pretty fair infusion of Anglo-Saxon blood 
among our slaves, now/' said Augustine. " There are plenty 
among them who have only enough of the African to give a 
sort of tropical warmth and fervor to our calculating firmness 
and foresight. If ever the San Domingo hour comes, Anglo- 
Saxon blood will lead on the day. Sons of white fathers, with 
all our haughty feelings burning in their veins, will not always 
be bought and sold and traded. They will rise, and raise with 
them their mother's race." 

"Stiiff!-- nonsense!" 

" Well," said Augustine, " there goes an old saying to this 
effect : ' As it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be ; they 
ate, they drank, they planted, they builded, and knew not till 
the flood came and took them.' " 


" On the whole, Augustine, I think your talents might do 
for a circuit-rider," said Alfred, laughing. "Never you fear 
for us ; possession is our nine points. We 've got the power. 
This subject race," said he, stamping firmly, " is down, and 
shall stay down ! We have energy enough to manage our own 

" Sous trained like your Henrique will be grand guardians 
of your powder-magazines," said Augustine, "so cool and, 
gelf-possessed ! The proverb says, ' They that cannot govern 
themselves cannot govern others.' ' 

"There is a trouble there," said Alfred, thoughtfully.; 
4 there 's no doubt that our system is a difficult one to train 
children under. It gives too free scope to the passions, alto- 
gether, which, in our climate, are hot enough. I find trouble 
with Henrique. The boy is generous and warm-hearted, but 
a perfect fire-cracker when excited. I believe I shall send him 
north for his education, where obedience is more fashionable, 
and where he will associate more with equals, and less with 

" Since training children is the staple work of the human 
race," said Augustine, " I should think it something of a con- 
sideration that our system does not work well there." 

"It does not for some things," said Alfred; "for others, 
again, it does. It makes boys manly and courageous ; and the 
very vices of an abject race tend to strengthen in them the 
opposite virtues. I think Henrique, now, has a keener sense 
of the beauty of truth, from seeing lying and deception the uni- 
versal badge of slavery." 

"A Christian-like view of the subject, certainly ! " said Augus- 

" It 's true, Christian-like or not ; and is about as Christian- 
like as most other things in the world," said Alfred. 

"That may be," said St. Clare. 

" Well, there 's no use in talking, Augustine. I believe we 've 
been round and round this old track five hundred times, more 
or less. What do you say to a game of backgammon ? " 

The two brothers ran up the veranda steps, and were soon 
seated at a light bamboo stand, with the backgammon-board 
between them. As they were setting their men, Alfred said, 

" I tell you, Augustine, if I thought as you do, I should do 

" 1 dare say you would, -- you are one of the doing sort, 
but what 'i " 



" Why, elevate your own servants, for a specimen," said Al- 
fred, with a half-scornful smile. 

" You might as well set Mount ytna on them flat, and tell 
them to stand up under it, as tell me to elevate my servants 
under all the superincumbent mass of society upon them. One 
man can do nothing, against the whole action of a community. 
Education, to do anything, must be a state education ; or there 
must be enough agreed in it to make a current." 

" You take the first throw," said Alfred ; and the brothers 
were soon lost in the game, and heard no more till the scraping 
of horses' feet was heard under thu veranda. 

" There come the children," said Augustine, rising. " Look 
here, Alf ! Did you ever see anything so beautiful 1 " And, 
in truth, it was a beautiful sight. Henrique, with his bold 
brow, and dark, glossy curls, and glowing cheek, was laughing 
gayly, as he bent towards his fair cousin, as they came on. She 
was dressed in a blue riding-dress, Avith a cap of the same color. 
Exercise had given a brilliant hue to her cheeks, and height- 
ened the effect of her singularly transparent skin, and 



" Good heavens ! what perfectly dazzling beauty ! " said Al- 
fred. " I tell you, Auguste, won't she make some hearts ache, 
one of these days 1 " 

" She will, too truly, God knows I 'm afraid so .' " said 
St. Clare, in a tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried down to 
take her off her horse. 

" Eva, darling ! you 're not much tired ] " he said, as he 
clasped her in his arms. 

" No, papa," said the child ; but her short, hard breathing 
alarmed her father. 

" How could you ride so fast, dear ? you know it 's bad for 

" I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot." 

St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlor, and laid her 
on the sofa. 

" Henrique, you must be careful of Eva," said he ; " you 
must n't ride fast with her." 

" I '11 take her under my care," said Henrique, seating him- 
self by the sofa, and taking Eva's hand. 

Eva soon found herself much better. Her father and uncle 
resumed their game, and the children were left together. 

" Do you. know, Eva, I 'm so sorry papa is only going to stay 
two days here, and then I shan't see you again for ever so long ! 
If I stay with you, I M try to be good, and not be cross to 
Dodo, and so on. I don't mean to treat Dodo ill ; but, you 
know, I Ve got such a quick temper. I 'm not really bad to 
him, though. I give him a picayune, now and then ; and you 
see he dresses well. I think, on the whole, Dodo 's pretty 
well off." 

" Would you think you were well off, if there were not one 
creature in the world near you to love you?" 

I ? Well, of course not." 

"And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he 
ever had, and now he has not a creature to love him ; nobody 
can be good that way." 

" Well, I can't help it, as I know of. I can't get his mother, 
and I can't love him myself, nor anybody else, as \ know of." 

" Why can't you 1 " said Eva. 

" Love Dodo ! Why, Eva, yon would n't have me ! I may 
like him well enough ; but you don't love your servants." 

" I do, indeed." 

" How odd ! " 



" Don't the Bible say we must love everybody 1 " 

" 0, the Bible ! To be sure, it says a great many such 
things ; but, then, nobody ever thinks of doing them, you 
know, Eva, nobody does." 

Eva did not speak ; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful, for 
a few moments. 

"At any rate," she said, " dear cousin, do love poor Dodo, 
and be kind to him, for my sake ! " 

" I could love anything, for your sake, dear cousin ; for I 
really think you are the loveliest creature that I ever saw ! " 
And Henrique spoke with an earnestness that flushed his hand- 
some face. Eva received it with perfect simplicity, without 
even a change of feature ; merely saying, " I 'in glad you feel 
so, dear Henrique ! I hope you will remember." 

The dinner-bell put an end to the interview. 




days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine 
parted ; and Eva, who had been stimulated, by the 
society of her young cousin, to exertions beyond 
her strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was 
'1$. at last willing to call in medical advice, a thing 
from which he had always shrunk, because it was the admission 
of an unwelcome truth. 

But, for a day or two, Eva was so unwell as to be confined to 
the house ; and the doctor was called. 

Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's gradually 
decaying health and strength, because she was completely ab- 
sorbed in studying out two or three new forms of disease to 
which she believed she herself was a victim. It was the first 
principle of Marie's belief that nobody ever was or could be so 
great a sufferer as herself ; and, therefore, she always repelled 
quite indignantly any suggestion that any one around her could 
be sick. She was always sure, in such a case, that it was noth- 
ing but laziness, or want of energy ; and that, if they had had 
the suffering she had, they would soon know the difference. 

Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her maternal 
fears about Eva ; but to no avail. 

" I don't see as anything ails the child," she would say ; 
" she runs about, and plays." 

" But she has a cough." 

" Cough ! you don't need to tell me about a cough. I Ve 
always been subject to a cough, all my days. When I was of 
Eva's age, they thought I was in a consumption. Night after 
night, Mammy used to sit up with me. 0, Eva's cough is not 

" But she gets weak, and is short-breathed." 

" Law ! I 've had that, years and years j it 's only a nervous 


" But she sweats so, nights ! " 

" Well, I have, these ten years. Very often, night after 
night, my clothes will be wringing wet. There won't be a dry 
thread in my night-clothes, and the sheets will be so that 
Mammy has to hang them up to dry ! Eva does n't sweat any- 
thing like that ! " 

Miss Ophelia shut her mouth for a season. But, now that 
Eva was fairly and visibly prostrated, and a doctor called, 
Marie, all on a sudden, took a new turn. 

She knew it, she said ; she always felt it, that she was 
destined to be the most miserable of mothers. Here she was, 
witli her wretched health, and her only darling child going 
down to the grave before her eyes ! And Marie routed up 
Mammy nights, and rumpussed and scolded, with more energy 
than ever, all day, on the strength of this new misery. 

" My dear Marie, don't talk so ! " said St. Clare. " You 
ought not to give up the case so, at once." 

" You have not a mother's feelings, St. Clare. You never 
could understand me ! you don't now." 

" But don't talk so, as if it were a gone case ! " 

" I can't take it as indifferently as you can, St. Clare. If 
you don't feel when your only child is in this alarming state, 
/ do. It 's a blow too much for me, with all I was bearing 

" It 's true," said St. Clare, " that Eva is very delicate, that 
I always knew ; and that she has grown so rapidly as to ex- 
haust her strength ; and that her situation is critical. But just 
now she is only prostrated by the heat of the weather, and by 
the excitement of her cousin's visit, and the exertions she 
made. The physician says there is room for hope." 

" Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray 
do ; it 's a mercy if people have n't sensitive feelings, in this 
world. I am sure I wish I did n't feel as I do ; it only makes 
me completely wretched ! I wish I could be as easy as the 
rest of you ! " 

And the " rest of them " had good reason to breathe the 
same prayer, for Marie paraded her new misery as the reason 
and apology for all sorts of inflictions on every one about her. 
Every word that was spoken by anybody, everything that was 
done or was not done everywhere, was only a new proof that 
She was surrounded by hard-hearted, insensible beings, who 
were unmindful of her peculiar sorrows. Poor Eva heard 


some of these speeches ; and nearly cried her little eyes out, 
in pity for her mamma, and in sorrow that she should make 
her so much distress. 

In a week or two, there was a great improvement of symp- 
toms, --one of those deceitful lulls, by which her inexorable 
disease so often beguiles the anxious heart, even on the verge 
of the grave. Eva's step was again in the garden, in the 
balconies ; she played and laughed again, and her father, in 
a transport, declared that they should soon have her as hearty 
as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone felt no 
encouragement from this illusive truce. There was one other 
heart, too, that felt the same certainty, and that was the little 
heart of Eva. What is it that sometimes speaks in the soul so 
calmly, so clearly, that its earthly time is short 1 Is it the secret 
instinct of decaying nature, or the soul's impulsive throb, as 
immortality draws on ] Be it what it may, it rested in the 
heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty that Heaven 
was near ; calm as the light of sunset, sweet as the bright still- 
ness of autumn, there her little heart reposed, only troubled 
by sorrow for those who loved her so dearly. 

For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life 
was unfolding before her with every brightness that love and 
wealth could give, had no regret for herself in dying. 

In that book which she and her simple old friend had read 
so much together, she had seen and taken to her young 
heart the image of One who loved the little child ; and, as 
she gazed and mused, he had ceased to be an image and a pic- 
ture of the distant past, and come to be a living, all-surround- 
ing reality. His love enfolded her childish heart with more 
than mortal tenderness ; and it was to him, she said, she was 
going, and to his home. 

But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that she 
was to leave behind. Her father most, for Eva, though she 
never distinctly thought so, had an instinctive perception that 
she was more in his heart than any other. She loved her 
mother because she was so loving a creature, and all the selfish- 
ness that she had seen in her only saddened and perplexed her ; 
for she had a child's implicit trust that her mother could not 
do wrong. There was something about her that Eva never 
could make out ; and she always smoothed it over with think- 
ing that, after all, it was mamma, and she loved her very dearly 


She felt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she 
jas as daylight and sunshine. Children do not usually gener- 
alize ; but Eva was an uncommonly mature child, and the 
things that she had witnessed of the evils of the system under 
which they were living had fallen, one by one, into the depths 
of her thoughtful, pondering heart. She had vague longings 
to do something for them, to bless and save not only them, 
but all in their condition, longings that contrasted sadly 
with the feebleness of her little frame. 

i( Uncle Tom," she said, one day, when she was reading to 
her friend, "I can understand why Jesus wanted to die for us." 

" Why, Miss Eva ? " 

" Because I've felt so, too." 

" What is it, Miss Eva? I don't understand." 

" I can't tell you ; but, when I saw those poor creatures on 
the boat, you know, when you came up and I, some had 
lost their mothers, and some their husbands, and some moth- 
ers cried for their little children, and when I heard about 
poor Prue, O, was n't that dreadful ! and a great many 
other times, I 've felt that I would be glad to die, if my dying 
could stop all this misery. I would die for them, Tom, if I 
could," said the child, earnestly, laying her little thin hand 
on his. 

Tom looked at the child with awe ; and when she, hearing 
her father's voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times, 
as he looked after her. 

" It 's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here," he said to 
Mammy, whom he met a moment after. " She 's got the Lord's 
mark in her forehead." 

" Ah, yes, yes," said Mammy, raising her hands ; ve 
nllers said so. She was n't never like a child that 's to live, 
there was allers something deep in her eyes. 1 've told Missis 
60, many the time ; it 's a comin' true, we all sees it, dear, 
little, blessed lamb ! " 

Eva came tripping up the veranda steps to her lather, 
was late in the afternoon, and the rays of the sun formed 
A kind of glory behind her, as she came forward in her 
white dress, with her golden hair and glowing cheeks her 
eyes unnaturally bright with the slow fever that burned in 

her veins. 

St. Clare had called her to show a statuette that he had been 
buying for her ; but her appearance, as she came on, impressed 



him suddenly and painfully. There is a kind of beauty so in- 
tense, yet so fragile, that we cannot bear to look at it. Her 
father folded her suddenly in his arms, and almost forgot what 
he was going to tell her. 

" Eva, dear, you are better nowadays, are you not ? " 

" Papa," said Eva, with sudden firmness, " I 've had things 
I wanted to say to you, a great while. I want to say them' 
now, before I get weaker." 

St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. She laid) 
her head on his bosom, and said, - 

" It 's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The 
time is coming that I am going to leave you. I am going, and 
never to come back ! " and Eva sobbed. 

" 0, now, my dear little Eva ! " said St. Clare, trembling as 
iie spoke, but speaking cheerfully, " you 've got nervous and 


low-spirited ; you must n't indulge such gloomy thoughts. See 
here, I 've bought a statuette for you ! " 

" No, papa," said Eva, putting it gently away, " don't de- 
ceive yourself ! - - I am not any better, I know it perfectly well, 
and I am going, before long. I am not nervous, - - 1 am 
not low-spirited. If it were not for you, papa, and my friends, 
I should be perfectly happy. I want to go, I long to 

" Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so 
sad ] You have had everything, to make you happy, that could 
be given you." 

" I had rather be in heaven ; though, only for my friends' 
sake, I would be willing to live. There are a great many things 
here that make me sad, that seem dreadful to me ; I had rather 
be there ; but I don't want to leave you, it almost breaks 
my heart ! " 

" What makes you sad, and seems dreadful, Eva 1 " 

" 0, tilings that are done, and done all the time. I feel sad 
for our poor people ; they love me dearly, and they are all good 
and kind to me. I wish, papa, they were all free." 

" Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are well enough off 
now 1 " 

" 0, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what would 
become of them "? There are very few men like you, papa. 
Uncle Alfred is n't like you, and mamma is n't ; and then, think 
of poor old Prue's owners ! What horrid things people do, and 
can do ! " and Eva shuddered. 

" My dear child, you are too sensitive. I 'm sorry I ever let 
you hear such stories." 

" 0, that 's what troubles me, papa. You want me to live 
so happy, and never to have any pain, never suffer anything, 
- not even hear a sad story, when other poor creatures have 
nothing but pain and sorrow, all their lives ; it seems selfish. 
I ought to know such things, I ought to feel about them ! 
Such things always sunk into my heart ; they went down 
deep ; I 've thought and thought about them. Papa, is n't 
there any way to have all slaves made free ? " 

"That's a difficult question, dearest. There's no doubt 
that this way is a very bad one ; a great many people think 
so ; I do myself. I heartily wish that there were not a slave 
in the land ; but, then, 1 don't know what is to be done 
about it ! " 


" Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble, and kind, 
and you always have a way of saying things that is so pleas- 
ant, could n't you go all round and try to persuade people 
to do right about this ? When I am dead, papa, then you 
will think of me, and do it for my sake. I would do it, if I 

" When you are dead, Eva," said St. Clare, passionately. 
" 0, child, don't talk to me so ! You are all I have on 

" Poor old Prue's child was all that she had, and yet she 
had to hear it crying, and she could n't help it ! Papa, these 
poor creatures love their children as much as you do me. 0, do 
something for them ! There 's poor Mammy loves her children; 
I 've seen her cry when she talked about them. And Tom loves 
his children ; and it 's dreadful, papa, that such things are hap- 
pening, all the time ! " 

" There, there, darling," said St. Clare, soothingly ; " only 
don't distress yourself, and don't talk of dying, and I will do 
anything you wish." 

" And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his free- 
dom as soon as " - she stopped, and said, in a hesitating tone, 
" I am gone ! " 

" Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world, anything you 
could ask me to." 

" Dear papa," said the child, laying her burning cheek against 
his, " how I wish we could go together ! " 

" Where, dearest 1 " said St. Clare. 

" To our Saviour's home ; it 's so sweet and peaceful there, 
- it is all so loving there ! " The child spoke unconsciously, 
as of a place where she had often been. " Don't you want to 
go, papa 1 " she said. 

St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent. 

" You will come to me," said the child, speaking in s voic* 
of calm certainty which she often used unconsciously. 

" I shall come after you. I shall not forget you." 

The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them deeper 
and deeper, as St. Clare sat silently holding the little frail form 
to his bosom. He saw no more the deep eyes, but the voice 
came over him as a spirit voice, and, as in a sort of judgment 
vision, his whole past life rose in a moment before his eyes : his 
mother's prayers and hymns ; his own early yearnings and aspir- 
ings for good ; and, between them and this hour, years of wodcl 



liness and scepticism, and what man calls respectable living. 
We can think much, very much, in a moment. St. Clare saw 
and felt many things, but spoke nothing ; and, as it grew 
darker, he took his child to her bedroom ; and, when she was 
prepared for rest, he sent away the attendants, and rocked her 
in his arms, and sung to her till she was asleep. 

HH "^^Symifcteiii 





T was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched 
on a bamboo lounge in the veranda, solacing him- 
self with a cigar. Marie lay reclined on a sofa, 
opposite the window opening on the veranda, 
closely secluded, under an awning of transparent 
gauze, from the outrages of the mosquitoes, and languidly hold- 
ing in her hand an elegantly bound prayer-book. She was 
holding it because it was Sunday, and she imagined she had 
been reading it, though, in fact, she had been only taking a 
succession of short naps, with it open in her hand. 

Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up a 
small Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, 
with Tom as driver, to attend it ; and Eva had accompanied 

" I say, Augustine," said Marie, after dozing awhile, " I 
must send to the city after my old Dr. Posey ; I 'm sure I 've 
got the complaint of the heart." 

" Well ; why need you send for him ? This doctor that at- 
tends Eva seems skilful." 

" I would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie ; " and 
I think T may say mine is becoming so ! I 've been thinking 
of it, these two or three nights past ; I have such distressing 
pains, and such strange feelings." 

" 0, Marie, you are blue ; I don't believe it 's heart com- 

" I dare say yon don't," said Marie ; "I was prepared to expect 
that. You can be alarmed enough, if Eva coughs, or has the 
least thing the matter with her ; but you never think of me." 

" If it 's particularly agreeable to you to have heart disease, 
why, I '11 try and maintain you have it," said St. Clare ; " I 
didn't know it was." 

" Well, I only hope you won't be sorry for this, when it's 



too late ! " said Marie ; " but, believe it or not, my distress 
about Eva, and the exertions I have made with that dear child, 
have developed what I have long suspected." 


