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S.  6.  &  E.  L.  ELBERT 


UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN; 


OK, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY. 


BY 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


VOL.    II. 


ONE     HUNDREDTH     THOUSAND. 

BOSTON: 

JOHN  P.  JBWET'T  &  COMPANY. 

CLEVELAND,    OHIO: 

JEWETT,   PROCTOR   &  WORTHINGTON. 

1852. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1BS1,  by 

HARRIET    BEEC1TER    STOWE, 

Fn  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Maiae* 


STEREOTYPED    BY 

HOBART  &  BOBBINS, 

NEW  ENGLAND  TYPE  AND   STEREOTYPE  FOrNDERY, 
BOSTON. 

Printed  by  Geo.  C.  Rand  &  Co.,  No.  3  Cornhill. 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

VOL.    II. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

Miss  Ophelia's  Experiences  and  Opinions,  Continued,  .  5 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Topsr, 32 

CHAPTER    XXI. 
Kentuck, 53 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

"The  Grass  withereth  —  the  Flower  fadeth,"  60 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Henrique, 70 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 

FORESHADOWINGS, 80 

CHAPTER   XXV. 
The  Little  Evangelist, 89 

CHAPTER    XXVI. 
Death, ' 96 

CHAPTER   XXVII. 
"This  is  the  Last  of  Earth," 114 

CHAPTER   XXVIII. 
Re-union, 124 

CHAPTER   XXIX. 
The  Unprotected, ,  144 

CHAPTER   XXX. 
The  Slave  Warehouse, 154 


f  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

She  Middle  Passage,  .....  .        168 

.     CHAPTER   XXXII. 
Dark  Places,       ».,....,.        176 

CHAPTER   XXXIII. 
Casst, .188 

CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

The  Quadroon's  Story,        .        .        .        .-       .        .        .        198 

CHAPTER    XXXV. 
The  Tokens, 213 

CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

Emmeline  and  Cassy, 222 

CHAPTER    XXXVII. 
Liberty, 231 

CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 
The  Victory, 240 

CHAPTER    XXXIX. 
The  Stratagem, 254 

CHAPTER    XL. 
The  Martyr,        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .        267 

CHAPTER    XLI. 

The  Young  Master,     .        .        .        .        .        .  .        276 

CHAPTER    XLII. 

An  Authentic  Ghost  Story, 285 

CHAPTER    XLIII. 
Results, 294 

CHAPTER    XLIV. 

The  Liberator, .  305 

CHAPTER    XLV. 
Concluding  Remarks, 310 


UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN- 

OB, 

LIFE    AMONG    THE    LOWLY. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MIS9  ohpelia's  experiences  and  opinions,  continued. 

''Tom,  you  needn't  get  me  the  horses.  I  don't  want  to 
go,"  she  said. 

"Why  not,  Miss  Eva?" 

"  These  things  sink  into  my  heart,  Tom,"  said  Eva, — ■ 
"they  sink  into  my  heart,"  she  repeated,  earnestly.  "  I 
don't  want  to  go  ; "  and  she  turned  from  Tom,  and  went  into 
the  house. 

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- 
ously. 

<c  Why  not  1  "  said  Dinah.     "  She  an't  dead,  is  she  ?  " 

"We  doesn't  exactly  know.  She's  down  cellar,"  said 
the  woman,  glancing  at  Miss  Ophelia. 

After  Miss  Ophelia  had  taken  the  rusks,  Binah  followod 
the  woman  to  the  door. 

"  What  has  got  Prue,  any  how  ?  "  she  said. 

VOL.  II.  1* 


6  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:   or, 

The  "woman  seemed  desirous,  yet  reluctant,  to  speak,  and 
answered,  in  a  low,  mysterious  tone. 

"Well,  you  mustn't  tell  nobody.  Prue,  she  got  drunk 
agin, —  and  they  had' her  down  cellar, —  and  thar  they  left 
her  all  day, —  and  I  hearn  'em  saying  that  theses  had  got 
to  her, —  and  she  's  dead  !  " 

Dinah  held  up  her  hands,  and,  turning,  saw  close  by  her 
side  the  spirit-like  form  of  Evangeline,  her  large,  mystic 
eyes  dilated  with  horror,  and  every  drop  of  blood  driven  from 
her  lips  and  cheeks. 