What the exertions were which Marie referred to, it would 
have been difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this com- 
mentary to himself, and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted 

Tvretch of a man as he was, till a carriage drove up before tha 
veranda, and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted. 



Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to put 
away her bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before 
she spoke a word on any subject ; while Eva came, at St. 
Clare's call, and was sitting on his knee, giving him an account 
of the services they had heard. 

They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia's 
room, which, like the one in which they were sitting, opened 
on to the veranda, and violent reproof addressed to somebody. 

" What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing ?" asked St. 
Clare. " That commotion is of her raising, I '11 be bound ! " 

And, in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation, 
came dragging the culprit along. 

" Come out here, now ! " she said. " I will tell your master ! " 

" What 's the case now 1 " asked Augustine. 

" The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child, any 


longer ! It 's past all bearing ; flesh and blood cannot endure 
it ! Here, I locked her up, and gave her a hymn to study ; 
and what does she do, but spy out where I put my key, and 
has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet-trimming, and cut it 
all to pieces, to make dolls' jackets ! I never saw anything like 
it, in my life ! " 

" 1 told you, cousin," said Marie, " that you 'd find out that 
these creatures can't be brought up, without severity. If 1 had 
my way, now," she said, looking reproachfully at St. Clare, " I 'd 
send that child out, and have her thoroughly whipped ; I 'd 
have her whipped till she could n't stand ! " 

" I don't doubt it," said St. Clare. " Tell me of the lovely 
rule of woman ! I never saw above a dozen women that 
would n't half kill a horse, or a servant, either, if they had 
their own way with them ! let alone a man." 

" There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. 
Clare ! " said Marie. " Cousin is a woman of sense, and sho 
sees it now, as plain as I do." 

Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that be- 
longs to the thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had been 
pretty actively roused by the artifice and wastefulness of the 
child ; in fact, many of my lady readers must own that they 
should have felt just so in her circumstances ; but Marie's words 
went beyond her, and she felt less heat. 

" I would n't have the child treated so, for the world," she 
said ; " but, I am sure, Augustine, I don't know what to do. 
I 've taught and taught ; I 've talked till I 'm tired ; I 've 
whipped her ; I 've punished her in every way I can think of, 
and still she's just what she was at first." 

" Come here, Tops, you monkey ! " said St. Clare, calling the 
child up to him. 

Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking 
with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery 

" What makes you behave so 1 " said St. Clare, who could noi 
help being amused with the child's expression. 

" Spects it 's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely ; " Miss 
Feely says so." 

" Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for youf 
She says she has done everything she can think of." 

"Lor, yes, Mas'r ! old Missis used to say so, too. She 
whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock 
my head agin the door ; but it did n't do me no good ! I spects, 


if they 's to pull every spear o' har out o' my head, it would n't 
do no good, neither, I 's so wicked ! Laws ! I 's nothin' 
but a nigger, no ways ! " 

" Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia. " I 
can't have that trouhle any longer." 

" Well, I 'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare. 

" What is it 1 " 

" Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one 
heathen child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, 
what 's the use of sending one or two poor missionaries off with 
it among thousands of just such 1 I suppose this child is about 
a fair sample of what thousands of your heathen are." 

Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; and Eva, 
who had stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a 
silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was a little glass 
room at the corner of the veranda, which St. Clare used as a 
sort of reading-room ; and Eva and Tops} 7 disappeared into this 

" What 's Eva going about, now 1 " said St. Clare ; " I mean 
to see." 

And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that cov- 
ered the glass door, and looked in. In a moment,' laying his 
linger on his lips, he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to 
come and look. There sat the two children on the floor, with 
their side faces towards them. Topsy, with her usual air of 
careless drollery and unconcern ; but, opposite to her, Eva, 
her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes. 

" What does make you so bad, Topsy] Why won't you try 
and be good ? Don't you love anybody, Topsy 1 " 

" Donno nothing 'bout love ; I loves candy and sich, that 's 
all," said Topsy. 

" But you love your father and mother?" 

" Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva." 

" 0, I know," said Eva, sadly ; " but had n't you any 
brother, or sister, or aunt, or - 

" ISTo, none on 'em, never had nothing nor nobody." 

" But, Topsy, if you 'd only try to be good, you might 

" Could n't never be nothin' but a nigger, if I was ever so 
good," said Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white, 
I 'd try then." 

" But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Mis& 
Ophelia would love you, if you were good." 


Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common 
mode of expressing incredulity. 
" Don't you think so ? " said Eva. 

" No ; she can't bar me, 'cause I 'm a nigger ! she 'd 's 
soon have a toad touch her ! There can't nobody love niggers, 
and niggers can't do nothin' ! 7 don't care," said Topsy, be- 
ginning to whistle. 

" O, Topsy, poor child, / love you ! " said Eva, with a sud- 
den burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on 
Topsy's shoulder ; " I love you, because you have n't had any 
father, or mother, or friends ; because you 've been a poor, 
abused child ! I love you, and I want you to be good. I am 
very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan't live a great while ; 
and it really grieves me, to have you be so naughty. I wish 
you would try to be good, for my sake ; it 's only a little while 
I shall be with you." 

The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with 
tears ; large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, 
and fell on the little white hand. Yes, iu that moment, a ray 
of real belief, a ray of heavenly love, had penetrated the dark- 
ness of her heathen soul ! She laid her head down between 
her knees, -and wept and sobbed, - - while the beautiful child, 
bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel 
stooping to reclaim a sinner. 

" Poor Topsy ! " said Eva, " don't you know that Jesus lovea 
all alike 1 He is just as willing to love you as me. He loves 
you just as I do, only more, because he is better. He will 
help you to be good ; and you can go to heaven at last, and be 
an angel forever, just as much as if you were white. Only 
think of it, Topsy ! you can be one of those spirits bright, 
Uncle Tom sings about." 

" 0, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva ! " said the child, " I will 
try, I will try ; I never did care nothin' about it before." 

St. Clare, at this instant, dropped the curtain. " It puts 
me in mind of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. " It is true 
what she told me ; if we want to give sight to the blind, we 
must be willing to do as Christ did, call them to us, and 
put our hands on them." 

" I 've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss 
Ophelia, " and it 's a fact, I never could bear to have that child 
touch me ; but I did n't think she knew it." 

" Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare ; " there '3 


no keeping it from them. But I believe that all the trying in 
the world to benefit a child, and all the substantial favors you 
can do them, will never excite one emotion of gratitude, while 
that feeling of repugnance remains in the heart ; it 's a queer 
kind of a fact, -- but so it is." 

" I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia ; " they 
are disagreeable to me, this child in particular, how can 
,1 help feeling so ? " 

" Eva does, it seems." 

" Well, she 's so loving ! After all, though, she 's no more 
than Christ-like," said Miss Ophelia ; '' I wish I were like her. 
She might teach me a lesson." 

" It would n't be the first time a little child had been used 
to instruct an old disciple, if it ivere so," said St. Clare. 





" Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes." 

VA'S bedroom was a spacious apartment, which, 
like all the other rooms in the house, opened on to 
the broad veranda. The room communicated, on 
one side, with her father and mother's apartment ; 
on the other, with that appropriated to Miss 
Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own eye and taste, in 
furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar keeping with 
the character of her for whom it was intended. The windows 
were hung with curtains of rose-colored and white muslin ; the 
floor was spread with a matting which had been ordered in 
Paris, to a pattern of his own device, having round it a border 
of rosebuds and leaves, and a centre-piece with full-blown 
roses. The bedstead, chairs, and lounges were of bamboo, 
wrought in peculiarly graceful and fanciful patterns. Over the 
head of the bed was an alabaster bracket, on which a beautiful 
sculptured angel stood, with drooping wings, holding out a 
crown of myrtle-leaves. From this depended, over the bed, 
light curtains of rose-colored gauze, striped with silver, sup- 
plying that protection from mosquitoes which is an indispen- 
sable addition to all sleeping accommodation in that climate. 
The graceful bamboo lounges were amply supplied with cush- 
ions of rose-colored damask, while over them, depending from 
the hands of sculptured figures, were gauze curtains similar to 
those of the bed. A light, fanciful bamboo table stood in the 
middle of the room, where a Parian vase, wrought in the shape 
of a white lily, with its buds, stood, ever filled with flowers. 
On this table lay Eva's books and little trinkets, with an ele- 
gantly wrought alabaster writing-stand, which her father had 
supplied to her when he saw her trying to improve herself in 


writing. There was a fireplace in the room, and on the mar- 
ble mantle above stood a beautifully wrought statuette of Jesus 
receiving little children, and on either side marble vases, for 
which it was Tom's pride and delight to offer bouquets every 
morning. Two or three exquisite paintings of children, in 
various attitudes, embellished the wall. In short, the eye 
could turn nowhere without meeting images of childhood, of 
beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never opened, in the 
morning light, without falling on something which suggested 
to the heart soothing and beautiful thoughts. 

The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a little 
while was fast passing away ; seldom and more seldom her 
light footstep was heard in the veranda, and oftener and oftener 
she was found reclined on a little lounge by the open window, 
her large, deep eyes fixed on the rising and falling waters of 
the lake. 

It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was so 
reclining, her Bible half open, her little transparent fingers 
lying listlessly between the leaves, suddenly she heard her 
mother's voice, in sharp tones, in the veranda. 

" What now, you baggage! what new piece of mischief! 
You 've been picking the flowers, hey 1 " and Eva heard the 
sound of a smart slap. 

"Law, Missis ! --they 's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice 
say, which she knew belonged to Topsy. 

" Miss Eva ! A pretty excuse ! you suppose she wants 
your flowers, you good-for-nothing nigger ! Get along off with 
you ! " 

In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge, and in the 

" 0, don't, mother ! I should like the flowers ; do give them 
to me ; I want them ! " 

" Why, Eva, your room is full now." 

" I can't have too many," said Eva. " Topsy, do bring them 

Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, now 
came up and offered her flowers. She did it with a look of 
hesitation and bashfulness, quite unlike the eldrich boldness 
and brightness which was usual with her. 

" It 's a beautiful bouquet ! " said Eva, looking at it. 

It was rather a singular one, a brilliant scarlet geranium, 
and one single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It was 



tied up with an evident eye to the contrast of color, and the 
arrangement of every leaf had carefully been studied. 

Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said, " Topsy, you arrange 
flowers very prettily. Here," she said, " is this vase I have n't 
any flowers for. I wish you 'd arrange something every day 
for it." 

" Well, that 'a odd ! " said Marie. " What in the world do 
you want that for 1 " 

" Never mind, mamma; you'd as lief as not Topsy should 
do it, had you not 1 " 

" Of course, anything you please, dear ! Topsy, you hear 
your young mistress ; see that you mind." 

Topsy made a short courtesy, and looked down ; and, as sho 
turned away, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek. 

" You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do somo 
thing for me," oaid Eva, to ner mother. 


"0, nonsense! it 's only because she likes to do mischief. 
She knows she must n't pick flowers, so she does it, that 's 
all there is to it. But, if you fancy to have her pluck them, 
so be it." 

" Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to 
be ; she 's trying to be a good girl." 

" She '11 have to try a good while before she gets to be good,' 
said Marie, with a careless laugh. 

"Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy ! everything has 
always been against her." 

" Not since she 's been here, I 'm sure. If she has n't been 
talked to, and preached to, and every earthly thing done that 
anybody could do ; and she 's just so ugly, and always will 
be ; you can't make anything of the creature ! " 

" But, mamma, it 's so different to be brought up as I 've 
been, with so many friends, so many things to make me good 
and happy ; and to be brought up as she 's been, all the time, 
till she came here ! " 

"Most likely," said Marie, yawning, -- "dear me, how hot 
it is ! " 

" Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could become 
an angel, as well as any of us, if she were a Christian 1 " 

" Topsy ! what a ridiculous idea ! Nobody but you would 
ever think of it. I suppose she could, though." 

"But, mamma, is n't God her father, as much as ours 1 ? 
Isn't Jesus her Saviour 1 ?" 

" "Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody," 
said Marie. " Where is my smelling-bottle 1 " 

" It 's such a pity, oh ! such a pity ! " said Eva, looking 
out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself. 

" What 's a pity ? " said Marie. 

" Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live 
with angels, should go all down, down, down, and nobody help 
them!--0. dear !" 

" Well, we can't help it ; it 's no use worrying, Eva ! I 
don't know what 's to be done ; we ought to be thankful for 
our own advantages." 

"I hardly can be," said Eva, "I'm so sorry to think of 
poor folks that have n't any." 

" That 's odd enough," said Marie ; "I 'm sure my relig- 
ion makes me thankful for my advantages." 

" Mamma," said Eva, " I want to have some of my hair cut 
off, a good deal of it." 


" What for ] " said Marie. 

" Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while I 
am able to give it to them myself. Won't you ask aunty to 
come and cut it for me 1 " 

Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from the 
other room. 

The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and, 
shaking down her long golden-brown curls, said, rather play- 
fully, " Come, aunty, shear the sheep ! " 

" What 's that 1 " said St. Clare, who just then entered with 
some fruit he had been out to get for her. 

" Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair ; 
there 's too much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I 
want to giA'e some of it away." 

Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors. 

" Take care, don't spoil the looks of it ! " said her father ; 
" cut underneath, where it won't show. Eva's curls are my 

" 0, papa ! " said Eva, sadly. 

" Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time ] 
take you up to your uncle's plantation, to see Cousin Hen- 
rique," said St. Clare, in a gay tone. 

" I shall never go there, papa ; - - I am going to a better 
country. 0, do believe me ! Don't you see, papa, that I get 
weaker, every day 1 " 

" Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing, 
Eva 1 " said her father. 

" Only because it is true, papa ; and, if you will believe it 
now, perhaps you will get to feel about it as I do." 

St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eying the long, 
beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from 'the child's 
head, were laid, one by one, in her lap. She raised them up, 
looked earnestly at them, twined them around her thin fingers, 
and looked, from time to time, anxiously at her father. 

" It 's just what I 've been foreboding ! " said Marie ; " it 'a 
just what has been preying on my health, from day to day, 
bringing me downward to the grave, though nobody regards it. 
I have seen this, long. St. Clare, you will see, after a while, 
that I was right." 

" Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt ! " saio 
St. Clare, in a dry, bitter tone. 

Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with hei 
cambric handkerchief. 


Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other. 
It was the calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from 
its earthly bonds ; it was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated 
the difference between the two. 

She beckoned with her hand to her father. He came, and 
sat down by her. 

" Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know I 
must go. There are some things I want to say and do, -- that 
I ought to do ; and you are so unwilling to have me speak a 
word on this subject. But it must come ; there 's no putting it 
off. Do be willing I should speak now ! " 

" My child, i am willing ! " said St. Clare, covering his eyes 
with one hand, and holding up Eva's hand with the other. 

" Then, I want to see all our people together. I have some 
things I must say to them," said Eva. 

" Weil," said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance. 

Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the whole of 
the servants were convened in the room. 

Eva lay back on her pillows ; her hair hanging loosely about 
her face, her crimson cheeks contrasting painf'ully with the 
intense whiteness of her complexion and the thin contour of 
her limbs and features, and her large, soul-like eyes fixed ear- 
nestly on every one. 

The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The 
spiritual face, the long locks of hair cut off and lying by her, 
her father's averted face, and Marie's sobs, struck at once upon 
the feelings of a sensitive and impressible race ; and, as they 
came in, they looked one on another, sighed, and shook their 
heads. There was a deep silence, like that of a funeral. 

Eva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round at 
every one. All looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the 
women hid their faces in their aprons. 

" I sent for you all, my dear friends," said Eva, " because I 
love you. I love you all ; and I have something to say to you, 
which I want you always to remember. ... I am going to 
leave you. In a few more weeks you will see me no more ' 

Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs, and 
lamentations, Avhich broke from all present, and in which her 
slender voice was lost entirely. She waited a moment, and 
then, speaking in a tone that checked the sobs of all, she 
said, - 

" If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen to 


what I say. I want to speak to you about your souls. . . . 
Many of you, I am afraid, are very careless. You are thinking 
only about this world. I want you to remember that there is 
a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I am going there, and you. 
can go there. It is for you, as much as me. But, if you want 
to go there, you must not live idle, careless, thoughtless lives. 
You must be Christians. You must remember that each one 
of you can become angels, and be angels forever. ... If you. 
want to be Christians, Jesus will help you. You must pray to 
him ; you must read- 

The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, and 
said, sorrowfully, 

" O, dear! you cant read, poor souls!" and she hid her 
face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob 
from those she was addressing, who were kneeling on the floor, 
aroused her. 

" Never mind," she said, raising her face, and smiling brightly 
through her tears, " I have prayed for you ; and I know Jesus 
will help you, even if you can't read. Try all to do the best 
you can ; pray every day ; ask him to help you, and get the 
Bible read to you whenever you can ; and I think I shall see 
you all in heaven." 

" Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom 
and Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the 
Methodist church. The younger and more thoughtless ones, 
for the time completely overcome, were sobbing, with their 
heads bowed upon their knees. 

" I know," said Eva, "you all love me." 
" Yes ; 0, yes ! indeed we do ! Lord bless her ! " was the 
involuntary answer of all. 

" Yes, I know you do ! There is n't one of you that has n't 
always been very kind to me ; and I want to give you some- 
thing that, when you look at, you shall always remember me. 
I 'm going to give all of you a curl of my hair ; and, when you 
look at it, think that I loved you and am gone to heaven, and 
that I want to see you all there." 

It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and sobs, 
they gathered round the little creature, and took from her hands 
what seemed to them a last mark of her love. They fell on 
their knees ; they sobbed, and prayed, and kissed the hem of 
her garment ; and the elder ones poured forth words of endear- 
ment, mingled in prayers and blessings, after the manner of 
their susceptible race. 


As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was appre- 
hensive for the effect of all this excitement on her little patient, 
signed to each one to pass out of the apartment. 

At last, all were gone but Tom and Mammy. 

"Here, Uncle Tom," said Eva, "is a beautiful one for you. 
0, I am so happy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see you in 
heaven, for I 'm sure I shall ; and, Mammy, dear, good, 
kind Mammy ! " she said, fondly throwing her arms round her 
old nurse, " I know you '11 be there, too." 

" 0, Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no how ! " 
said the faithful creature. " ' Pears like it 's just taking every- 
thing off the place to oncet ! " and Mammy gave way to a 
passion of grief. 

Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the apartment, 
and thought they were all gone ; but, as she turned, Topsy was 
standing there. 

" Where did you start up from 7 " she said, suddenly. 

" I was here," said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes. 
" 0, Miss Eva, I 've been a bad girl ; but won't you give me 
one, too 1 " 

" Yes, poor Topsy ! to be sure, I will. There every time 
you look at that, think that I love you, and wanted you to be 
a good girl ! " 

"0, Miss Eva, I is tryin' !" said Topsy, earnestly; "but, 
Lor, it 's so hard to be good ! 'Pears like I an't used to it, no 
ways ! " 

" Jesus knows it, Topsy ; he is sorry for you ; he will help 

Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passed 
from the apartment by Miss Ophelia ; but, as she went, she 
hid the precious curl in her bosom. 

All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy 
lady had wiped away many tears of her own, during the scene ; 
but concern for the consequence of such an excitement to her 
young charge was uppermost in her mind 

St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his 
hand shading his eyes, in the same attitude. When they were 
all gone, he sat so still. 

" Papa ! " said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his. 

He gave a sudden start and shiver ; but made no answer. 

" Dear papa ! " said Eva. 

" I cannot," said St. Clare, rising, " I cannot have it so ! 


The Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me ! " and St. 
Clare pronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, indeed. 

" Augustine ! has not God a right to do what he will with 
his own ] " said Miss Ophelia. 

" Perhaps so ; but that does n't make it any easier to bear," 
said he, with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned away. 

" Papa, you break my heart ! " said Eva, rising and throwing 
(herself into his arms ; " you must not feel so ! " and the child 
sobbed and wept with a violence which alarmed them all, and 
turned her father's thoughts at once to another channel. 

" There, Eva, there, dearest ! Hush ! hush ! 1 was wrong ; 
I was wicked. I will feel any way, do any way, only don't 
distress yourself ; don't sob so. I will be resigned ; 1 was 
wicked to speak as I did." 

Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father's arms ; and 
he, bending over her, soothed her by every tender word he 
could think of. 

Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her 
own, when she fell into violent hysterics. 

" You did n't give me a curl, Eva," said her father, smiling 

' They are all yours, papa," said she, smiling, " yours and 
mamma's ; and you must give dear aunty as many as she 
wants. I only gave them to our poor people myself, because 
you know, papa, they might be forgotten when I am gone, and 
because I hoped it might help them remember. . . . You are 
a Christian, are you not, papa 1 " said Eva, doubtfully. 

" Why do you ask me '< " 

" I don't know. You are so good, I don't see how you can 
help it." 

" What is being a Christian, Eva ? " 

" Loving Christ most of all," said Eva. 

"Do you, Eval" 

" Certainly I do." 

"You never saw him," said St. Clare. 

" That makes no difference," said Eva. " I believe him, and 
in a few days I shall see him " ; and the young face grew fer- 
vent, radiant with joy. 

St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seen 
before in his mother ; but no chord within vibrated to it. 

Eva, after this, declined rapidly ; there was no more any 
doubt of the event ; the fondeal hope could not be blinded. 



Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick-room, and Miss Ophe- 
lia day and night performed the duties of a nurse, and 
never did her friends appreciate her value more than in that 
capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect 
adroitness and practice in every art which could promote neat- 
ness and comfort, and keep out of sight every disagreeable 
incident of sickness, with such a perfect sense of time, such 
a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy in remembering 
|every prescription and direction of the doctor's, she was 
everything to him. They who had shrugged their shoulders 
at her little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike the careless 
freedom of southern manners, acknowledged that now she was 
the exact person that was wanted. 

Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered 
much from nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her tc 
be carried ; and it was Tom's greatest delight to carry her little 
frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and dowr> 
her room, now out into the veranda ; and when the fresh sea- 
breezes blew from the lake, and the child felt freshest in the 
morning, he would sometimes walk with her under the 
orange-trees in the garden, or, sitting down in some of their old 
seats, sing to her their favorite old hymns. 

Her father often did the same thing ; but his frame was 
slighter, and when he was weary, Eva would say to him, - 

" 0, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow ! it pleases him, 
and you know it 's all he can do now, and he wants to do 
something ! " 

" So do I, Eva ! " said her father. 


" Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to 
me. You read to me, you sit up nights, and Tom has 
only this one thing, and his singing ; and I know, too, he does 
it easier than you can. He carries me so strong ! " 

The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every 
servant in the establishment showed the same feeling, and in 
their way did what they could. 

Poor Mammy's heart yearned towards her darling ; but she 
found no opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that the 
state of her mind was such, it was impossible for her to rest ; 
and, of course, it was against her principles to let any one else 
rest. Twenty times in a night, Mammy would be roused to 
rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket-handker- 
chief, to see what the noise was in Eva's room, to let down a 
curtain because it was too light, or to put it up because it was 
too dark ; and, in the daytime, when she longed to have some 
share in the nursing of her pet, Marie seemed unusually in- 
genious in keeping her busy anywhere and everywhere all 
over the house, or about her own person ; so that stolen inter- 
views and momentary glimpses were all she could obtain. 

"I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself, 
now," she would say, " feeble as I am, and with the whole 
care and nursing of that dear child upon me." 

" Indeed, my dear," said St. Clare, " I thought our cousin 
relieved you of that." 

" You talk like a man, St. Clare, just as if a mother could 
be relieved of the care of a child in that state ; but, then, it 's 
all alike, no one ever knows what I feel ! I can't throw 
things off, as you do." 

St. Clare smiled. You must excuse him, he could n't help 
it, for St. Clare could smile yet. For so bright and placid 
was the farewell voyage of the little spirit, by such sweet and 
fragrant breezes was the small bark borne towards the heavenly 
shores, that it was impossible to realize that it was death that 
was approaching. The child felt no pain, only a tranquil, 
soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly increasing ; and she 
was so beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so happy, that one could 
not resist the soothing influence of that air of innocence and 
peace which seemed to breathe around her. St. Clare found a 
strange calm coming over him. It was not hope, that was 
impossible ; it was not resignation ; it was only a calm resting 
in the present, which seemed so beautiful that he wished to 


think of no future. It was like that hush of spirit which we 
feel amid the bright, mild woods of autumn, when the bright 
hectic flush is on the trees, and the last lingering flowers by the 
brook ; and we joy in it all the more, because we know that 
soon it will all pass away. 

The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and fore- 
shadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said 
what she would not disturb her father by saying. To him she 
imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul feels, as 
the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay forever. 

Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night 
in the outer veranda, ready to rouse at every call. 

" Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere 
and everywhere, like a dog, for]" said Miss Ophelia. "I 
thought you was one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie in bed 
in a Christian way." 

" I do, Miss Feely," said Tom, mysteriously. " I do, but 

" Well, what now ] " 

" We must n't speak loud ; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear on 't ; 
but, Miss Feely, you know there must be somebody watchin' for 
the bridegroom." 

" What do you mean, Tom ] " 

"You know it says in Scripture, 'At midnight there was a 
great cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh.' That 's what 
I 'm 'spectin' nov\ r , every night, Miss Feely, and I couldn't 
sleep out o' hearin', no ways." 

"Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so 1 ?" 

" Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his messen- 
ger in the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely ; for when that ai. 
blessed child goes into the kingdom, they '11 open the door so 
wide, we '11 all get a look in at the glory, Miss Feely." 

" Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than 
usual to-night 1 " 

" No ; but she telled me, this morning, she was coming 
nearer, thar 's them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely. 
It 's the angels, ' it 's the trumpet sound afore the break o' 
day,' " said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn. 

This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, be- 
tween ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements had 
all been made for the night, when, on going to bolt her outer 
door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the outer veranda. 


She was not nervous or impressible ; but the solemn, heart- 
felt manner struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and 
cheerful, that afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and 
looked over all her little trinkets and precious things, and des- 
ignated the friends to whom she would have them given ; and 
her manner was more animated, and her voice more natural, 
than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in, in 
the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more like her 
former self than ever she had done since her sickness ; and when 
he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss Ophelia, " Cousin, 
we may keep her with us, after all ; she is certainly better " ; 
and he had retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he 
had had there for weeks. 

But at midnight, strange, mystic hour! when the veil 
between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin, 
then came the messenger ! 

There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who stepped 
quickly. It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all 
night with her little charge, and who, at the turn of the night, 
had discerned what experienced nurses significantly call " a 
change." The outer door was quickly opened, and Tom, who 
was watching outside, was on the alert, in a moment. 

" Go for the doctor, Tom ! lose not a moment," said Miss 
Ophelia : and, stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare's 

" Cousin," she said, " I wish you would come." 

Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why 
did they ? He was up and in the room in an instant, and bend- 
ing over Eva, who still slept. 

What was it he saw that made his heart stand still ? Why 
was no word spoken between the two 1 Thou canst say, who 
hast seen that same expression on the face dearest to thee ; 
that look indescribable, hopeless, unmistakable, that says to 
thee that thy beloved is no longer thine. 

On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly 
imprint, only a high and almost sublime expression, the 
overshadowing presence of spiritual natures, the dawning of im- 
mortal life in that childish soul. 

They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the tick- 
ing of the watch seemed too loud. In a few moments, Tom 
returned, with the doctor. He entered, gave one look, and 
stood silent as the rest. 


" When did this change take place ? " said he, in a low whis- 
per, to Miss Ophelia. 

"About the turn of the night," was the reply. 

Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared, hur- 
riedly, from the next room. 

"Augustine ! Cousin ! Oh ! what ! " she hurriedly began. 

" Hush ! " said St. Clare, hoarsely ; " she is dying! " 

Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. 

The house was soon roused, lights were seen, footsteps heard, 

anxious faces thronged the veranda, and looked tearfully through 

';he' glass doors ; but St. Clare heard and said nothing, he saw 

>nly that look on the face of the little sleeper. 

" 0, if she would only wake, and speak once more ! " he said ; 
and, stooping over her, he spoke in her ear, " Eva, darling ! " 

The large blue eyes unclosed, a smile passed over her face ; 
she tried to raise her head, and to speak. 

" Do you know me, Eva 1 " 

" Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, throwing her 
arms about his neck. In a moment they dropped again, and, 
as St. Clare raised his head, he saw a spasm, of mortal agony 
pass over the face, she struggled for breath, and threw up 
her little hands. 

" 0, God, this is dreadful ! " he said, turning away in agony, 
and wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing. 
" 0, Tom, my boy, it is killing me ! " 

Tom had his master's hands between his own ; and, with 
tears streaming down his dark cheeks, looked up for help 
where he had always been used to look. 

" Pray that this may be cut short ! " said St. Clare, " this 
wrings my heart." 

" 0, bless the Lord ! it's over, it's over, dear Master!" 
said Tom ; " look at her." 

The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted, - 
the large clear eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those 
eyes, that spoke so much of heaven 1 ? Earth was past, and 
earthly pain ; but so solemn, so mysterious, was the triumph- 
ant brightness of that face, that it checked even the sobs of 
sorrow. They pressed around her, in breathless stillness. 

" Eva," said St. Clare, gently. 

She did not hear. 

" 0, Eva, tell us what you see ! What is it ? " said her 


A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she said, 
brokenly, " Oh ! love, joy, -- peace ! " gave one sigh, and 
passed from death unto life ! 

" Farewell, beloved child ! the bright, eternal doors have 
closed after thee ; we shall see thy sweet face no more. 0, 
woe for them who watched thy entrance into heaven, when 
they shall wake and find only the cold gray sky of daily life, 
and thou gone forever ! " 




John Q. Adams. 

HE statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were 
shrouded in white napkins, and only hushed 
breathings and muffled footfalls were heard there, 
and the light stole in solemnly through windows 
partially darkened by closed blinds. 

The bed was draped in white ; and there, beneath the droop- 
ing angel-figure, lay a little sleeping form, sleeping never to 
waken ! 

There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she 
had been wont to wear when living ; the rose-colored light 
through the curtains cast over the icy coldness of death a warm 
glow. The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure cheek ; 
the head was turned a little to one side, as if in natural sleep, 
but there was diffused over every lineament of the face that 
high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture and repose, 
which showed it was no earthly or temporary sleep, but the 
long, sacred rest which " He giveth to his beloved." 

There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva ! neither dark- 
Tiess nor shadow of death ; only such a bright fading as when 
the morning star fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the 
victory without the battle, the crown without the conflict. 

So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there 
gazing. Ah ! who shall say what he did think ? for, from the 
hour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, " She is gone," 
it had been all a dreary mist, a heavy " dimness of anguish." 
He had heard voices around him, he had had questions asked, 
and answered them ; they had asked him when he would have 
the funeral, and where they should lay her ; and he had an- 
swered, impatiently, that he cared not. 

Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber ; volatile, fickle, 
and childish, as they generally were, they were soft-hearted 
and full of feeling ; and, while Miss Ophelia presided over the* 



general details of order and neatness, it was their hands that 
added those soft, poetic touches to the arrangements, that took 
from the death-room the grim and ghastly air which too often 
marks a New England funeral. 

There were still flowers on the shelves, all white, delicate, 
and fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva's little table. 

covered with white, bore on it her favorite vase, with a single 
white moss rosebud in it. The folds of the drapery, the fall 
of the curtains, had been arranged and rearranged, by Adolph 
and Eosa, with that nicety of eye which characterizes their race. 
Even now, while St. Clare stood there thinking, little Eosa 
tripped softly into the chamber with a basket of white (lowers. 
She stepped back when she saw St. Clare, and stopped respect- 
fully ; but, seeing that he did not observe her, she came for- 
ward to place them around the dead. St. Clare saw her as it 


a dream, while she placed in the small hands a fair cape jessa- 
mine, and, with admirable taste, disposed other flowers around 
the couch. 

The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled with 
crying, appeared, holding something under her apron. Rosa 
made a quick, forbidding gesture ; but she took a step into the 

" You must go out," said Eosa, in a sharp, positive whisper ; 
' you have n't any business here ! " 

" U, do let me ! I brought a flower, such a pretty one ! " 
said Topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rosebud. " Do let me 
put just one there." 

" Get along ! " said Rosa, more decidedly. 

" Let her stay ! " said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his foot. 
" She shall come." 

Rosa suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid 
her offering at the feet of the corpse ; then suddenly, with a 
wild and bitter cry, she threw herself on the floor alongside the 
bed, and wept, and moaned aloud. 

Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and 
silence her ; but in vain. 

" O, Miss Eva ! 0, Miss Eva ! I wish I 's dead, too, I 

There was a piercing wildness in the cry ; the blood flushed 
into St. Clare's white, marble-like face, and the first tears he 
had shed since Eva died stood in his eyes. 

" Get np, child," said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice ; 
" don't cry so. Miss Eva is gone to heaven ; she is an 

" But I can't see her ! " said Topsy. " I never shall see 
her ! " and she sobbed again. 

They all stood a moment in silence. 

" She said she loved me," said Topsy, " she did ! 0, dear ! 
0, dear ! there an't nobody left now, there an't ! " 

" That 's true enough," said St. Clare ; " but do," he said to 
Miss Ophelia, " see if you can't comfort the poor creature." 

" I jist wish I had n't never been born," said Topsy. " I 
did n't want to be born, no ways ; and I don't see no use 
on V 

Miss Ophelia raised her gently, but firmly, and took her 
from the room ; but, as she did so, some tears fell from her 


" Topsy, you poor child," she said, as she led her into hei 
room, " don't give up ! 7 can love you, though I am not like 
that dear little child. I hope I 've learnt something of the 
love of Christ from her. I can love you ; I do, and I '11 try 
to help you to grow up a good Christian girl." 

Miss Ophelia's voice was more than her words, and more 
than that were the honest tears that fell down her face. Froir 
that hour, she acquired an influence over the mind of the del 
titute child that she never lost. 

" 0, my Eva, whose little hour on earth did so much oi 
good," thought St. Clare, " what account have I to give for my 
long years 1 " 

There were, for a while, soft whisperings and footfalls in 
the chamber, as one after another stole in, to look at the 
dead ; and then came the little coffin ; and then there was a 
funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and strangers came 
and were seated ; and there were white scarfs and ribbons, 
and crape bands, and mourners dressed in black crape ; and 
there were words read from the Bible, and prayers offered ; 
and St. Clare lived, and walked, and moved, as one who has 
shed every tear ; to the last he saw only one thing, that 
golden head in the coffin ; but then he saw the cloth spread 
over it, the lid of the coffin closed ; and he walked, when he 
was put beside the others, down to a little place at the bottom 
of the garden, and there, by the mossy seat where she and 
Tom had talked, and sung, and read so often, was the little 
grave. *. Clare stood beside it, looked vacantly down ; 
he saw them lower the little coffin ; he heard, dimly, the 
solemn words, " I am the Resurrection and the Life ; he that 
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live " ; 
and, as the earth was cast in and filled up the little grave, he 
could not realize that it was his Eva that they were hiding 
from his sight. 

Nor was it ! not Eva, but only the frail seed of that bright, 
immortal form with which she shall yet come forth, in the day 
of the Lord Jesus ! 

And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to the 
place which should know her no more ; and Marie's room 
was darkened, and she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning 
in uncontrollable grief, and calling every moment for the at- 
tentions of all her servants. Of course, they had no time to 
cry, - - why should they 1 the grief was her grief, and she was 


fully convinced that nobody on earth did, could, or would fee) 
it as she did. 

" St. Clare did not shed a tear," she said ; " he did n't 
sympathize with her ; it was perfectly wonderful to think how 
hard-hearted and unfeeling he was, when he must know how 
she suffered." 

So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that many 
of the servants really thought that Missis was the principal 
sufferer in the case, especially as Marie began to have hyster- 
ical spasms, and sent for the doctor, and at last declared her- 
self dying ; and, in the running and scampering, and bringing 
up hot bottles, and heating of flannels, and chafing, and fussing, 
that ensued, there was quite a diversion. 

Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart, that drew him 
to his master. He followed him wherever he walked, wistfully 
and sadly ; and when he saw him sitting, so pale and quiet, 
in Eva's room, holding before his eyes her little open Bible, 
though seeing no letter or word of what was in it, there was 
more sorrow to Tom in that still, fixed, tearless eye, than in all 
Marie's moans and lamentations. 

In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the 
city ; Augustine, with the restlessness of grief, longing for an- 
other scene, to change the current of his thoughts. So they 
left the house and garden, with its little grave, and came back 
to New Orleans ; and St. Clare walked the streets busily, 
and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart with hurry 
and bustle, and change of place ; and people who saw him in 
the street, or met him at the cafe, knew of his loss only by the 
weed on his hat ; for there he was, smiling and talking, and 
reading the newspaper, and speculating on politics, and attend- 
ing to business matters ; and who could see that all this smil- 
ing outside was but a hollow shell over a heart that was a 
dark and silent sepulchre 1 

" Mr. St. Clare is a singular man," said Marie to Miss 
Ophelia, in a complaining tone. " I used to think, if there 
was anything in the world he did love, it was our dear little 
Eva ; but he seems to be forgetting her very easily. I cannot 
ever get him to talk about her. I really did think he would 
show more feeling ! " 

" Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me," said Miss 
Ophelia, oracularly. 

" O, I don't believe in such things ; it 's all talk. If people 


have feeling, they will show it, they can't help it ; but, 
then, it 's a great misfortune to have feeling. I 'd rather have 
been made like St. Clare. My feelings prey upon me so ! " 

" Sure, Missis, Mas'r St. Clare is gettin' thin as a shader. 
They say, he don't never eat nothin','' said Mammy. " I 
know he don't forget Miss Eva ; I know there could n't 
nobody, dear, little, blessed cretur ! " she added, wiping her 

" Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me," said 
Marie ; " he has n't spoken one word of sympathy, and he 
must know how much more a mother feels than any man can." 

"The heart knoweth its own bitterness," said Miss Ophelia, 

" That 's just what I think. I know just what I feel, 
nobody else seems to. Eva used to, but she is gone ! " and 
Marie lay back on her lounge, and began to sob disconsolately. 

Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals, in 
whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which it 
never had in possession. Whatever she had, she seemed to 
survey only to pick flaws in it ; but, once fairly away, there 
was no end to her valuation of it. 

While this conversation was taking place in the parlor, an- 
other was going on in St. Clare's library. 

Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about, 
had seen him go to his library, some hours before ; and, after 
vainly waiting for him to come out, determined, at last, to 
make an errand in. He entered softly. St. Clare lay on his 
lounge, at the further end of the room. He was lying on his 
face, with Eva's Bible open before him, at a little distance. 
Tom walked up, and stood by the sofa. He hesitated ; and, 
while he was hesitating, St. Clare suddenly raised himself up. 
The honest face, so full of grief, and with such an imploring 
expression of affection and sympathy, struck his master. He 
laid his hand on Tom's, and bowed down his forehead on it. 