"Lor  bless  us!  Miss  Eva's  gwine  to  faint  away! 
What  got  us  all,  to  let  her  har  such  talk  ?  Her  pa  '11  be 
rail  mad." 

"  I  shan't  faint,  Dinah,"  said  the  child,  firmly  ;  "  and  wh^ 
should  n't  I  hear  it  1  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  whioh  Tom 
added  the  particulars  which  he  had  drawn  from  her  that 
morning. 

"An  abominable  business, —  perfectly  horrible!"  she  ex- 
claimed, as  she  entered  the  room  where  St.  Clare  lay  reading 
his  paper. 

"  Pray,  what  iniquity  has  turned  up  now?  "  said  he. 

"What  now?  why,  those  folks  have  whipped  Prue  to 
death !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  going  on,  with  great  strength  of 
detail,  into  the  story,  and  enlarging  on  its  most  shocking 
particulars. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY. 


"  I  thought  it  would  come  to  that,  some  time,"  said  St. 
Clare,  going  on  with  his  paper. 

"  Thought  so  !  —  an't  you  going  to  do  anything  about  it  ?  " 
said  Miss  Ophelia.  '"Haven't  you  got  any  selectmen,  or 
anybody,  to  interfere  and  look  after  such  matters?  " 

"  It 's  commonly  supposed  that  the  property  interest  is  a 
sufficient  guard  in  these  cases.  If  people  choose  to  ruin  their 
own  possessions,  I  don't  know  what 's  to  be  done.  It  seems 
the  poor  creature  was  a  thief  and  a  drunkard ;  and  so  there 
won't  be  much  hope  to  get  up  sympathy  for  her." 

"It  is  perfectly  outrageous, —  it  is  horrid,  Augustine  !  It 
will  certainly  bring  down  vengeance  upon  you." 

"My  dear  cousin,  I  didn't  do  it,  and  I  can't  help  it;  I 
would,  if  I  could.  If  low-minded,  brutal  people  will  act  like 
themselves,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  They  have  absolute  control ; 
they  are  irresponsible  despots.  There  would  be  no  use  in 
interfering ;  there  is  no  law  that  amounts  to  anything  prac- 
tically, for  such  a  case.  The  best  we  can  do  is  to  shut  our 
eyes  and  ears,  and  let  it  alone.  It 's  the  only  resource  left 
us." 

"How  can  you  shut  your  eyes  and  ears?  How  can  you 
let  such  things  alone? " 

"My  dear  child,  what  do  you  expect?  Here  is  a  whole 
class, — debased,  uneducated,  indolent,  provoking, — put,  with- 
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  com- 
munity 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 


8  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

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 ;  you  've  only  seen  a  peep  through  the  curtain, —  a 
specimen  of  what  is  going  on,  the  world  over,  in  some  shape 
or  other.  If  we  are  to  be  prying  and  spying  into  all  the 
dismals  of  life,  we  should  have  no  heart  to  anything.  '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?  "  said  St.  Clare,  looking  up.  "  At  it  again, 
hey?" 

"I  say  it's  perfectly  abominable  for  you  to  defend  such  a 
system!"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  with  increasing  warmth. 

UI  defend  it,  my  dear  lady?  Who  ever  said  I  did  defend 
it?"  said  St,  Clare. 

"  Of  course,  you  defend  it, —  you  all  do, —  all  you  South- 
erners.    What  do  you  have  slaves  for,  if  you  don't?  ': 

"Are  you  such  a  sweet  innocent  as  to  suppose  nobody  in 
this  world  ever  does  what  they  don't  think  is  right?  Don't 
you,  or  didn't  you  ever,  do  anything  that  you  did  not  think 
quite  right?" 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY. 


"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 
repenting  of  it  all  the  time." 

"  What  do  you  keep  on  doing  it  for  ?  " 

"Didn't  you  ever  keep  on  doing  wrong,  after  you'd 
repented,  my  good  cousin'?" 

"Well,  only  when  I've  been  very  much  tempted,"  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

"Well,  I'm.  very  much  tempted,"  said  St.  Clare;  "that's 
just  my  difficulty." 