" 0, Tom, my bov, the whole world is as empty as an egg- 

" I know it, Mas'r, I know it," said Tom ; " but, 0, if 
Mas'r could only look up, up where our dear Miss Eva is, 
up to the dear Lord Jesus ! " 

" Ah, Tom ! I do look up ; but the trouble is, I don't sef 
anything, when I do. I wish I could " 

Tom sighed heavily. 



: ' It seems to be given to children, and poor, honest fellows, 
like you, to see what we can't," said St. Clare. " How comes 

' Thou hast ' hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed 
unto babes,' " murmured Tom ; " < even so, Father, for so it 
seemed good in thy sight.' " 

" Tom, I don't believe, I can't believe, - - I 've got the 
habit of doubting," said St. Clare. " I want to believe this 
Bible, and I can't." 

"Dear Mas'r, pray to the good Lord, --' Lord, I believe ; 
help thou my unbelief.' ' 

"Who knows anything about anything 1" said St. Clare, 
his eyes wandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. " Was 
all that beautiful love and faith only one of the ever-shifting 
phases of human feeling, having nothing real to rest on, passing 
away with the little breath 1 And is there no more Eva, i 
no heaven, no Christ, -- nothing ? " 

"0, dear Mas'r, there is! I know it; I'm sure of it,", 
said Tom, falling on his knees. " Do, do, dear Mas'r, believe 

" How do you know there 's any Christ, Tom ? You never 
saw the Lord." 

" Felt him in my soul, Mas'r, feel him now ! O, Mas'r, 
when I was sold away from my old woman and the children, 


I was jest a'most broke up. I felt as if there warn't nothin' 
left ; and then the good Lord, he stood by me, and he says, 
' Fear not, Tom ' ; and he brings light and joy into a poor 
feller's soul, makes all peace ; and I 's so happy, and loves 
everybody, and feels willin' jest to be the Lord's, and have the 
Lord's will done, and be put jest where the Lord wants to put 
me. I know it could n't come from me, 'cause I 's a poor, coru- 
plainin' cretur ; it comes from the Lord ; and I know He 's 
willin' to do for Mas'r." 

Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St. 
Clare leaned his head on his shoulder, and wrung the hard, 
faithful, black hand. 

" Tom, you love me," he said. 

" I 's willin' to lay down my life, this blessed day, to see 
Mas'r a Christian." 

" Poor, foolish boy ! " said St. Clare, half raising himself. 
" I 'm not worth the love of one good, honest heart, like 

" 0, Mas^, dere 's more than me loves you, the blessed 
Lord Jesus loves you." 

" How do you know that, Tom 1 " said St. Clare. 

" Feels it in my soul. 0, Mas'r ! ' the love of Christ, that 
passeth knowledge.' ' 

" Singular ! " said St. Clare, turning away, " that the story 
of a man that lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can 
affect people so yet. But he was no man," he added, suddenly. 
" No man ever had such long and living power ! O, that I 
could believe what my mother taught me, and pray as I did 
when I was a boy ! " 

" If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, " Miss Eva used to read this 
so beautifully. I wish Mas'r 'd be so good as read it. Don't 
get noreadin', hardly, now Miss Eva 's gone." 

The chapter was the eleventh of John, the touching ac- 
count of the raising of Lazarus. St. Clare read it aloud, often 
pausing to wrestle down feelings which were roused by the 
pathos of the story. Tom knelt before him, with clasped 
hands, and with an absorbed expression of love, trust, adora- 
tion, on his quiet face. 

" Tom," said his master, " this is all real to you." 

" I can jest fairly see it, Mas'r," said Tom. 

" I wish I had your eyes, Tom." 

" I wish, to the dear Lord, Mas'r had ! " 


" But, Tom, yon know that I have a great deal more knowl- 
edge than yon ; what if I should tell you that I don't believe 
this Bible T' 

" 0, Mas'r ! " said Tom, holding up his hands, with a depre- 
cating gesture. 

" Would n't it shake your faith some, Tom ] " 

" Not a grain," said Tom. 

" Why, Tom, you must know I know the most." 

" 0, Mas'r, have n't you jest read how he hides from the 
'wise and prudent, and reveals unto babes 1 But Mas'r was n't 
in earnest, for sartin, now ] " said Tom, anxiously. 

" No, Tom, I was not. I don't disbelieve, and I think there 
is reason to believe ; and still I don't. It 's a troublesome bad 
habit I 've got, Tom." 

" If Mas'r would only pray ! " 

" How do you know I don't, Tom ] " 

"Does Mas'r?" 

" I would, Tom, if' there was anybody there when I pray ; 
but it 's all speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come, 
Tom, you pray, now, and show me how." 

Tom's heart was full ; he poured it out in prayer, like waters 
that have been long suppressed. One thing was plain enough ; 
Tom thought there was somebody to hear, whether there were 
or not. In fact, St. Clare felt himself borne, on the tide of his 
faith and feeling, almost to the gates of that heaven he seemed 
so vividly to conceive. It seemed to bring him nearer to Eva. 

" Thank you, my boy," said St. Clare, when Tom rose ; " I 
like to hear you, Tom ; but go, now, and leave me alone : some 
other time, I '11 talk more." 

Tom silently left the room. 






&EEK after week glided away in the St. Clare 
mansion, and the waves of life settled back to 
their usual flow, where that little bark had gone 
down. For how imperiously, how coolly, in dis- 
regard of all one's feeling, does the hard, cold, 
uninteresting course of daily realities move on ! Still must we 
eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again, still bargain, buy, 
sell, ask and answer questions, pursue, in short, a thousand 
shadows, though all interest in them be over ; the cold, me- 
chanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it 
has fled. 

All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had uncon- 
sciously wound themselves around this child. It was for Eva 
that he had managed his property ; it was for Eva that be had 
planned the disposal of his time ; and, to do this and that for 
Eva, to buy, improve, alter, and arrange, or dispose some- 
thing for her, --had been so long his habit, that now she was 
gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to be 

True, there was another life, a life which, once believed 
in, stands as a solemn, significant figure before the otherwise 
unmeaning ciphers of time, changing them to orders of mys- 
terious, untold value. St. Clare knew this well ; and often, in 
many a weary hour, he heard that slender, childish voice call- 
ing him to the skies, and saw that little hand pointing to him 
the way of life ; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay on him, 
he could not arise. He had one of those natures which 
could better and more clearly conceive of religious things from 
its own perceptions and instincts, than many a matter-of-fact 
and practical Christian. The gift to appreciate and the sense 
to feel the finer shades and relations of moral tilings often 
seems an attribute of those whose whole life shows a careless 


disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, often speak 
words more wisely descriptive of the true religious sentiment, 
than another man, whose whole life is governed by it. In such 
minds, disregard of religion is a more fearful treason, a more 
deadly sin. 

St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any relig- 
ious obligation ; and a certain fineness of nature gave him such 
an instinctive view of the extent of the requirements of Chris- 
tianity, that he shrank, by anticipation, from what he felt would 
be the exactions of his own conscience, if he once did resolve 
to assume them. For, so inconsistent is human nature, espe- 
cially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems 
better than to undertake and come short. 

Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. He read 
his little Eva's Bible seriously and honestly ; he thought more 
soberly and practically of his relations to his servants, enough 
to make him extremely dissatisfied with both his past and pres- 
ent course ; and one thing he did, soon after his return to New 
Orleans, and that was to commence the legal steps necessary to 
Tom's emancipation, which was to be perfected as soon as he 
could get through the necessary formalities. Meantime, he at- 
tached himself to Tom more and more every day. In all the 
wide world, there was nothing that seemed to remind him so much 
of Eva ; and he would insist on keeping him constantly about 
him, and, fastidious and unapproachable as he was with regard 
to his deeper feelings, he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor 
would any one have wondered at it, who had seen the expres- 
sion of affection and devotion with which Tom continually fol- 
lowed his young master. 

" Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced 
the legal formalities for his enfranchisement, " I 'm going to 
make a free man of you ; so, have your trunk packed, and 
get ready to set out for Kentuck." 

The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he raised 
his hands to heaven, his emphatic " Bless the Lord ! " rather 
discomposed St. Clare ; he did not like it that Tom should be 
so ready to leave him. 

" You have n't had such very bad times here, that you need 
be in such a rapture, Tom," he said, dryly. 

" No, no, Mas'r ! 't an't that, it 's bein' a, free man ! That's 
what I 'm joyin' for." 

" Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you Ve 
been better off than to be free 1 " 


" No, indeed, Mas'r St. Clare," said Tom, with a Hash ol 
energy. " No, indeed ! " 

" Why, Tom, you could n't possibly have earned, by your 
work, such clothes and such living as I have given you." 

" Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare ; Mas'r 's been too good ; 
but, Mas'r, I 'd rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor every- 
thing, and have 'em mine, than have the best, and have 'en? 
any man's else, 1 had so, Mas'r; I think it's natur, Mas'r." 

" I suppose so, Tom, and you '11 be going off and leaving me, 
in a month or so," he added, rather discontentedly. " Though 
why you should n't, no mortal knows," he said, in a gayer tone ; 
and, getting up, he began to walk the floor. 

" Not while Mas'r is in trouble," said Tom. " I '11 stay with 
Mas'r as long as he wants me, so as I can be any use." 

" Not while I 'm in trouble, Tom 1 " said St. Clare, looking 
sadly out of the window. ..." And when will my trouble be 
over ? " 

" When Mas'r St. Clare's a Christian," said Tom. 

" And you really mean to stay by till that day ^omes? " said 
St. Clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid 
his hand on Tom's shoulder. " Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy ! 
I won't keep you till that day. Go home to your wife and 
children, and give, my love to all." 

" I 's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom, earnestly, 
and with tears in his eyes ; " the Lord has a work for Mas'r." 

"A work, hey?" said St. Clare ; "well, now, Tom, give me 
your views on what sort of a work it is ; let 's hear." 

" Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord ; 
and Mas'r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends, 
how much he might do for the Lord ! " 

" Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done 
for him," said St. Clare, smiling. 

" We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs," said 

"Good theology, Tom ; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare 
swear," said St. Clare. 

The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement 
of some visitors. 

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could 
feel anything ; and, as she was a woman that had a great fac- 
ulty of making everybody unhappy when she was, her imme- 
diate attendants had still stronger reason to regret the loss of 


their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle interces- 
sions had so often been a shield to them from the tyrannical 
and selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old Mammy, in par- 
ticular, whose heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, had 
consoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost heart- 
broken. She cried day and night, and was, from excess of sor- 
row, less skilful and alert in her ministrations on her mistress 
than usual, which drew down a constant storm of invectives on 
her defenceless head. 

Miss Ophelia felt the loss ; but, in her good and honest heart, 
it bore fruit unto everlasting life. She was more softened, more 1 
gentle ; and, though equally assiduous in every duty, it was 
with a chastened and quiet air, as one who communed with her 
own heart not in vain. She was more diligent in teaching 
Topsy, taught her mainly from the Bible, did not any 
longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an ill-repressed dis- 
gust, because she felt none. She viewed her now through the 
softened medium that Eva's hand had first held before her eyes, 
and saw in her only an immortal creature, whom God had sent 
to be led by her to glory and virtue. Topsy did not become 
at once a saint ; but the life and death of Eva did work a 
marked change in her. The callous indifference was gone ; there 
was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving for good, - 
a strife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed 

One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she 
came, hastily thrusting something into her bosom. 

" What are you doing there, you limb? You 've been steal- 
ing something, I '11 be bound," said the imperious little Eosa, 
who had been sent co call her, seizing her, at the same time, 
roughly by the arm. 

' You go 'long, Miss Rosa ! " said Topsy, pulling from her ; 
" 't an't none o' your business ! " 

" None o' your sa'ce ! " said Eosa. " I saw you hiding some- 
thing, I know yer tricks," and Eosa seized her arm, and tried 
to force her hand into her bosom, while Topsy, enraged, kicked 
and fought valiantly for what she considered her rights. The 
clamor and confusion of the battle drew Miss Ophelia and St. 
Clare both to the spot. 

"She 's been stealing ! " said Eosa. 

" I han't, neither ! " vociferated Topsy. sobbing with passion, 

" Give me that, whatever it is ! " said Miss Ophelia, firmly. 


Topsy hesitated ; but, on a second order, pulled out of her 
bosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her own old 

Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, which 
had ben given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse of 
scripture, arranged for every day in the year, and in a paper 
the curl of hair that she had given her on that memorable day 
when she had taken her last farewell. 

St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it ; the little 
book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from 
the funeral weeds. 

" What did you wrap this round the book for 1 " said St. 
Clare, holding up the crape. 

" 'Cause, - - 'cause, - - 'cause 't was Miss Eva. 0, don't take 
'em away, please ! " she said ; and, sitting flat down on the 
floor, and putting her apron over her head, she began to sob 

It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous, 
-the little old stocking, -- black crape, text-book, fair, 
soft curl, and Topsy's utter distress. 

St. Clare smiled ; but there were tears in his eyes, as he 
said, - 

" Come, come, don't cry ; you shall have them ! " and, 
putting them together, he threw them into her lap, and drew 
Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor. 

" I really think you can make something of that concern," 
he said, pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. 
" Any mind that is capable of a real sorrow is capable of good. 
You must try and do something with her." 

" The child has improved greatly," said Miss Ophelia. " I 
have great hopes of her ; but, Augustine," she said, laying her 
hand on his arm, " one thing I want to ask ; whose is this 
child to be 1 yours or mine ] " 

" Why, I gave her to you," said Augustine. 

" But not legally ; - - I want her to be mine legally," said 
Miss Ophelia. 

" Whew ! cousin," said Augustine. " What will the Aboli- 
tion Society think ] They '11 have a day of fasting appointed 
for this backsliding, if you become a slaveholder ! " 

" 0, nonsense ! I want her mine, that I may have a right 
to take her to the free states, and give her her liberty, that all 
I am trying to do be not undone." 


" 0, cousin, what an awful ' doing evil that good may come ' ! 
I can't encourage it." 

" I don't want you to joke, but to reason," said Miss Ophelia. 
" There is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian 
child, unless I save her from all the chances and reverses of 
slavery ; and, if you really are willing 1 should have her, 1 want 
you to give me a deed of gift, or some legal paper." 

"Well, well," said St. Clare, "I will"; and he sat down> 
and unfolded a newspaper to read. 

" But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia. 

"What's your hurry?" 

" Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing 
in," said Miss Ophelia. " Come, now, here 's paper, pen, and 
ink ; just write a paper." 

St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated 
the present tense of action, generally ; and, therefore, he was 
considerably annoyed by Miss Ophelia's downrightness. 

" Why, what 's the matter? " said he. " Can't you take my 
word ? One would think you had taken lessons of the Jews, 
coming at a fellow so ! " 

" 1 want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia. " You may 
die, or fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite of 
all I can do." 

" Keally, you are quite provident. Well, seeing I 'm in the 
hands of a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede " ; 
and St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was 
well versed in the forms of law, he could easily do, and signed 
his name to it in sprawling capitals, concluding by a tremendous 

" There, is n't that black and white, now, Miss Vermont 1 " 
he said, as he handed it to her. 

" Good boy," said Miss Ophelia, smiling. " But must it not 
be witnessed] " 

" O, bother! yes. Here/' he said, opening the door into 
Marie's apartment, " Marie, cousin wants your autograph ; just 
put your name down here." 

"What's this?" said Marie, as she ran over the paper. 
" Ridiculous ! I thought cousin was too pious for such horrid 
things," she added, as she carelessly wrote her name, "but, if 
she has a fancy for that article, I am sure she 's welcome." 

" There, now, she 's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare, 
handing the paper. 



" No more mine now than she was before," said Miss Ophelia. 
" Nobody but God has a right to give her to me j but I can 
protect her now." 

" Well, she's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. Clare 
as he turned back into the parlor, and sat down to his paper. 

Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company 

followed him into the parlor, having first carefully laid away 
the paper. 

" Augustine," she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting, "have 
you ever made any provision for your servants, in case of your 
death 1 " 

" No," said St. Clare, as he read on. 

" Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great 
cruelty, by and by." 

St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but he 
answered, negligently, - 

" Well, I mean to make a provision, by and by." 

" When t " said Miss Ophelia. 

" O, one of these days." 

" What if you should die first ? " 


" Cousin, what 's the matter ? " said St. Clare, laying down 
his paper and looking at her. " Do you think I show symptoms 
of yellow fever or cholera, that you are making post-mortem 
arrangements with such zeal ] " 

" ' In the midst of life we are in death,' " said Miss Ophe- 

St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly, 
walked to the door that stood open on the veranda, to pub an. 
end to a conversation that was not agreeable to him. Me- 
chanically, he repeated the last word again, "Death ! " and, 
as he leaned against the railings, and watched the sparkling 
water as it rose and fell in the fountain, and, as in a dim and 
dizzy haze, saw the flowers and trees and vases of the courts, he 
repeated again the mystic word so common in every mouth, 
yet of such fearful power, " DEATH ! " " Strange that there 
should be such a word," he said, " and such a thing, and we 
ever forget it ; that one should be living, warm and beautiful, 
full of hopes, desires, and wants, one day, and the next be 
gone, utterly gone, and forever ! " 

It was a warm, golden evening ; and, as he walked to the 
other end of the veranda, he saw Tom busily intent on his 
Bible, pointing, as he did so, with his finger to each successive 
word, and whispering them to himself with an earnest air. 

" Want me to read to you, Tom 1 " said St. Clare, seating 
himself carelessly by him. 

"If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, gratefully, " Mas'r makes it 
so much plainer." 

St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and began 
reading one of the passages which Torn had designated by the 
heavy marks around it. It ran as follows : 

' When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all his 
holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his 
glory : and before him shall be gathered all nations ; and he 
shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth 
his sheep from the goats." St. Clare read on in an animated 
voice, till he came to the last of the verses. 

" Then shall the king say unto them on his left hand, De- 
part from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire : for I was an 
hungered, and ye gave me no meat : I was thirsty, and ye gave 
me no drink : I was a stranger, and ye took me not in : naked, 
and ye clothed me not; : I was sick, and in prison, and ye 
visited me not. Then shall they answer unto Him, Lord, when 


eaw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, 
or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee 1 Then 
shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of 
the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me." 

St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read it 
twice, the second time slowly, and as if he were revolving 
the words in his mind. 

" Tom," he said, " these folks that get such hard measure 
seem to have been doing just what 1 have, living good, 
easy, respectable lives; and not troubling themselves to inquire 
how many of their brethren were hungry, or athirst, or sick, or 
in prison." 

Tom did not answer. 

St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the 
veranda, seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts ; 
so absorbed was he, that Tom had to remind him twice that 
the tea-bell had rung, before he could get his attention. 

St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time. After 
tea, he and Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the 
parlor, almost in silence. 

Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito 
curtain, and was soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently 
busied herself with her knitting. St. Clare sat down to the 
piano, and began playing a soft and melancholy movement 
with the J^olian accompaniment. He seemed in a deep rev- 
erie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music. After a 
little, he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music- 
book whose leaves were yellow with age, and began turning it 

" There," he said to Miss Ophelia, " this was one of my 
mother's books, and here is her handwriting, come and 
look at it. She copied and arranged this from Mozart's Re- 
quiem." Miss Ophelia came accordingly. 

" It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. 
" I think I can hear her now." 

He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that 
grand old Latin piece, the " Dies Irse." 

Tom, who was listening in the outer veranda, was drawn 
by the sound to the very door, where he stood earnestly. He 
did not understand the words, of course ; but the music and 
manner of singing appeared to affect him strongly, especially 
when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts. Tom would 


have sympathized more heartily, if he had known the meaning 
of the beautiful words : - 

" Recordare Jesu pie 
Quod sum causa tuse vise 
Ne me penlas. ilia die 
Quaarens me sedisti lassus 
Kedemisti cruceni passus 
Tantus labor nou sit cassus." 

St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the 
words ; for the shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and 
he seemed to hear his mother's voice leading his. Voice and 
instrument seemed both living, and threw out with vivid sym- 
pathy those strains which the ethereal Mozart first conceived 
as his own dying requiem. 

When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head 
upon his hand a few moments, and then began walking up 
and down the floor. 

" What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment ! " 
said he, "a righting of all the wrongs of ages ! a solving 
of all moral problems, by an unanswerable wisdom ! It is, 
indeed, a wonderful image." 

" It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia. 

" It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare, stopping, 
thoughtfully. " I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that 
chapter in Matthew that gives an account of it, and I have 
been quite struck with it. One should have expected some 
terrible enormities charged to those who are excluded from 
Heaven, as the reason ; but no, they are condemned for not 
doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm." 

"Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, "it is impossible for a per- 
son who does no good not to do harm." 

" And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but with 
deep feeling, " what shall be said of one whose own heart, 
whose education, and the wants of society have called in A'ain 
to some noble purpose ; who has floated on, a dreamy, neutral 

* These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated : 

" Think, Jesus, for what reason 
Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason, 
Nor me lose, in that dread season ; 
Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted, 
On the cross thy sou! death tasted, 
Let not all these toils be wasted." 


spectator of the struggles, agonies, and wrongs of man, when 
he should have been a worker '( " 

" I should say," said Miss Ophelia, " that he ought to repent, 
and begin now." 

" Always practical and to the point ! " said St. Clare, his 
face breaking out into a smile. " You never leave me any 
time for general reflections, cousin ; you always bring me 
short up against the actual present ; you have a kind of eter- 
nal now, always in your mind." 

" Now is all the time I have anything to do with," said Miss 

" Dear little Eva, poor child ! " said St. Clare, " she had 
set her little simple soul on a good work for me." 

It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever said 
as many words as these of her, and he spoke now evidently re- 
pressing very strong feeling. 

" My view of Christianity is such," he added, " that I think 
no man can consistently profess it without throwing the whole 
weight of his being against this monstrous system of injustice 
that lies at the foundation of all our society ; and, if need be, 
sacrificing himself in the battle. That is, I mean that / could 
not be a Christian otherwise, though I have certainly had in- 
tercourse with a great many enlightened and Christian people 
who did no such thing ; and I confess that the apathy of relig- 
ious people on this subject, their want of perception of wrongs 
that filled me with horror, have engendered in me more scepti- 
cism than any other thing." 

" If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, " why did n't 
you do it T' 

" 0, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which 
consists in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy 
for not being martyrs and confessors. One can see, you know, 
very easily, how others ought to be martyrs." 

"Well, are you going to do differently now 1 ?" said Miss 

" God only knows the future," said St. Clare. " I am braver 
than I was, because I have lost all ; and he who has nothing te 
lose can afford all risks." 

" And what are you going to do 1 " 

" My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it 
out," said St. Clare, " beginning with my own servants, for 
whom I have yet done nothing ; and, perhaps, at some future 


day, it may appear that I can do something for a whole class ; 
something to save my country from the disgrace of that false 
position in which she now stands before all civilized nations." 

" Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will volun- 
tarily emancipate 1 " said Miss Ophelia. 

" I don't know," said St. Clare. " This is a day of great 
deeds. Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and 
there, in the earth. The Hungarian nobles set free millions of 
serfs, at an immense pecuniary loss ; and, perhaps, among us 
may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate honor and 
justice by dollars and cents." 

" I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia. 

" But, suppose we should rise up to-morrow and emancipate, 
who would educate these millions, and teach them how to use 
their freedom 1 They never would rise to do much among us. 
The fact is, we are too lazy and unpractical, ourselves, ever to 
give them much of an idea of that industry and energy which 
is necessary to form them into men. They will have to go 
north, where labor is the fashion, the universal custom ; and 
tell me, now, is there enough Christian philanthropy, among 
your northern states, to bear with the process of their education 
and elevation '? You send thousands of dollars to foreign mis- 
sions ; but could you endure to have the heathen sent into 
your towns and villages, and give your time, and thoughts, and 
money, to raise them to the Christian standard? That's what 
I want to know. If we emancipate, are you willing to educate 1 
How many families, in your town, would take in a negro man 
and woman, teach them, bear with them, and seek to make them 
Christians ? How many merchants would take Adolph, if I 
wanted to make him a clerk ; or mechanics, if I wanted him 
taught a trade 1 If I wanted to put Jane and Eosa to a school, 
how many schools are there in the northern states that would 
take them in ? how many families that would board them 1 and 
yet they are as white as many a woman, north or south. You 
see, cousin, I want justice done us. We are in a bad position. 
We are the more obvious oppressors of the negro ; but the un- 
christian prejudice of the north is an oppressor almost equall} 


" Well, cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia, "1 
know it was so with me, till I saw that it was my duty to over- 
come it ; but, I trust I have overcome it ; and I know there 
are many good people at the north, who in this matter need 


only to be taught what their duty is, to do it. It would cer- 
tainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen among us, 
than to send missionaries to them ; but I think we would do 

" You would, I know," said St. Clare. "I'd like to see 
anything you would n't do, if you thought it your duty ! " 

" Well, I 'm not uncommonly good," said Miss Ophelia. 
" Others would, if they saw things as I do. I intend to take 
Topsy home, when I go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at 
first ; but I think they will be brought to see as I do. Be- 
sides, I know there are many people at the north who do ex- 
actly what you said." 

" Yes, but they are a minority ; and, if we should begin to 
emancipate to any extent, we should soon hear from you." 

Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some 
moments ; and St. Clare's countenance was overcast by a sad, 
dreamy expression. 

" I don't know what makes me think of my mother so much, 
to-night," he said. " I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she 
were near me. J keep thinking of things she used to say. 
Strange, what brings these past things so vividly back to us, 
sometimes ! " 

St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes 
more, and then said, 

' i believe I '11 go down street, a few moments, and hear the 
news, to-night." 

He took his hat, and passed out. 

Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and 
asked if he should attend him. 

" No, my boy," said St. Clare. " I shall be back in an hour." 
Tom sat down in the veranda. It was a beautiful moonlight 
evening, and he sat watching the rising and falling spray of the 
fountain, and listening to its murmur. Tom thought of his 
home, and that he should soon be a free man, and able to re- 
turn to it at will. He thought how he should work to buy his 
wife and boys. He felt the muscles of his brawny arms with 
a sort of joy, as he thought they would soon belong to himself, 
and how much they could do to work out the freedom of his 
family. Then he thought of his noble young master, and, ever 
second to that, came the habitual prayer that he had always 
offered for him ; and then his thoughts passed on to the beau- 
-iiul Eva. whom he now thought of among the angels : and he 



thought till he almost fancied that that bright face and golden 
hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of the fountain. 
And, so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her com- 
ing bounding towards him, just as she used to come, with a 
wreath of jessamine in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her 
eyes radiant with delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise 
from the ground ; her cheeks wore a paler hue, - - her eyes had 
a deep, divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her head, 
and she vanished from his sight; and Tom was awakened by 
a loud knocking, and a sound of many voices at the gate. 

He hastened to undo it ; and, with smothered voices and 
heavy tread, came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a 
cloak, and lying on a shutter. The light of the lamp fell full 
on the face ; and Tom gave a wild cry of amazement and de- 
spair, that rung through all the galleries, as the men advanced, 
with their burden, to the open parlor door, where Miss Ophelia 
still sat knitting. 

St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening 
paper. As he was reading, an affray arose between two gentle- 
men in the room, who were both partially intoxicated. St. 
Clare and one or two others made an effort to separate them, 
and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the side with a bowie- 
knife, which he was attempting to wrest from one of them. 

The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks and 
screams ; servants frantically tearing their hair, throwing them- 


selves on the ground, or running distractedly about, lamenting. 
Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed to have any presence of 
mind ; for Marie was in strong hysteric convulsions. At Miss 
Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges in the parlor was hastily 
prepared, and the bleeding form laid upon it. St. Clare had 
fainted, through pain anc 1 . loss of blood ; but, as Miss Ophelia 
applied restoratives, he revived, opened his eyes, looked fixedly 
on them, looked earnestly around the room, his eyes travelling 
wistfully over every object, and finally they rested on his moth- 
er's picture. 

The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It 
was evident, from the expression of his face, that there was 
no hope; but he applied himself 'to dressing the wound, and 
he and Miss Ophelia and Tom proceeded composedly with this 
work, amid the lamentations and sobs and cries of the affrighted 
servants, who had clustered about the doors and windows of 
the veranda. 

" Now," said the physician, " we must turn all these crea- 
tures out ; all depends on his being kept quiet." 

St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the dis- 
tressed beings, whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying 
to urge from the apartment. " Poor creatures ! " he said, and 
an expression of bitter self-reproach passed over his face. 
Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror had deprived him of 
all presence of mind ; he threw himself along on the floor, and 
nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest yielded to Miss 
Ophelia's urgent representations, that their master's safety de- 
pended on their stillness and obedience. 

St. Clare could say but little ; he lay with his eyes shut, 
but it was evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. Af- 
ter a while, he laid his hand on Tom's, who was kneeling be- 
side him, and said, " Tom ! poor fellow ! " 

" What, Mas'r 1 " said Tom, earnestly. 

" I am dying ! " said St. Clare, pressing his hand ; " pray ! " 

" If you would like a clergyman - " said the physician. 

St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, 
more earnestly, " Pray ! " 

And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the 
soul that was passing, the soul that seamed looking so 
steadily and mournfully from those large, melancholy blue eyes. 
It was literally prayer offered with strong crying and tears- 

When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took 



his hand, looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He 
closed his eyes, but still retained his hold ; for, in the gates of 
eternity, the black hand and the white hold each other with 
an equal clasp. He murmured softly to himself, at broken in- 

" Recordare Jesu pie 

* * * 

Ne me perdas ille die 
Quaerens me sedisti lassus. " 

It was evident that the words he had been singing that 
evening were passing through his mind, words of entreaty 
addressed to Infinite Pity. His lips moved at intervals, as 
parts of the hymn fell brokenly from them. 

" His mind is wandering," said the doctor. 

" No ! it is coming HOME, at last ! " said St: Clare, energeti- 
cally ; at last ! at last ! " 

The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking paleness 
of death fell on him ; but with it there fell, as if shed from 
the wings of some pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of 
peace, like that of a wearied child who sleeps. 

So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty 
hand was on him. Just before the spirit parted, he opened 
his eyes, with a sudden light, as of joy and recognition, and 
eaid " Mother !" and then he was gone ! 





IE hear often of the distress of the negro servants, 
on the loss of a kind master ; and with good 
reason, for no creature on God's earth is left 
more utterly unprotected and desolate than the 
slave in these circumstances. 
The child who has lost a father has still the protection of 
friends, and of the law ; he is something, and can do some- 
thing, - - has acknowledged rights and position ; the slave has 
none. The law regards him, in every respect, as devoid of 
rights as a hale of merchandise. The only possible acknowl- 
edgment of any of the longings and wants of a human and 
immortal creature, which are given to him, comes to him 
through the sovereign and irresponsible will of his master ; 
and when that master is stricken down, nothing remains. 

The number of those men who know how to use wholly irre- 
sponsible power humanely and generously is small. Every- 
body knows this, and the slave knows it best of all ; so that 
he feels that there are ten chances of his finding an abusive 
and tyrannical master, to one of his finding a considerate and 
kind one. Therefore is it that the wail over a kind master is 
loud and long, as well it may be. 

When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation 
took hold of all his household. He had been stricken down so 
in a moment, in the flower and strength of his youth ! Every 
room and gallery of the house resounded with sobs and shrieks 
of despair. 

Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a con- 
stant course of self-indulgence, had nothing to support the 
terror of the shock, and, at the time her husband breathed his 
last, was passing from one fainting fit to another;, and he to 
whom she had been joined in the mysterious tie of marriage 
passed from her forever, without the possibility of even a part- 
ing word. 


Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control^ 
had remained with her kinsman to the last, all eye, all ear, 
all attention ; doing everything of the little that could be done, 
and joining with her whole soul in the tender and impassioned 
prayers which the poor slave had poured forth for the soul of 
his dying master. 

When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found 
upon his bosom a small, plain miniature-case, opening with a 
spring. It was the miniature of a noble and beautiful female 
face ; and on the reverse, under a crystal, a lock of dark hair. 
They laid them back on the lifeless breast, dust to dust, 
poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once made that 
cold heart beat so warmly ! 

Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity ; and 
while he ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once 
think that the sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. 
He felt at peace about his master ; for in that hour, when ho 
had poured forth his prayer into the bosom of his Father, he 
had found an answer of quietness and assurance springing up 
within himself. In the depths of his own affectionate nature, 
he felt able to perceive something of the fulness of Divine 
love ; for an old oracle hath thus written, " He that dwell- 
eth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him." Tom hoped 
and trusted, and was at peace. 

But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape, 
and prayers, and solemn faces ; and back rolled the cool, 
muddy waves of every-day life ; and up came the everlasting 
hard inquiry of " What is to be done next 1 " 

It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning- 
robes, and surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a 
great easy-chair, and inspected samples of crape and bomba- 
zine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who began to turn her thoughts 
towards her northern home. It rose, in silent terrors, to the 
minds of the servants, who well knew the unfeeling, tyranni- 
cal character of the mistress in whose hands they were left 
All knew, very well, that the indulgences which had been ac- 
corded to them were not from their mistress, but from their 
master ; and that, now he was gone, there would be no screen 
between them and every tyrannous infliction which a temper 
soured by affliction might devise. 

It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophelia, 
busied one day in her. apartment, heard a gentle tap at the 

376 UNCLE TOM'S CAiilN ; OR, 

door. She opened it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty young 
quadroon, whom we have before often noticed, her hair in dis- 
order, and her eyes swelled with crying. 

" O, Miss Feely," she said, falling on her knees, and catch- 
ing the skirt of her dress, " do, do go to Miss Marie for me ! 
do plead for me ! She 's goin' to send me out to be whipped, 
look there ! " And she handed to Miss Ophelia a paper. 

It was an order, written in Marie's delicate Italian hand, to 
the master of a whipping establishment, to give the bearer fif- 
teen lashes. 

" What have you been doing ! " said Miss Ophelia. 

" You know, Miss Feely, 1 've got such a bad temper ; it 's 
very bad of me. I was trying on Miss Marie's dress, and she 
slapped my face ; and I spoke out before 1 thought, and was 
saucy, and she said that she 'd bring me clown, and have me 
know, once for all, that I was n't going to be so topping as I 
had been ; and she wrote this, and says I shall carry it. I 'd 
rather she, 'd kill me, right out." 

Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her hand. 

" You see, Miss Feely," said Rosa, " I don't mind the whip- 
ping so much, if Miss Marie or you was to do it ; but, to be 
sent to a man ! and such a horrid man, the shame of it, 
Miss Feely ! " 

Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom to 
send women and young girls to whipping-houses, to the hands 
of the lowest of men, men vile enough to make this their 
profession, there to be subjected to brutal exposure and 
shameful correction. She had known it before; but hitherto 
she had never realized it, till she saw the slender form of 
Rosa almost convulsed with distress. All the honest blood 
of womanhood, the strong New England blood of liberty, 
flushed to her cheeks, and throbbed bitterly in her indignant 
heart ; but, with habitual prudence and self-control, she mas' 
tered herself, and, crushing the paper firmly in her hand, she 
merely said to Rosa, 

" Sit clown, child, while I go to your mistress." 

" Shameful ! monstrous ! outrageous ! " she said to herself, 
as she was crossing the parlor. 

She found Marie sitting up in her easy-chair, with Mammy 
standing by her, combing her hair ; Jane sat on the ground 
before her, busy in chafing her feet. 

" How do you find yourself, to-day I " said Miss Ophelia. 


A deep sigh, and a closing of the eyes, was the only reply, 
for a moment ; and then Marie answered : " U, I don't know, 
cousin ; I suppose I 'm as well as I ever shall be ! " and Marie 
wiped her eyes with a cambric handkerchief, bordered with an 
inch deep of black. 

" I came," said Miss Ophelia, vrith a short, dry congh, suclf 
as commonly introduces a difficult subject, "I came to speak 
with you about poor Rosa." 

Marie's eyes were open wide enough now, and a flush rose to 
her sallow cheeks, as she answered, sharply, 

"Well, what about her?" 

" She is very sorry for her fault." 

"She is, is she? She'll be sorrier, before I 've done with 
her ! I 've endured that child's impudence long enough ; and 
now I '11 bring her down, I '11 make her lie in the 

" But could not you punish her some other way, some 
way that would be less shameful 1 " 

" I mean to shame her ; th:it 's just what I want. She has 
all her life presumed on her delicacy, and her good looks, and 
her lady-like airs, till she forgets who she is ; and I '11 give 
her one lesson that will bring her down, I fancy ! " 

" But, cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy- and a 
sense of shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast." 

" Delicacy ! " said Marie, with a scornful laugh, " a fine 
word for such as she ! I '11 teach her, with all her airs, that 
she 's no better than the raggedest black wench that walks the 
streets ! She '11 take no more airs with me ! " 

" You will answer to God for such cruelty ! " said Miss 
Ophelia, with energy. 

" Cruelty, I 'd like to know what the cruelty is ! I wrote 
orders for only fifteen lashes, and told him to put them on 
lightly. I 'm sure, there 's no cruelty there ! " 

" No cruelty ! " said Miss Ophelia. " I 'm sure any girl 
might rather be killed outright ! " 

" It might seem so to anybody with your feeling ; but aH 
these creatures get used to it ; it 's the only way they can be 
kept in order. Once let them feel that they are to take any 
airs about delicacy, and all that, and they '11 run all over you, 
just as my servants always have. I 've begun now to bring 
them under ; and I '11 have them all to know that I '11 send 
one out to be whipped, as soon as another, if they don't mind 
themselves !." said Marie, looking around her decidedly 


Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if it 
was particularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a moment, 
as if she had swallowed some explosive mixture, and were ready 
to burst. Then, recollecting the utter uselessness of contention 
with such a nature, she shut her lips resolutely, gathered her- 
self up, and walked out of the room. 

It was hard to go back and tell Rosa that she could do noth- 
ing for her ; and, shortly after, one of the man-servants came to 
say that her mistress had ordered him to take Rosa with him to 
the whipping-house, whither she was hurried, in spite of her 
tears and entreaties. 

A few days after, Tom was standing musing by the balconies, 
when he was joined by Adolph, who, since the death of his 
master, had been entirely crestfallen and disconsolate. Adolph 
knew that he had always been an object of dislike to Marie ; 
but while his master lived he had paid but little attention to 
it. Now that he was gone, he had moved about in daily dread 
and trembling, not knowing what might befall him next. Marie 
had held several consultations with her lawyer ; after commu- 
nicating with St. Clare's brother, it was determined to sell the 
place, and all the servants, except her own personal property, 
and these she intended to take with her, and go back to her 
father's plantation. 

" Do ye know, Tom, that we 've all got to be sold ? *' said 

" How did you hear that '< " said Tom. 

" I hid myself behind the curtains when Missis was talking 
with the lawyer. In a few days we shall all be sent off to 
auction, Tom." 

" The Lord's will be done ! " said Tom, folding his arms and 
sighing heavily. 