"  But  I  always  resolve  I  won't,  and  I  try  to  break  off." 

"Well,  I  have  been  resolving  I  won't,  off  and  on,  these 
ten  years,"  said  St.  Clare;  "but  I  haven't,  some  how,  got 
clear.     Have  you  got  clear  of  all  your  sins,  cousin  ?  " 

"  Cousin  Augustine,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  seriously,  and 
laying  down  her  knitting-work,  "  I  suppose  I  deserve  that 
you  should  reprove  my  short-comings.  •  I  know  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  differ- 
ence 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." 

"0,  now,  cousin,"  said  Augustine,  sitting  down  on  the 
floor,  and  laying  his  head  back  in  her  lap,  "  don't  take  on  so 
awfully  serious  !  You  know  what  a  good-for-nothing,  saucy 
boy  I  always  was.  I  love  to  poke  you  up, —  that 's  all, — 
just  to  see  you  get  earnest.  I  do  think  you  are  desperately, 
distressingly  good ;  it  tires  me  to  death  to  think  of  it." 


10  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"But  this  is  a  serious  subject,  my  boy,  Auguste,"  said 
Miss  Ophelia,  laying  her  hand  on  his  forehead. 

"  Dismally  so,"  said  he  ;   "  and  I well,  I  never  want 

to  talk  seriously  in  hot  weather.  What  with  mosquitos  and 
all,  a  fellow  can't  get  himself  up  to  any  very  sublime  moral 
flights  ;  and  I  believe,"  said  St.  Clare,  suddenly  rousing  him- 
self up,  ' l  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  rattle-brain !  " 

' l  Am  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'll 
begin  :  When,  in  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes 
necessary  for  a  fellow  to  hold  two  or  three  dozen  of  his  fellow- 
worms  in  captivity,  a  decent .  regard  to  the  opinions  of  society 
requires — " 

"I  don't  see  that  you  are  growing  more  serious,"  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

■'Wait, —  I'm  coming  on, —  you'll  hear.  The  short  of 
the  matter  is,  cousin,"  said  he,  his  handsome  face  suddenly 
settling  into  an  earnest  and  serious  expression,  l(  on  this 
abstract  question  of  slavery  there  can,  as  I  think,  be  but  one 
opinion.  Planters,  who  have  money  to  make  by  it,— -clergy- 
men, who  have  planters  to  please, —  politicians,  who  want  to 
rule  by  it, — may  warp  and  bend  language  and  ethic3  to  a 
degree  that  shall  astonish  the  world  at  their  ingenuity ;  they 
can  press  nature  and  the  Bible,  and  nobody  knows  what  else, 
into  the  service ;  but,  after  all,  neither  they  nor  the  world 
believe  in  it  one  particle  the  more.     It  comes  from  the  devil, 


LIFE   AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  11 

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  Quashy 
to  doing.  Because  I  don't  like  work,  Quashy  shall  work. 
Because  the  sun  burns  me,  Quashy  shall  stay  in  the  sun. 
Quashy  shall  earn  the  money,  and  I  will  spend  it.  Quashy 
shall  lie  down  in  every  puddle,  that  I  may  walk  over  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  what 
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  the  full  power  which  our  savage 
laws  put  into  our  hands.  And  he  who  goes  the  furthest,  and 
does  the  worst,  only  uses  within  limits  the  power  that  the 
law  gives  him." 


12  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

St.  Clare  had  started  up,  and,  as  his  manner  was  when 

excited,  was  walking,  with  hurried  steps,  up  and  down  the 
floor.  His  fine  face,  classic  as  that  of  a  Greek  statue, 
seemed  actually  to  burn  with  the  fervor  of  his  feelings.  His 
large  blue  eyes  flashed,  and  he  gestured  with  an  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  sub- 
ject), but  I  declare  to  you,  there  have  been  times  when  I 
have  thought,  if  the  whole  country  would  sink,  and  hide  all 
this  injustice  and  misery  from  the  light.  I  would  willingly 
sink  with  it.  When  I  have  been  travelling  up  and  down  on 
our  boats,  or  about  on  my  collecting  tours,  and  reflected  that 
every  brutal,  disgusting,  mean,  low-lived  fellow  I  met,  was 
allowed  by  our  laws  to  become  absolute  despot  of  as  many 
men,  women  and  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'm  sure 
you  've  said  enough.  I  never,  in  my  life,  heard  anything  like 
this,  even  at  the  North." 

"  At  the  North  !  "  said  St.  Clare,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
expression,  and  resuming  something  of  his  habitual  careless 
tone.  "Pooh!  your  northern  folks  are  cold-blooded;  you 
are  cool  in  everything !  You  can't  begin  to  curse  up  hill 
a  ad  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 
question   it   is !     How   came   you   in  this  state  of  sin  and 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  13 

misery  ?-  Well,  I  shall  answer  in  the  good  old  words  you 
used  to  teach  me,  Sundays.  I  came  so  by  ordinary  genera- 
tion. My  servants  wTere  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  Roman,— 
upright,  energetic,  noble-minded,  with  an  iron  will.  Your 
father  settled  down  in  New  England,  to  rule  over  rocks  and 
stones,  and  to  force  an  existence  out  of  Nature ;  and  mine 
settled  in  Louisiana,  to  rule  over  men  and  women,  and  force 
existence  out  of  them.  My  mother,"  said  St.  Clare,  getting 
up  and  walking  to  a  picture  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and 
gazing  upward  with  a  face  fervent  with  veneration,  "she  was 
divine  !  Don't  look  at  me  so  !" — you  know  what  I  mean  ! 
She  probably  was  of  mortal  birth ;  but,  as  far  as  ever  I  could 
observe,  there  was  no  trace  of  any  human  weakness  or  error 
about  her ;  and  everybody  that  lives  to  remember  her, 
whether  bond  or  free,  servant,  acquaintance,  relation,  all  say 
the  same.  Why,  cousin,  that  mother  has  been  all  that  has 
stood  between  me  and  utter  unbelief  for  years.  She  was  a 
dir^ot  embodiment  and  personification  of  the  New  Testament, 
—  a  living  fact,  to  be  accounted  for,  and  to  be  accounted  for 
in  no  other  way  than  by  its  truth.  0,  mother  !  mother  !" 
said  St.  Clare,  clasping  his  hands,  in  a  sort  of  transport ;  and 
then  suddenly  checking  himself,  he  came  back,  and  seating 
himself  on  an  ottoman,  he  went  on  : 

"  My  brother  and  I  were  twins ;  and  they  say,  you  know, 
that  twins  ought  to  resemble  each  other  ;  but  we  were  in  all 
points  a  contrast.  He  had  black,  fiery  eyes,  coal-black  hair, 
a  strong,  fine  Roman  profile,  and  a  rich  brown  complexion. 
I  had  blue  eyes,  golden  hair,  a  Greek  outline,  and  fair  com- 

vol.  ir.         2 


14  UNCLE  tom's  cabin;  or, 

plexion.  He  was  active  and  observing,  I  dreamy  and  inact- 
ive. He  was  generous  to  his  friends  and  equals,  but  proud, 
dominant;  overbearing,  to  inferiors,  and  utterly  unmerciful  to 
whatever  set  itself  up  against  him.  Truthful  we  both  were  ; 
he  from  pride  and  courage,  J  from  a  sort  of  abstract  ideality. 
We  loved  each  other  about  as  boys  generally  do, —  oiF  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  Revelations   about   the  saints  that  were  arrayed  in  fine 
linen,  clean  and  white.     She  had  a  great  deal  of  genius  of 
one  sort  and  another,  particularly  in  music  ;  and  she  used  to 
sit   at   her  organ,  playing  fine   old   majestic   music  of  the 
Catholic  church,  and  singing  with  a  voice  more  like  an  angel 
than  a  mortal  woman;  and  I •  would  lay  my  head  dowfl  on 
her  lap,  and  cry,  and  dream,  and  feel, — oh,  immeasurably! 
—  things  that  I  had  no  language  to  say  ! 