" We '11 never get another such a master," said Adolph, ap- 
prehensively ; " but I 'd rather be sold than take my chance 
under Missis." 

Tom turned away ; his heart was full. The hope of liberty, 
the thought of distant wife and children, rose up before his 
patient soul, as to the mariner shipwrecked almost in port rises 
the vision of the church-spire and loving roofs of his native 
village, seen over the top of some black wave only for one last 
farewell. He drew his arms tightly over his bosom, and choked 
back the bitter tears, and tried to pray. The poor old soul had 
such a singular, unaccountable prejudice in favor of liberty, that it 


was a hard wrench for him ; and the more he said, " Thy will 
be done," the worse he felt. 

He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva's death, had 
treated him with marked and respectful kindness. 

" Miss Feely," he said " Mas'r St. Clare promised me my 
freedom. He told me that he had begun to take it out for me ; 
and now, perhaps, if Miss Feely would be good enough to speak 
about it to Missis, she would feel like goiii' on with it, as it was 
Mas'r St. Clare's wish." 

" I '11 speak for you, Tom, and do my best," said Miss Ophelia ; 
"but, if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can't hope much for 
you ; nevertheless, I will try." 

This incident occurred a few days after that of Eosa, while 
Miss Ophelia was busied in preparations to return north. 

Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that per- 
haps she had shown too hasty a warmth of language in her 
former interview with Marie ; and she resolved that she would 
now endeavor to moderate her zeal, and to be as conciliatory as 
possible. So the good soul gathered herself up, and, taking her 
knitting, resolved to go into Marie's room, be as agreeable as 
possible, and negotiate Tom's case with all the diplomatic skill 
of which she was mistress. 

She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, support- 
ing herself on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been 
out shopping, was displaying before her certain samples of thin 
black stuffs. 

" That will do," said Marie, selecting one ; " only I 'm not 
sure about its being properly mourning." 

" Laws, Missis," said Jane, volubly, " Mrs. General Derben- 
non wore just this very thing, after the General died, last sum- 
mer ; it makes up lovely ! " 

" What do you think?" said Marie to Miss Ophelia. 

" It 's a matter of custom, I suppose," said Miss Ophelia. 
"You can judge about it better than I." 

" The fact is," said Marie, " that I have n't a dress in the 
world that I can wear ; and, as I am going to break up the 
establishment, and go off, next week, I must decide upon some- 

" Are you going so soon 1 " 

" Yes. St. Clare's brother has written, and he and the law- 
yer think that the servants and furniture had better be put up 
at auction, and the place left with our lawyer." 


" There 's one thing I wanted to speak with you about," said 
Miss Ophelia. "Augustine promised Toin his liberty, and be- 
gan the legal forms necessary to it. I hope you will use your 
influence to have it perfected." 

"Indeed, I shall do no such thing!" said Marie, sharply. 
" Tom is one of the most valuable servants on the place, it, 
could n't be afforded, any way. Besides, what does he want of 
liberty ] He 's a great deal better off as he is." 

" But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his master prom- 
ised it," said Miss Ophelia. 

" I dare say he does want it," said Marie ; " they all want 
it, just because they are a discontented set, always wanting 
what they have n't got. Now, I 'm principled against eman- 
cipating, in any case. Keep a negro under the care of a mas- 
ter, and he does Avell enough, and is respectable ; but set them 
free, and they get lazy, and won't work, and take to drinking, 
and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows. I 've seen it 
tried, hundreds of times. It 's no favor to set them free." 

"But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious." 

" 0, you need n't tell me ! I 've seen a hundred like him. 
He '11 do very well, as long as he 's taken care of, that 's all." 

" But, then, consider," said Miss Ophelia, " when you set him 
up for sale, the chances of his getting a bad master." 

" 0, that 's all humbug ! " said Marie ; " it is n't one time in 
a hundred that a good fellow gets a bad master ; most masters 
are good, for all the talk that is made. I 've lived and grown 
up here, in the south, and I never yet was acquainted with a 
master that did n't treat his servants well, quite as well as is 
worth while. I don't feel any fears on that head." 

" Well," said Miss Ophelia, energetically, " I know it was 
one of the last wishes of your husband that Tom should have 
his liberty ; it was one of the promises that he made to dear 
little Eva on her death-bed, and I should not think you would 
feel at liberty to disregard it." 

Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this 
appeal, and began sobbing and using her smelling-bottle, with 
great vehemence. 

" Everybody goes against me ! " she said. " Everybody is 
so inconsiderate ! I should n't have expected that you would 
oring up all these remembrances of my troubles to me, it 's 
so inconsiderate ! But nobody ever does consider, my trials 
are so peculiar ! It 's so hard, that when I had only one 



daughter, she should have been taken ! and when I had a 
husband that just exactly suited me, and I 'm so hard to be 
suited ! ~ - he should be taken ! And you seem to have so little 
feeling for me, and keep bringing it up to me so carelessly, 
when you know how it overcomes me ! I suppose you mean 
well; but it is very inconsiderate, --very !" Arid Marie 
sobbed, and gasped for breath, and called Mammy to open the 
window, and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and to bathe her 
Lead, and unhook her dress. And, in the general confusion 
tiiat ensued, Miss Ophelia made her escape to her apartment- 

She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say anything 
more; for Marie had an -indefinite capacity for hysteric fits, 
and, after this, whenever her husband's or Eva's wishes with 
regard to the servants were alluded to, she always found it 
convenient to set one in operation. Miss Ophelia, therefore, 
did the next best thing she could for Tom, she wrote a letter 
to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging them 
to send to his relief. 

The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen other 
servants, were marched down to a slave warehouse, to await the 
convenience of the trader, who was going to make up a lot foi 





SLAVE warehouse ! Perhaps some of my readers 
conjure up horrible visions of such a place. They 
fancy some foul, obscure den, some horrible Tar- 
tarus " informis, ingens, cui lumen ademptum. 1 
But no, innocent friend ; in these days men have 
learned the art of sinning expertly and genteelly, so as not to 
shock the eyes and senses of respectable society. Human 
property is high in the market ; and is, therefore, well fed, 
well cleaned, tended, and looked after, that it may come to sale 
sleek, and strong, and shining. A slave warehouse in New 
Orleans is a house externally not much unlike many others, 
kept with neatness ; and where every day you may see arranged, 
under a sort of shed along the outside, rows of men and women, 
who stand there as a sign of the property sold within. 

Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and examine, 
and shall find an abundance of husbands, wives, brothers, sis- 
ters, fathers, mothers, and young children, to be "sold sep- 
arately, or in lots to suit the convenience of the purchaser " ; 
and that soul immortal, once bought with blood and anguish 
by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the rocks rent, 
and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased, mortgaged, 
exchanged for groceries or dry goods, to suit the phases of trade, 
or the fancy of the purchaser. 

It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie 
and Miss Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about half a dozen 
others of the St. Clare estate, were turned over to the loving 

kindness of Mr. Skeggs, the keeper of a depot on street, 

to await the auction next day. 

Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, as 
had most others of them. They were ushered, for the night, 
into a long room, where many other men, of all ages, sizes, and 
shades of complexion, were assembled, and from which roars o 4 . 
laughter and unthinking merriment were proceeding. 


" Ah, ha ! that 's right. Go it, boys, go it ! " said Mr. 
Skeggs, the keeper. " My people are always so merry ! Sam- 
bo, I see ! " he said, speaking approvingly to a burly negro who 
was performing tricks of low buffoonery, which occasioned the 
shouts which Tom had heard. 

As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join these 
proceedings ; and, therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible 
from the noisy group, he sat down on it, and leaned his face 
against the wall. 

The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and syste- 
matic efforts to promote noisy mirth among them, as a means 
of drowning reflection, and rendering them insensible to their 
condition. The whole object of the training to which the 
negro is put, from the time he is sold in the northern market 
till he arrives south, is systematically directed towards making 
him callous, unthinking, and brutal. The slave- dealer collects 
his gang in Virginia or Kentucky, and drives them to some 
convenient, healthy place, often a watering-place, to be 
fattened. Here they are fed full daily; and, because some 
incline to pine, a fiddle is kept commonly going among them, 
and they are made to dance daily ; and he who refuses to be 
merry in whose soul thoughts of wife, or child, or home, are 
too strong for him to be gay-- is marked as sullen and danger- 
ous, and subjected to all the evils which the ill-will of an 
utterly irresponsible and hardened man can inflict upon him. 
Briskness, alertness, and cheerfulness of appearance, especially 
before observers, are constantly enforced upon them, both by 
the hope of thereby getting a good master, and the fear of all 
that the driver may bring upon them, if they prove un- 

" What dat ar nigger doin' here 1 " said Sambo, coming up 
to Tom, after Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was a full 
black, of great size, very lively, voluble, and full of trick and 

" What you doin' here ? " said Sambo, coming up to Tom, 
and poking him facetiously in the side. " Meditatin', eh?" 

" I am to be sold at the auction, to-morrow ! " said Tom, 

" Sold at auction, haw ! haw ! boys, an't this yer fun ? I 
wish 't I was gwine that ar way ! tell ye, would n't I make 
'em laugh ] But how is it, dis yer whole lot gwine to-mor- 
row 1 " said Sambo, laying his hand freely on Adolph's shoulder. 



" Please to let me alone ! " said Adolph, fiercely, straighten- 
ing himself up, with extreme disgust. 

"Law, now, boys! dis yer 's one o' yer white niggers, 
kind o' cream-color, ye know, scented ! " said he, coming up to 


Adolph and snuffing. " O, Lor ! he 'd do for a tobaccer-shop , 
they could keep him to scent snuff ! Lor, he 'd keep a whole 
shop agwine, - - he would ! " 

" I say, keep off, can't you 1 " said Adolph, enraged. 

" Lor, now, how touchy we is, we white niggers ! Look 
at us, now ! " and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of Adolph's 
manner; "here's de airs and graces. We's been in a good 
family, I specs." 

" Yes," said Adolph ; " I had a master that could have bought 
you all for old truck ! " 

" Laws, now, only think," said Sambo, " the gentlemens that 
we is ! " 

" I belonged to the St. Clare family," said Adolph, proudly. 

" Lor, you did ! Be hanged if they ar' n't lucky to get shet 
of ye. Spects they 's gwine to trade ye off with a lot o' cracked 
teapots and sich like ! " said Sambo, with a provoking grin. 

Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adver- 
sary, swearing and striking on every side of him. The rest 
laughed and shouted, and the uproar brought the keeper to the 

"What now, boys? Order, order!" he said, coming in 
and flourishing a large whip. 


All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who, presum- 
ing on the favor which the keeper had to him as a licensed 
wag, stood his ground, ducking his head with a facetious grin, 
whenever the master made a dive at him. 

" Lor, Mas'r, 't an't us, we 's reg'lar stiddy, it 's these yer 
new hands ; they 's real aggravating kinder pickin' at us, all 
time ! " 

The keeper, at this, turned upon Tom and Adolph, and dis- 
tributing a few kicks and cuffs without much inquiry, and 
leaving general orders for all to be good boys and go to sleep, 
left the apartment. 

While this scene was going on in the men's sleeping-room, 
the reader may be curious to take a peep at the corresponding 
apartment allotted to the women. Stretched out in various 
attitudes over the floor, he may see numberless sleeping forms 
of every shade of complexion, from the purest ebony to white, 
and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying now asleep. 
Here is a fine bright girl, of ten years, whose mother was sold 
out yesterday, and who to-night cried herself to sleep when 
nobody was looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose 
thin arms and callous fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be 
sold to morrow, as a cast-off article, for what can be got for 
her ; and some forty or hfty others, with heads variously 
enveloped in blankets or articles of clothing, lie stretched 
around them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from the rest, are 
two females of a more interesting appearance than common. 
One of these is a respectably dressed mulatto woman between 
forty and fifty, with soft eyes and a gentle and pleasing physi- 
ognomy. She has on her head a high-raised turban, made of a 
gay red Madras handkerchief, of the first quality, and her dress 
is neatly fitted, and of good material, showing that she has 
been provided for with a careful hand. By her side, and 
nestling closely to her, is a young girl of fifteen, her 
daughter. She is a quadroon, as may be seen from her fairer 
complexion, though her likeness to her mother is quite dis- 
cernible. She has the same soft, dark eye, with longer lashes, 
and her curling hair is of a luxuriant brown. She also is 
dressed with great neatness, and her white, delicate hands betray 
very little acquaintance with servile toil. These two are to be 
sold to-morrow, in the same lot with the St. Clare servants ; 
and the gentleman to whom they belong, and to whom the 
money for their sale is to be transmitted, is a member of a 


Christian church in New York, who will receive the money, 
and go thereafter to the sacrament of his Lord and theirs, and 
think no more of it. 

These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had 
been the personal attendants of an amiable and pious lady of 
New Orleans, by whom they had been carefully and piously 
instructed and trained. They had been taught to read and 
write, diligently instructed in the truths of religion, and their 
lot had been as happy an one as in their condition it was pos- 
sible to be. But the only son of their protectress had the 
management of her property ; and, by carelessness and extrav- 
agance, involved it to a large amount, and at last failed. One 
of the largest creditors was the respectable firm of B. & Co., in 
New York. B. & Co. wrote to their lawyer in New Orleans, 
who attached the real estate (these two articles and a lot of 
plantation hands formed the most valuable part of it), and 
wrote word to that effect to New York. Brother B., being, as 
we have said, a Christian man, and a resident in a free state, 
felt some uneasiness on the subject. He did n't like trading 
in slaves and souls of men, of course, he didn't ; but, then, 
there were thirty thousand dollars in the case, and that was 
rather too much money to be lost for a principle ; and so, after 
much considering, and asking advice from those that he knew 
would advise to suit him, Brother B. wrote to his lawyer to 
dispose of the business in the way that seemed to him the 
most suitable, and remit the proceeds. 

The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan and 
Emmeline were attached, and sent to the depot to await a gen 
eral auction on the following morning ; and as they glimmer 
faintly upon us in the moonlight which steals through the 
grated window, we may listen to their conversation. Both are 
weeping, but each quietly, that the other may not hear. 

" Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you can't 
sleep a little," says the girl, trying to appear calm. 

" I have n't any heart to sleep, Em ; I can't ; it 's the last, 
night we may be together ! " 

" 0, mother, don't say so ! perhaps we shall get sold to- 
gether, who knows 1 " 

" If 't was anybody's else case, I should say so, too, Em," 
said the woman ; " but I 'm so 'feard of losin' you that I don't 
see anything but the danger." 

" Why, mother, the man said we were both likely, and 
would sell well" 



Susan remembered the man's looks and words. With a 
deadly sickness at her heart, she remembered how he had 
looked at Emmeline's hands, and lifted up her curly hair, and 
pronounced her a fir^t-rate article. Susan had been trained as 
a Christian, brought up in the daily reading of the Bible, and 
had the same horror of her child's being sold to a life of shame 
that any other Christian mother might have ; but she had no 
hope, no protection. 

" Mother, I think we might do first-rate, if you could get a 
place as cook, and I as chambermaid or seamstress, in some 
family. I dare say we shall. Let 's both look as bright and 
lively as we can, and tell all we can do, and perhaps we shall," 
said Emmeline. 

" I want you to brush your hair all back straight, to-mor- 
row," said Susan. 

'What for, mother? I don't look near so well, that way." 

"Yes, but you '11 sell better so." 

" I don't see why ! " said the child. 

" Respectable families would be more apt to buy you, if they 
saw you looked plain and decent, as if you was n't trying to 
look handsome. I know their ways better 'n you do," said 

" Well, mother, then I will." 

" And, Emmeline, if we should n't ever see each other again, 
after to-morrow, if I 'm sold way up on a plantation some- 
where, and you somewhere else, always remember how you 
've been brought up, anil all Missis has told you ; take your 
Bible with you, and your hymn-book ; and if you're faithful 
to the Lord, he '11 be faithful to you." 

So speaks the poor soul, in sore discouragement; for she knows 
that to-morrow any man, however vile and brutal, however god- 
less and merciless, if he only has money to pay for her, may 
become owner of her daughter, body and soul ; and then, how 
is the child to be faithful 1 She thinks of all this, as she holds 
her daughter in her arms, and wishes that she were not hand- 
some and attractive. It seems almost an aggravation to her to 
remember how purely and piously, how much above the ordi- 
nary lot, she has been brought up. But she has no resort but 
to pray ; and many such prayers to God have gone up from 
those same trim, neatly arranged, respectable slave-prisons, 
prayers which God has not forgotten, as a coming day shall 
show ; for it is written, " Whoso causeth one of these little ones 


to offend, it were better for him that a mill-stone were hanged 
about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the 


The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly, marking 
the bars of the grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping forms. 
The mother and daughter are singing together a wild and mel- 
ancholy dirge, common as a funeral hymn among the slaves : 

" 0, where is weeping Mary ? 
0, where is weeping Mary ! 

'Rived in the goodly land. 
She is dead and gone to Heaven ; 
She is dead and gone to Heaven ; 

'Rived in the goodly land." 

These words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholy 
sweetness, in an air which seemed like the sighing of earthly 
despair after heavenly hope, floated through the dark prison- 
rooms with a pathetic cadence, as verse after verse was breathed 

" 0, where are Paul and Silas ? 
0, where are Paul and Silas ? 
Gone to the goodly land. 
They are dead and gone to Heaven ; 
They are dead and gone to Heaven ; 
'Rived in the goodly land." 

Sing on, poor souls ! The night is short, and the morning 
will part you forever ! 

But now it is morning, and everybody is astir ; and the 
worthy Mr. Skeggs is busy and bright, for a lot of goods is to 
be fitted out for auction. There is a brisk lookout on the 
toilet ; injunctions passed around to every one to put on their 
best face and be spry ; and now all are arranged in a circle for 
a last review, before they are marched up to the Bourse. 

Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on and his cigar in his mouth, 
walks around to put farewell touches on his wares. 

" How 's this ? " he said, stepping in front of Susan and 
Emmeline. "Where's your curls, gal?" 

The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the smooth 
adroitness common among her class, answers, 

" I was telling her, last night, to put up her hair smooth and 
neat, and not havin' it flying about in curls ; looks more re- 
spectable so." 

" Bother ! " said the man, peremptorily, turning to the girl ; 
'' you go right along, and curl yourself real smart ! " He added, 



giving a crack to a rattan he held in his hand, " And be back 
in quick time, too ! " 

" You go and help her," he added, to the mother. ' Them 
curls may make a hundred dollars dill'erence in the sale of her." 

* * * * * 

Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving to 
and fro, over the marble pave. On every side uf the circular 
aroii were little tribunes, or stations, for the use of speakers and 
auctioneers. Two of these, on opposite sides of the area, were 
now occupied by brilliant and talented gentlemen, enthusiast! 
cally forcing up, in English and French commingled, the bid* 
of connoisseurs in their various wares. A third one, on tho 

other side, still unoccupied, was surrounded by a group, waiting 
the moment of sale to begin. And here we may recognize the 
St. Clare servants, - - Tom, Adolph, and others ; and there, too, 
Susan and Emmeline, awaiting their turn with anxious and de- 
jected faces. Various spectators, intending to purchase, or not 
intending, as the case might be, gathered around the group, 
handling, examining, and commenting on their various points 
and faces with the same freedom that a set of jockeys discuss* 
the merits of a horse. 

" Hulloa, Alf ! what brings you here 1 " said a young exqui- 
site, slapping the shoulder of a sprucely dressed young man 
who was examining Adolph through an eye-glass. 