"  In  those  days,  this  matter  of  slavery  had  never  been 
canvassed  as  it  has  now;  nobody  dreamed  of  any  harm 'in  it, 

"My  father  was  a  born  aristocrat.  I  think,  in  some  pre- 
existent  state,  he  must  have  been  in  the  higher  circles  of 
spirits,  and  brought  all  his  old  court  pride  along  with  him ; 
for  it  was  ingrain,  bred  in  the  bone,  though  he  was  originally 
of  poor  and  not  in  any  way  of  noble  family.  My  brother 
was  begotten  in  his  image. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY. 


alvTow,  an  aristocrat,  you  know,  the  world  over,  has  no 
human  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  considered  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  suppose,  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;  every- 
thing was  to  move  by  system, —  to  be  sustained  with  unfailing 
accuracy  and  precision.  Now,  if  you  take  into  account  that 
all  this  was  to  be  worked  out  by  a  set  of  lazy,  twaddling, 
shiftless  laborers,  who  had  grown  up,  all  their  lives,  in  the 
absence  of  every  possible  motive  to  learn  how  to  do  anything 
but  l shirk,'  as  you  Yermonters  say,  and  you'll  see  that  there 
might  naturally  be,  on  his  plantation,  a  great  many  things 
that  looked  horrible  and  distressing  to  a  sensitive  child,  like 


o 

me. 


Besides  all,   he  had  an  overseer, —  a  great,   tall,   slab 
sided,  two-fisted  renegade  son  of  Vermont — (begging  your 
pardon), —  who  had  gone  through  a  regular  apprenticeship  in 
hardness  and  brutality,  and  taken  his  degree  to  be  admitted 


16  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OK, 

to  practice.  My  mother  never  could  endure  him,  nor  I ;  but 
he  obtained  an  entire  ascendency  over  my  father ;  and  this 
man  was  the  absolute  despot  of  the  estate. 

' '  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  scrts  of 
complaints  and  grievances  were  breathed  in  my  ear ;  and  I 
told  them  to  mother,  and  we,  between  us,  formed  a  sort  of 
committee  for  a  redress  of  grievances.  Yfe  hindered  and 
repressed  a  great  deal  of  cruelty,  and  congratulated  ourselves 
on  doing  a  vast  deal  of  good,  till,  as  often  happens,  my  zeal 
overacted.  Stubbs  complained  to  my  father  that  he  couldn't 
manage  the  hands,  and  must  resign  his  position.  Father  was 
a  fond,  indulgent  husband,  but  a  man  that  never  flinched 
from  anything  that  he  thought  necessary ;  and  so  he  put 
down  his  foot,  like  a  rock,  between  us  and  the  field-hands. 
He  told  my  mother,  in  language  perfectly  respectful  and 
deferential,  but  quite  explicit,  that  over  the  house-servants 
she  should  be  entire  mistress,  but  that  with  the  field-hands 
he  could  allow  no  interference.  He  revered  and  respected 
her  above  all  living  beings  ;  but  he  would  have  said  it  all  the 
same  to  the  virgin  Mary  herself,  if  she  had  come  in  the  way 
of  his  system. 

"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 
politeness  and  equanimity.  'It  all  resolves  -itself  into  this,' 
he  would  say ;  c  must  I  part  with  Stubbs,  or  keep  him  ? 
Stubbs  is  the  soul  of  punctuality,  honesty,  and  efficiency, — 
a  thorough  business  hand,  and  as  humane  as  the  general  run. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  17 

We  can't  have  perfection;  and  if  I  keep  him,  I  must  sustain 
his  administration  as  a  whole,  even  if  there  are,  now  and  then, 
things  that  are  exceptionable.  All  government  includes 
some  necessary  hardness.  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. 

u  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  aristocrat ;  and  as  he  grew  up,  instinctively, 
all  his  sympathies  and  all  his  reasonings  were  in  that  line, 
and  all  mother's  exhortations  went  to  the  winds.  As  to  me, 
they  sunk  deep  into  me.  She  never  contradicted,  in  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  tliQ 
stars  in  the  evening,  and   say  to.  mo.  l  See  there.  Aurniste! 