" Well, I was wt: . ind I beard that 

lot wa- _-.-._ I thought I 'd just look at his " 

: Si -'-- peopl 3 oflt 
Impudent as the devil ! " said the other. 
ar that I " said the first. " If I get 'em, I '11 soon 
have their airs out of them; they'll goon find that the 
another kind of r. deal with tl. in W 51 .are. 

rd, I '11 buy that fellow. I like the shape of him." 
'11 find it '11 take all you 've got to keep him He 's 


but my lord will find that he cant be extravagant 
with IM. Just let him be sent to the calaboose a few times, 
and thoroughly dressed down '. I '11 tell you if it don't bring 
him to , .>f his way- 1 : 11 reform him, up hill and 

down. -. ,u '11 see. I buy him, that 'a flat '. " 

. :n had been standing wistfully examining the multitude 
of faces thronging around him, for one whom he would wish to 
call mar.^:. And if you should ever be under the necefc- 
sir, of selecting, out of two hundred men, one who wa. 
some your absolute owner and disposer, you would, perhaps, 
realize, just as Tom did, how few there were that you would 
feel at all comfortable in being made over to. Tom saw abun- 
dance of men, szreat. burly, gruff men : little, chirping, dried 
men; lon^'-favored, lank, hard men; anc variet 

stubbed-looking, commonplace - ~bo pick up their fellow- 
men a= one picks up chips, putting them into the fire or a b> 
with equal unconcern, according to their convenience : but he 
saw no .St. Cl : 

A little before the sale commer -liort, Tjroad, muscular 

man. in a checked shirt considerably open at the 1 "i, and 
pantaloon? much the worse for dirt and wear, elbowed his way 
through the crowd, like one who is going actively intn a bnsi 
ness: and. coming up to the group, began to examine them 
mati'-ally. From the moment that Tom saw him apivmar-h- 

. he felt an immediate and revolting horror at him, that in- 
creased as he came near. He was evidently, t: g - - 
. . /th. His round, bullet head, 1 - a .ht-^rray 
eyes, with their s: . ~ebrows, and stiff, wirv, sun- 
hiurn' i d hair, were rather unpreposHegsing items, it is to be 
fessed : bis large, coarse month was distended with tobacco, the 
juice of which, from time to time, he ejected from him with 
great decision and explosive force : his hands were immer. 



large, hairy, sunburned, freckled, and very dirty, and garnished 
with long nails, in a very foul condition. This man proceeded 
to a very free personal examination of the lot. He seized Tom 
by the jaw, and pulled open his mouth to inspect his teeth ; 
made him strip up his sleeve, to show his muscle ; turned him 
round, made him jump and spring, to show his paces. 

" Where was you raised? 1 ' he added, briefly, to these inves 


"In Kintuck, Mas'r," said Tom, looking about, as if for 

" What have you done ? " 

" Had care of Mas'r's farm," said Tom. 

"Likely story!" said the other, shortly, as he passed on. 
He paused a moment before Dolph ; then spitting a discharge 
of tobacco-juice on his well-blacked boots, and giving a con- 
temptuous umph, he walked on. Again he stopped before Susan 
and Emmeline. He put out his heavy, dirty hand, and drew 
the girl towards him ; passed it over her neck and bust, felt her 
arms, looked at her teeth, and then pushed her back against 
her mother, whose patient face showed the suffering she had 
been going through at every motion of the hideous stranger. 

The girl was frightened, and began to cry. 

" Stop that, you minx ! " said the salesman ; " no whimper- 
ing here, the sale is going to begin." And accordingly the 
sale began. 

Adolph was knocked off, at a good sum, to the young gentle- 
man who had previously stated his intention of buying him ; 
and the other servants of the St. Clare lot went to various 

" Now, up with you, boy ! d' ye hear ? " said the auctioneer 
to Tom. 

Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks round ; 
all seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise, the clatter 
of the salesman crying off his qualifications in French and Eng- 
lish, the quick fire of French and English bids ; and almost in a 
moment came the final thump of the hammer, and the clear 
ring on the last syllable of the word " dollars" as the auction- 
eer announced his price, and Tom was made over. He had a 

He was pushed from the block ; the short, bullet-headed 
man, seizing him roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one 
side, saying, in a harsh voice, " Stand there, you! " 

Tom hardly realized anything ; but still the bidding went 
on, rattling, clattering, now French, now English. Down 
goes the hammer again, Susan is sold ! She goes down from 
the block, stops, looks wistfully back, her daughter stretches 
her hands towards her. She looks with agony in the face of 
the man who has bought her, a respectable, middle-aged 
man, of benevolent countenance. 

" 0, Mas'r, please do buy my daughter ! " 



" I 'd like to, but I 'm afraid I can't afford it ! " said the 
gentleman, looking, with painful interest, as the young girJ 
mounted the block, and looked around her with a frightened 

and timid glance. 

The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colorless cheek, 
her eye has a feverish fire, and her mother groans to see that 
she looks more beautiful than she ever saw her before. The 
auctioneer sees his advantage, and expatiates volubly in mingled 
French and English, and bids rise in rapid succession. 

" I '11 do anything in reason," said the benevolent-looking 
gentleman, pressing in and joining with the bids. In a few 
moments they have run beyond his purse. He is silent ; the 
auctioneer grows warmer ; but bids gradually drop off. It lies 
now between an aristocratic old citizen and our bullet-headed 
acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few turns, contemptuously 
measuring his opponent ; but the bullet-head has the advantage 
over him, both in obstinacy and concealed length of purse, and 
the controversy lasts but a moment ; the hammer falls, he 
has got the girl, body and soul, unless God help her. 


ELr master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation on 
the lied river. She is pushed along into the same lot with 
Tom and two other men, and goes oti', weeping as she goes. 

The henevolent gentleman is sorry; but, then, the thing 
happens every day ! One sees girls and mothers crying, at 
these sales, always ! it can't be helped, &c. ; and he walks oil', 
with his acquisition, in another direction. 

Two days after, the lawyer of the Christian firm of B. & Co., 
Kew York, sent on their money to them. On the reverse of 
ihat draft, so obtained, let them write these words of the great 
Paymaster, to whom they shall make up their account in a 
future day : " Wlien he maketh inquisition for blood, heforgetteth 
not the cry of the humble ! " 




" Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look upors 
iniquity : wherefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and 
boldest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is more right- 
eous than he ? " Hab. i. 13. 

the lower part of a small, mean boat, on the Red 
river, Tom sat, chains on his wrists, chains on 
his feet, and a weight heavier than chains lay on 
his heart. All had faded from his sky, moon 
_ _ _ _ and star ; all had passed by him, as the trees and 
banks were now passing, to return no more. Kentucky home, 
witli wife and children, and indulgent owners ; St. Clare home, 
with all its refinements and splendors ; the golden head of 
Eva, with its saint-like eyes ; the proud, gay, handsome, seem- 
ingly careless, yet ever-kind St. Clare ; hours of ease and indul- 
gent leisure, all gone ! and in place thereof, what remains 1 

It is one of the bitterest apportionments of a lot of slavery, 
that the negro, sympathetic and assimilative, after acquiring, in 
a refined family, the tastes and feelings which form the atmos- 
phere of such a place, is not the less liable to become the bond- 
slave of the coarsest and most brutal, --just as a chair or table, 
which once decorated the superb saloon, comes, at last, battered 
and defaced, to the bar-room of some filthy tavern, or some low 
haunt of vulgar debauchery. The great difference is, that the 
table and chair cannot feel, and the man can ; for even a legal 
enactment that he shall be " taken, reputed, adjudged in law, 
to be a chattel personal," cannot blot out his soul, with its own 
private little world of memories, hopes, loves, fears, and desires. 

Mr. Simon Legree, Tom's master, had purchased slaves at 
one place and another, in New Orleans, to the number of eight, 
and driven them, handcuffed, in couples of two and two, down 
to the good steamer Pirate, which lay at the levee, ready for a 
trip up the Ked river. 


Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, he 
earne round, with that air of efficiency which ever characterized 
him, to take a review of them. Stopping opposite to Tom, 
who had been attired for sale in his best broadcloth suit, with 
well-starched linen and shining boots, he briefly expressed him- 
self as follows : 

" Stand up." 

Tom stood up. 

" Take off that stock ! " and, as Tom, encumbered by his 
fetters, proceeded to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, with 
no gentle hand, from his neck, and putting it in his pocket. 

Legree now turned to Tom's trunk, which, previous to this, 
he had been ransacking, and, taking frum it a pair of old pan- 
taloons and a dilapidated coat, which Tom had been wont to 
put on about his stable-work, he said, liberating Tom's hands 
from the handcuffs, and pointing to a recess in among the 

" You go there, and put these on." 

Tom obeyed, and in a few moments returned. 

" Take off your boots," said Mr. Legree. 

Tom did so. 

" There," said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse, 
stout shoes, such as were common among the slaves, " put these 


In Tom's hurried exchange, he had not forgotten to transfer 
his cherished Bible to his pocket. It was well he did so ; for 
Mr. Legree, having refitted Tom's handcuffs, proceeded deliber- 
ately to investigate the contents of his pockets. He drew out 
a silk handkerchief, and put it into his own pocket. Several 
little trifles, which Tom had treasured, chiefly because they 
had amused Eva, he looked upon with a contemptuous grunt, 
and tossed them over his shoulder into the river. 

Tom's Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he had 
forgotten, he now held up and turned over. 

" Humph ! pious, to be sure. So, what 's yer name, you 
belong to the church, eh 1 " 

" Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, firmly. 

" Well, I '11 soon have that out of you. I have none o' ye,. 
bawling, praying, singing niggers on my place ; so remember. 
Now, mind yourself," he said, with a stamp and a fierce glance 
of his gray eye, directed at Tom, " 7 'm your church now 1 
You understand, you 've got to be as I say." 



Something within the silent black man answered No ! and, 
as if repeated by an invisible voice, came the words of an old 
prophetic scroll, as Eva had often read them to him, -- " Fear 
not ! fur I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by my 
name. Thou art MINE ! " 

But Simon Legree heard no voice. That voice is one he 
never shall hear. He only glared for a moment on the down- 
cast face of Tom, and walked off. He took Tom's trunk, which 
contained a very neat and abundant wardrobe, to the forecastle, 
where it was soon surrounded by various hands of the boat. 
With much laughing, at the expense of niggers who tried to 
be gentlemen, the articles very readily were sold to one and 
another, and the empty trunk finally put up at auction. It 
was a good joke, they all thought, especially to see how Tom 
looked after his things, as they were going this wa.\ and that ; 
and then the auction of the trunk, that was funnier than all, 
and occasioned abundant witticisms. 

This little affair being over, Simon sauntered up again to his 



" Now, Tom, I 've relieved you of any extra baggage, you 
see. Take mighty good care of them clothes. It '11 be long 
enough 'fore you get more. I go in for making niggers care- 
ful ; one suit has to do for one year, on my place." 

Simon next walked up to the place where Emmeline was 
sitting, chained to another woman. 

" Well, my dear," he said, chucking her under the chin, 
' keep up your spirits." 

The involuntary look of horror, fright, and aversion with 
which the girl regarded him, did not escape his eye. He 
frowned tiercely. 

" None o' your shines, gal ! you 's got to keep a pleasant 
face, when I speak to ye, d'ye hear"? And yon, you old 
yellow poco moonshine ! " he said, giving a shove to the mu- 
latto woman to whom Emmeline was chained, " don't you 
carry that sort of face ! You 's got to look chipper, I tell ye ! 

" I say, all on ye," he said, retreating a pace or two back, 
"look at me, --look at me, --look me right in the eye, 
straight, now ! " said he, stamping his foot at every pause. 

As by a fascination, every eye was now directed to the glar- 

ing greenish-gray eye of Simon. 



" Now," said he, doubling his great, heavy fist into some- 
thing resembling a blacksmith's hammer, " d' ye see this list 1 
Heft it ! " he said, bringing it down on Tom's hand. " Look 
at these yer bones ! Well, I tell ye this yer list has got as 
hard as iron knocking down niggers. I never see the nigger. 
yet, I could n't bring down with one crack," said he, bringing 
hit; list down so near to the face of Tom that he winked and 
drew back. " 1 don't keep none o' yer cussed overseers ; I does 
my own overseeing; and 1 tell you tilings is seen to. You 'a 
every one on ye got to toe the mark, 1 tell ye ; quick, straight, 

-the moment I speak. That's the way to keep in with me. 
Ye won't find no soft spot in me, nowhere. So, now, mind 
yerselves ; for I don't show 710 mercy ! " 

The women involuntarily drew ?n their breath, and the whole 


gang sat with downcast, dejected faces. Meanwhile, Simon 
turned on his heel, and marched up to the bar of the boat 
for a dram. 

' That 's the way I begin with my niggers," he said, to a 
gentlemanly man, who had stood by him during his speech. 
" It 's my system to begin strong, just let 'em know what to 

" Indeed ! " said the stranger, looking upon him with tin 
curiosity of a naturalist studying some out-of-the-way specimen. 
' Yes, indeed. I 'm none o' yer gentlemen planters, with 
lily lingers, to slop round and be cheated by some old cuss of 
an overseer ! Just feel of my knuckles, now ; look at my iist. 
Tell ye, sir, the flesh on 't has come jest like a stone, practising 
on niggers, -- feel on it." 

The stranger applied his fingers to the implement in ques- 
tion, and simply said, - 

" 'T is hard enough ; and, I suppose," he added, " practice 
has made your heart just like it." 

" Why, yes, I may say so," said Simon, with a hearty laugh. 
" I reckon there 's as little soft in me as in any one going. 
Tell you, nobody comes it over me ! Niggers never gets round 
me, neither with squalling nor soft soap, -- that 's a fact." 

"You have a fine lot there." 

" Real," said Simon. " There 's that Tom, they telled me 
he was suthin uncommon. I paid a little high for him,'tendin' 
him for a driver and a managing chap; only get the notions 
out that he 's larnt by bein' treated as niggers never ought to 
be, he'll do prime ! The yellow woman I got took in in. I 
rayther think she 's sickly, but I shall put her through for what 
she 's worth ; she may last a year or two. I don't go for savin' 
niggers. Use up, and buy more, 's my way ; makes you less 
trouble, and I 'm quite sure it comes cheaper in the end " ; and 
Simon sipped his glass. 

" And how long do they generally last] " said the stranger. 

" Well, donno ; 'cordin' as their constitution is. Stout fel- 
lers last six or seven years ; trashy ones gets worked up in two 
or three. I used to, when I fust begun, have considerable 
trouble fussin' with 'em and trying to make 'em hold out, - 
doctorin' on 'em up when they 's sick, and givin' on 'em clothes 
and blankets, and what not, tryin' to keep 'em all sort o' de- 
cent and comfortable. Law, 't was n't no sort o' use ; I lost 
money on 'em, and 't was heaps o' trouble. Now, you see, I 


just put 'em straight through, sick or well. "When one nig- 
ger 's dead, I buy another ; and I rind it conies cheaper and 
easier, every way." 

The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a gen- 
tleman, who had been listening to the conversation with re- 
pressed uneasiness. 

" You must not take that fellow to be any specimen of 
southern planters," said he. 

" I should hope not," said the young gentleman, with em- 

" He is a mean, low, brutal fellow ! " said the other. 

" And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of human 
beings subject to his absolute will, without even a shadow of 
protection ; and, low as he is, you cannot say that there are 
not many such." 

" Well," said the other, " there are also many considerate and 
humane men among planters." 

" Granted," said the young mm ; " but, in my opinion, it is 
you considerate, humane men, that are responsible for all the 
brutality and outrage wrought by these wretches ; because, if it 
were not for your sanction and influence, the whole system 
could not keep foothold for an hour. If there were no planters 
except such as that one," said he, pointing with his finger to 
Legree, who stood with his back to them, " the whole thing 
would go down like a mill-stone. It is your respectability and 
hum inity that licenses and protects his brutality." 

" You certainly have a high opinion of my good-nature," 
said the planter, smiling ; " hut I advise you not to talk quite 
so loud, as there are people on board the boat who might not 
be quite so tolerant to opinion as I am. You had better wait 
till I get up to my plantation, and there you may abuse us all, 
quite at your leisure." 

The young gentleman colored and smiled, and the two were 
soon busy in a game of backgammon. Meanwhile, another con- 
versation was going on in the lower part of the boat, between 
Emmeline and the mulatto woman with whom she was con- 
fined. As was natural, they were exchanging with each other 
some particulars of their history. 

' Who did you belong to 1 " said Emmeline. 
"Well, my Mas'r was Mr. Ellis, lived on Levee street 
P'r'aps you 've seen the house." 

" Was he good to you 1 " said Emmeline. 


" Mostly, till he tuk sick. He 's lain sick, off and on, more 
than six months, and been ovful oneasy. 'Pears like he warn't 
williu' to have nobody rest, day nor night ; and got so curous, 
there could n't nobody suit him. 'Pears like he just grew 
Grosser, every day ; kep me up nights till I got t'arly beat out, 
and could n't keep awake no longer ; and 'cause 1 got to sleep, 
one night, Lors, he talk so orl'ul to me, and he tell me he 'd' 
sell me to just the hardest master he could tind ; and he 'd 
promised me my freedom, too, when he died." 

' Had you any friends] " said Emmeline. 

"Yes, my husband, -- he 's a blacksmith. Mas'r gen'ly 
hired him out. They took me off so quick, I did n't even 
have time to see him ; and I 's got four children. 0, dear 
me ! " said the woman, covering her face with her hands. 

It is a natural impulse, in every one, when they hear a tale 
of distress, to think of something to say by way of consolation. 
Emmeline wanted to say something, but she could not think of 
anything to say. What was there tc be said ? As by a com- 
mon consent, they both avoided, with fear and dread, all men- 
tion of the horrible man who was now their master. 

True, there is religious trust for even the darkest hour. The 
mulatto woman was a member of the Methodist church, and: had 
an unenlightened but very sincere spirit of piety. Emmeline 
had been educated much more intelligently, --taught to read 
and write, and diligently instructed in the Bible, by the care 
of a faithful and pious mistress ; yet, would it not try the faith 
of the firmest Christians to find themselves abandoned, appar- 
ently, of God, in the grasp of ruthless violence 1 How mucr 
more must it shake the faith of Christ's poor little ones, weak 
in knowledge and tender in years ! 

The boat moved on, freighted with its weight of sorrow, 
up the red, muddy, turbid current, through the abrupt, tor- 
tuous windings of the Eed river ; and sad eyes gazed wearily 
on the steep red-clay banks, as they glided by in dreary same- 
ness. At last the boat stopped at a small town, and Legree, 
with his party, disembarked. 




The dark places of the earth are 
full of the habitations of cruelty." 

TRAILING wearily behind 
a rude wagon, and over a 
ruder road, Tom and his as- 
sociates faced onward. 

In the wajjon was seated 
Simon Legree ; and the two 
women, slill fettered together, 


were stowed away with some baggage in the back part of it ; 
and the whole company were seeking Legree's plantation, which 
lay a good distance oil'. 

It was a wild, forsaken road, now winding through dreary 
pine barrens, where the wind whispered mournfully, and now 
over log causeways, through long cypress swamps, the doleful 
trees rising out of the sliiny, spongy ground, hung with long 
wreaths of funereal black moss, while ever and anon the loath- 
some form of the moccasin snake might be seen sliding among 
broken stumps and shattered branches that lay here and there, 
rotting in the water. 

It is disconsolate enough, this riding, to the stranger, who, 
with well-nlled pocket and well-appointed horse, threads the 
lonely way on some errand of business ; but wilder, drearier, 
to the man enthralled, whom every weary step bears further 
from all that man loves and prays for. 

So one should have thought, that witnessed the sunken and 
dejected expression on those dark faces ; the wistful, patient 
weariness with which those sad eyes rested on object after ob- 
ject that passed them in their sad journey. 

Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occasionally 
pulling away at a flask of spirit, which he kept in his pocket. 

" I say, you ! " he said, as he turned back and caught a 
glance at the dispirited faces behind him ! " Strike up a song, 
boys, come ! " 

The men looked at each other, and the " come " was repeated, 
with a smart crack of the whip which the driver carried in his 
hands. Tom began a Methodist hymn, 

" Jerusalem, my happy home, 

Name ever dear to me ! 
When shall my sorrows have an end, 
Thy joys when shall '' 

"Shut up, you black cuss!" roared Legree; "did ye think 
I wanted any o' yer infernal old Methodism 1 I say, tune up, 
now, something real rowdy, -- quick ! " 

One of the other men struck up one of those unmeaning 
songs, common among the slaves. 

" Mas'r see'd me cotch a, coon, 

High boys, high ! 
He laughed to split, d' ye see the moon, 

Ho ! ho! ho! hoys, ho ! 
Ho! yolhi e! oh!" 


The singer appeared to make up the song to his own pleas- 
ure, generally hitting on rhyme, without much attempt at 
reason ; and all the party took up the chorus, at intervals, 

" Ho ! ho ! lio ! boys, ho ! 
High e oil ! high e oh ! " 

It was sung very boisterously, and with a forced attempt 
at merriment ; but no wail of despair, no words of impas- 
sioned prayer, could have had such a depth of woe in them 
as the wild notes of the chorus. As if the poor, dumb heart, 
threatened, -- prisoned, took refuge in that inarticulate sanc- 
tuary of music, and found there a language in which to breathe 
its prayer to God ! There was a prayer in it, which Simon 
could not hear. He only heard the boys singing noisily, 
and was well pleased ; he was making them " keep up their 

" Well, my little dear," said he, turning to Emmeline, and 
laying his hand on her shoulder, " we 're almost home ! " 

When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified ; 
but when he laid his hand on her, and spoke as he now did, 
she felt as if she had rather he would strike her. The expres- 
sion of his eyes made her soul sick, and her flesh creep. lu- 
voluntarily she clung closer to the mulatto woman by her side, 
as if she were her mother. 

" You did n't ever wear ear-rings," he said, taking hold of 
her small ear with his coarse fingers. 

" No, Mas'r ! " said Emmeline, trembling and looking 

" Well, I '11 give you a pair, when we get home, if you 're a 
good girl. You need n't be so frightened ; I don't mean to 
make you work very hard. You '11 have fine times with me, 
and live like a lady, only be a good girl." 

Legree had been drinking to that degree that he was inclin- 
ing to be very gracious ; and it was about this time that the 
enclosures of the plantation rose to view. The estate had 
formerly belonged to a gentleman of opulence and taste, who 
had bestowed some considerable attention to the adornment of 
his grounds. Having died insolvent, it had been purchased, 
at a bargain, by Legree, who used it, as he did everything 
else, merely as an implement for money-making. The place 
had that ragged, forlorn appearance, which is always produced 


by the evidence that the care of the former owner has been left 
to go to utter decay. 

What was once a smooth-shaven lawn before the house 
dotted here and there with ornamental shrubs, was now cov- 
ered with frowsy tangled grass, with horse-posts set up, hen 
and there, in it, where the turf was stamped away, and the 
ground littered with broken pails, cobs of corn, and other slov 
enly remains. Here and there, a mildewed jessamine or honey- 
suckle hung raggedly from some ornamental support, whicl 
had been pushed to one side by being used as a horse-posl 
What once was a large garden was now all grown over with 
weeds, through which, here and there, some solitary exotic 
reared its forsaken head. What had been a conservatory had 
now no window-sashes, and on the mouldering shelves stood 
some dry, forsaken flower-pots, with sticks in them, whose 
dried leaves showed they had once been plants. 

The wagon rolled up a weedy gravel walk, under a noble 
avenue of China trees, whose graceful forms and ever-springing 
foliage seemed to be the only things there that neglect could 
not daunt or alter, like noble spirits, so deeply rooted in 
goodness, as to flourish and grow stronger amid discouragement 
and decay. 

The house had been large and handsome. It was built in 
a manner common at the south ; a wide veranda of two sto- 
ries running round every part of the house, into which every 
outer door opened, the lower tier being supported by brick 

But the place looked desolate and uncomfortable ; some win- 
dows stopped up with boards, some with shattered panes, and 
shutters hanging by a single hinge, all telling of coarse neg- 
lect and discomfort. 

Bits of board, straw, old decayed barrels and boxes, gar- 
nished the ground in all directions ; and three or four ferocious- 
looking dogs, roused by the sound of the wagon-wheels, came 
tearing out, and were with difficulty restrained from laying hold 
of Tom and his companions, by the effort of the ragged servants 
who came after them. 

"Ye see what ye'd get!" said Legree, caressing the dogs 
with grim satisfaction, and turning to Tom and his companions. 
" Ye see what ye 'd get, if ye try to run off. These yer dogs 
has been raised to track niggers; and they 'd jest as soon chaw 
one on ye up as eat their supper. So, mind yerself ! How 



now. Sambo ! " he said, to a ragged fellow, without any brim 
ho his hat, who was officious in his attentions. " How have 

things been going 1 " 

" Fust-rate, Mas'r." 

" Quimbo," said Legree to another, who was making zealous 
demonstrations to attract his attention, " ye minded what I 
Celled ye 1 " 

" Guess I did, did n't 1 1 " 

These two colored men were the two principal hands on the 
plantation. Legree had trained them in savageness and bru- 
tality as systematically as he had his bull-dogs ; and, by long- 
practice in hardness and cruelty, brought their whole nature to 
about the same range of capacities. It is a common remark, 
and one that is thought to militate strongly against the char- 
acter of the race, that the negro overseer is always more tyran- 
nical and cruel than the white one. This is simply saying that 
the negro mind has been more crushed and debased than the 
white. It is no more true of this race than of every oppressed 



race, the world over. The slave is always a tyrant, if he can 
get a chance to be one. 

Legree, like some potentates we read of in history, governed 
his plantation by a sort of resolution of forces. Sambo and 
Quimbo cordially hated each other ; the plantation hands, one 
and all, cordially hated them ; and, by playing off one against 
another, he was pretty sure, through one or the other of th' 
three parties, to get informed of whatever was on foot in th. 

Nobody can live entirely without social intercourse ; and 
Legree encouraged his two black satellites to a kind of coarse 
familiarity with him, a familiarity, however, at any moment 
liable to get one or the other of them into trouble ; for, on the 
slightest provocation, one of them always stood ready, at a nod, 
to be a minister of his vengeance on the other. 

As they stood there now by Legree, they seemed an apt illus- 
tration of the fact that brutal men are lower even than animals. 
Their coarse, dark, heavy features ; their great eyes, rolling en- 
viously on each other; their barbarous, guttural, half-brute 
intonation ; their dilapidated garments fluttering in the wind, 
-weie all in admirable keeping with the vile and unwhole- 
some character nf everything about the place. 

" Here, you Sambo," said Legree, "take these yer boys down 
to the quarters ; and here 's a gal I 've got for you," said he, as 
he separated the mulatto woman from Emmeline, and pushed 
her towards him ; -- " I promised to bring you one, you know." 



The woman gave a sudden start, and, drawing "back, said sud- 
denly, - 

" 0, Mas'r ! I left my old man in New Orleans." 
" What of that, you - - ; won't you want one here ? _ None 
o' your words, go 'long ! " said Legree, raising his whip. 

" Come, mistress," he said to Emmeline, " you go in here 
with me." 

A dark, wild face was seen, for a moment, to glance at the 
window of the house ; and, as Legree opened the door, a female 



voice said something, in a quick, imperative tone. Tom, who 
was looking, with anxious interest, after Emmeline, as she went 
in, noticed this, and heard Legree answer, angrily, " You may 
hold your tongue ! I '11 do as I please, for all you ! " 

Tom heard no more ; for he was soon following Sambo to the 
quarters. The quarters was a little sort of street of rude shan- 
ties, in a row, in a part of the plantation, far off from the house. 
They had a forlorn, brutal, forsaken air. Tom's heart sunk 
vhen he saw them. He had been comforting himself with the 
/hought of a cottage, rude, indeed, but one which he might 
make neat and quiet, and where he might have a shelf for his 
Bible, and a place to be alone out of his laboring hours. He 
looked into several ; they were mere rude shells, destitute of 
any species of furniture, except a heap of straw, foul with dirt, 
spread confusedly over the floor, which was merely the bare 
ground, trodden hard by the tramping of innumerable feet. 

" Which of these will be mine ] " said he, to Sambo, submis- 

" Dunno ; ken turn in here, I s'pose," said Sambo ; " spects 
thar 's room for another thar ; thar 's a pretty smart heap o' 
niggers to each on 'em, now ; sure, I dunno what I 's to do with 


It was late in the evening when the weary occupants of the 
shanties came nocking home, -- men and women, in soiled and 
tattered garments, surly and uncomfortable, and in no mood to 
look pleasantly on new-comers. The small village was alive 
with no inviting sounds ; hoarse, guttural voices contending at 
the handmills where their morsel of hard corn was yet to be 
ground into meal, to fit it for the cake that was to constitute 
their only supper. From the earliest dawn of the day, they had 
been in the fields, pressed to work under the driving lash of the 
overseers ; for it was now in the very heat and hurry of the 
season, a'nd no means was left untried to press every one up 
to the top of their capabilities. "True," says the negligent 
lounger; "picking cotton isn't hard work." Is n't it 1 ? And 
it is n't much inconvenience, either, to have one drop of water 
fall on your head ; yet the worst torture of the inquisition is 
produced by drop after drop, drop after drop, falling moment 
after moment, with monotonous succession, on the same spot ; and 
work, in itself not hard, becomes so, by being pressed, hour after 
hour, with unvarying, unrelenting sameness, with not even the con- 


eciousness of free-will to take from its tediousness. Torn looked 
in vain among the gang, as they poured along, for companion- 
able faces. He saw only sullen, scowling, imbruted men, and 
feeble, discouraged women, or women that were not women, 
the strong pushing away the weak, the gross, unrestricted 
animal selhshness of human beings, of whom nothing good was 
expected and desired; and who, treated in every way like 
brutes, had sunk as nearly to their level as it was possible for 
human beings to do. To a late hour in the night the sound 
of the grinding was protracted ; for the mills were few in 
number compared with the grinders, and the weary and feeble 
ones were driven back by the strong, and came on last in their 

" Ho yo ! " said Sambo, coming to the mulatto woman, and 
throwing down a bag of corn before her ; " what a cuss yo' 
name 1 " 

" Lucy," said the woman. 

" Wai, Lucy, yo' my woman now. Yo' grind dis yer corn, 
and get my supper baked, ye har 1 ?" 

" I an't your woman, and I won't be ! " said the woman, with 
the sharp, sudden courage of despair ; " you go 'long ! " 

" I '11 kick yo', then ! " said Sambo, raising his foot threaten- 

" Ye may kill me, if ye choose, the sooner the better ! 
Wish 't I was dead ! " said she. 

" I say, Sambo, you go to spilin the hands, I '11 tell Mas'r o* 
you," said Quimbo, who was busy at the mill, from which he 
had viciously driven two or three tired women, who were wait- 
ing to grind their corn. 

"And I '11 tell him ye won't let the women come to the 
mills, yo' old nigger ! " said Sambo. " Yo' jes keep to yo' 

own row." 

Tom -was hungry with his day's journey, a^d almost faint for 
want of food. 

" Thar, yo' ! " said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, 
which contained a peck of corn ; " thar, nigger, grab, take car' 
on 't, yo' won't get no more, dis yer week." 

Tom waited till a late hour, to get a place at the mills ; and 
then, moved by the utter weariness of two women, whom he 
eaw trying to grind their corn there, he ground for them, put 
together the decaying brands of the lire, where many had baked 
cakes before them, and then went about getting his own supper. 


Tt was a new kind of work there, a deed of charity, small as 
it was ; but it woke an answering touch in their hearts, an 
expression of womanly kindness came over their hard faces ; 
they mixed his cake for him, and tended its baking ; and Tom 
sat down by the light of the tire, and drew out his Bible, for 
he had need of comfort. 

" What 's that ? " said one of the women. 

" A Bible," said Tom. 

" Good Lord ! han't seen un since I was in Kentuck." 

" Was you raised in Kentuck 1 " said Tom, with interest. 

" Yes, and well raised, too ; never spected to come to dis 
yer ! " said the woman, sighing. 

" What 's dat ar book, any way ? " said the other woman. 

" Why, the Bible." 

" Laws a me ! what 's dat ? " said the woman. 

" Do tell ! you never hearn on 't ? " said the other woman. 
" I used to har Missis a readin' on 't, sometimes, in Keutuck ; 
but, laws o' me ! we don't har nothin' here but crackin' and 


" Eead a piece, anyways ! " said the first woman, curiously, 
seeing Tom attentively poring over it. 

Tom read, " Come unto ME, all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest." 

" Them 's good words, enough," said the woman ; " who says 
'em 1 " 


"The Lord," said Tom. 

" I jest wish I know'd whar to find him," said the woman 
" I would go ; 'pears like I never should get rested agin. Mj 
flesh is fairly sore, and I tremble all over, every day, and 
Sambo 's allers a jawin' at me, 'cause I does n't pick faster ; and 
nights it 's most midnight 'fore I can get my supper ; and den 
'pears like I don't turn over and shut my eyes, 'fore I hear de 
horn blow to get up, and at it agin in de mornin'. If I knew 
whar de Lord was, I 'd tell him." 

" He 's here, he 's everywhere," said Tom. 

" Lor, you au't gwine to make me believe dat ar ! I know 
de Lord an't here," said the woman ; " 't an't no use talking, 
though. I 's jest gwine to camp down, and sleep while I ken." 

The women went off to their cabins, and Tom sat alone, by 
the smouldering tire, that flickered up redly in his face. 

The silver, fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, and 
looked down, calm and silent, as God looks on the scene of 
misery and oppression, looked calmly on the lone black man, 
as he sat, with his arms folded, and his Bible on his knee. 

" Is God HERE '} " Ah, how is it possible for the untaught 
heart to keep its faith, unswerving, in the face of dire misrule, 
and palpable, unrebuked injustice ] In that simple heart 
waged a fierce conflict : the crushing sense of wrong, the fore- 
shadowing of a whole life of future misery, the wreck of all 
past hopes, mournfully tossing in the soul's sight, like dead 
corpses of wife, and hild, and friend, rising from the dark 
wave, and surging in the face of the half-drowned mariner ! 
Ah, was it easy here to believe and hold fast the great pass- 
word of Christian faith, " that God is, and is the REWARDER 
of them that diligently seek him"? 

Tom rose, disconsolate, and stumbled into the cabin that had 
been allotted to him. The floor was already strewn with Aveary 
sleepers, and the foul air of the place almost repelled him ; but 
the heavy night-dews were chill, and his limbs weary, and, 
wrapping about him a tattered blanket, which formed his only 
bed-clothing, he stretched himself in the straw and fell asleep. 

In dreams, a gentle voice came over his ear ; he was sitting 
on the mossy seat in the garden by Lake Pontchartrain, and 
Eva, with her serious eyes bent downward, was reading to him 
from the Bible ; and he heard her read, 

" When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, 
and the rivers they shall not overflow thee ; when thou walkest 


through the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither shall th< 
tlame kindle upon thee ; for I am the Lord thy God, the Holy 
One of Israel, thy Saviour." 

Gradually the words seemed to melt and fade, as in a divine 
music ; the child raised her deep eyes, and fixed them lovingly 
on him, and rays of warmth and comfort seemed to go from 
them to his heart ; and, as if wafted on the music, she seemed 
to rise on shining wings, from which flakes and spangles of 
gold fell off like stars, and she was gone. 

Tom woke. Was it a dream 1 Let it pass for one. But 
who shall say that that sweet young spirit, which in life so 
yearned to comfort and console the distressed, was forbidden oi 
God to assume this ministry after death 1 

11 It is a beautiful belief, 

That ever round our head 

Are hovering, on angel wings, 

The spirits of the dead." 




" And behold, the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no coiu- 
forter ; and on the side of their oppressors there was power, but they had no 
comforter." Eccl. iv. 1. 

took but a short time to familiarize Tom with all 
that was to be hoped or feared in his new way of 
life. He was an expert and efficient workman in 
whatever he undertook, and was, both from habit 
and principle, prompt and faithful. Quiet and 
peaceable in his disposition, he hoped, by unremitting diligence, 
to avert from himself at least a portion of the evils of his 
condition. He- saw enough of abuse and misery to make him 
sick and weary ; but he determined to toil on, with religious 
patience, committing himself to Him that judgeth righteously, 
not without hope that some way of escape might yet be opened 
to him. 

Legree took silent note of Tom's availability. He rated 
him as a first-class hand ; and yet he felt a secret dislike to 
him, the native antipathy of bad to good. He saw, plainly, 
that when, as was often the case, his violence and brutality fell 
on the helpless, Tom took notice of it ; for so subtle is the 
atmosphere of opinion, that it will make itself felt, without 
words ; and the opinion even of a slave may annoy a master. 
Tom in various ways manifested a tenderness of feeling, a com- 
miseration for his fellow-sufferers, strange and new to them, 
which was watched with a jealous eye by Legree. He had 
purchased Tom with a view of eventually making him a sort of 
overseer, with whom he might, at times, intrust his affairs, in 
short absences ; and, in his view, the first, second, and third 
requisite for that place was hardness. Legree made up his 
mind, that, as Tom was not hard to his hand, he would harden 
him forthwith ; and some few weeks after Tom had been on 
the place, he determined to commence the process. 


One morning, when the hands were mustered for the field, 
Tom noticed, with surprise, a new-comer among them, whose 
appearance excited his attention. It was a woman, tall and 
slenderly formed, with remarkably delicate hands and feet, and 
dressed in neat and respectable garments. By the appearance 
of her face, she might have been between thirty-five and forty ; 
ind it was a face that, once seen, could never be forgotten, 
me of those that, at a glance, seem to convey to us an idea 
.if a wild, painful, and romantic history. Her forehead was 
high, and her eyebrows marked with beautiful clearness. Her 
straight, well-formed nose, her finely cut mouth, and the grace- 
ful contour of her head and neck, showed that she must once 
have been beautiful ; but her face was deeply wrinkled with 
lines of pain, and of proud and bitter endurance. Her com- 
plexion was sallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin, her feature* 
sharp, and her whole form emaciated. But her eye was the 
most remarkable feature, so large, so heavily black, over- 
shadowed by long lashes of equal darkness, and so wildly, 
mournfully despairing. There was a fierce pride and defiance 
in every line of her face, in every curve of the flexible lip, in 
every motion of her body ; but in her eye was a deep, settled 
night of anguish, an expression so hopeless and unchanging 
as to contrast fearfully with the scorn and pride expressed by 
her whole demeanor. 

Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not know. 
The first he did know, she was walking by his side, erect and 
proud, in the dim gray of the dawn. To the gang, however, 
she was known ; for there was much looking and turning of 
heads, and a smothered yet apparent exultation among the 
miserable, ragged, half-starved creatures by whom she was sur- 

" Got to come to it, at last, glad of it ! " said one. 

" He ! he ! he ! " said another : " you '11 know how good it is, 
Misse ! " 

" We '11 see her work ! " 

" Wonder if she '11 get a cutting up, at night, like the rest 
of us ! " 

" I 'd be glad to see her down for a flogging, I