VOL.  II.  2* 


18  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

the  poorest,  meanest  soul  on  our  place  wilE  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.  l  See  there,  Auguste,  she  would 
say:  'the  blind  man  was  a  beggar,  poor  and  loathsome  ;  there- 
fore, he  would  not  heal  him  afar  off!  He  called  him  to 
him,  and  put  his  hands  on  him  !  Remember  this,  my  boy.' 
If  I  had  lived  to  grow  up  under  her  care,  she  might  have 
stimulated  me  to  I  know  not  what  of  enthusiasm.  I  might 
have  been  a  saint,  reformer,  martyr, —  but,  alas!  alas!  I 
went  from  her  when  I  was  only  thirteen,  and  I  never  saw 
her  again  !  " 

St.  Clare  rested  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  did  not  speak 
for  some  minutes.     After  a  while,  lie  looked  up,  and  went  on : 

"What  poor,  mean  trash  this  whole  business  of  human 
virtue  is  !  A  mere  matter,  for  the  most  part,  of  latitude  and 
longitude,  and  geographical  position,  acting  with  natural 
temperament.  The  greater  part  is  nothing  but  an  accident ! 
Your  father,  for  example,  settles  in  Vermont,  in  a  town 
where  all  are,  in  fact,  free  and  equal;  becomes  a  regular 
church  member  and  deacon,  and  in  due  time  joins  an  Aboli- 
tion society,  and  thinks  us  all  little  better  than  heathens. 
Yet  he  is,  for  all  the  world,  in  constitution  and  habit,  a 
duplicate  of  my  father.  I  can  see  it  leaking  out  in  fifty 
different  ways, — just  that  same  strong,  overbearing,  dominant 
spirit.  You  know  very  well  how  impossible  it  is  to  persuade 
some  of  the  folks  in  your  village  that  Squire  Sinclair  does 
not  feel  above  them.  The  fact  is,  though  he  has  fallen  on 
democratic  times,  and  embraced  a  democratic  theory,  he  is  to 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  19 

the  heart  an  aristocrat,  as  much  as  my  father,  who  ruled 
over  five  or  six  hundred  slaves." 

Miss  Ophelia  felt  rather  disposed  to  cavil  at  this  picture, 
and  was  laying  down  her  knitting  to  begin,  but  St.  Clare 
stopped  her. 

"  Now,  I  know  every  word  you  are  going  to  say.  I  do 
not  say  they  were  alike,  in  fact.  One  fell  into  a  condition 
where  everything  acted  against  the  natural  tendency,  and  the 
other  where  everything  acted  for  it ;  and  so  one  turned  out 
a  pretty  wilful,  stout,  overbearing  old  democrat,  and  the 
other  a  wilful,  stout  old  despot.  If  both  had  owned  plant- 
ations in  Louisiana,  they  would  have  been  as  like  as  two  old 
bullets  cast  in  the  same  mould." 

"  What  an  undutiful  boy  you  are !  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"I  don't  mean  them  any  disrespect,"  said  St.  Clare. 
"You  know  reverence  is  not  my  forte.  But,  to  go  back  to 
my  history  : 

"  When  father  died,  he  left  the  whole  property  to  us  twin 
boys,  to  be  divided  as  we  should  agree.  There  does  not 
breathe  on  God's  earth  a  nobler-souled,  more  generous  fellow, 
than  Alfred,  in  all  that  concerns  his  equals  ;  and  We  got  on 
admirably  with  this  property  question,  without  a  single 
unbrotherly  word  or  feeling.  We  undertook  to  work  the 
plantation  together;  and  Alfred,  whose  outward  life  and 
capabilities  had  double  the  strength  of  mine,  became  an 
enthusiastic  planter,  and  a  wonderfully  successful  one. 

""  But  two  years'  trial  satisfied  me  that  I  could  not  be  a 
partner  in  that  matter.  To  have  a  great  gang  of  seven 
hundred,  whom  I  could  not  know  personally,  or  feel  any 
individual  interest  in,  bought  and  driven,  housed,  fed,  worked 
like  so  many  horned  cattle,  strained  up  to  military  precision, 
■ — the  question  of  how  little  of  life's  commonest  enjoyments 


20  UNCLE    TOM'S    CABIN  :    OR, 

would  keep  them  in  working  order  being  a  constantly  recur- 
ring 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  thaf  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. 
Alfred,  who  is  as  determined  a  despot  as  ever  walked,  doea 
not  pretend  to  this  kind  of  defence ;  —  no,  he  stands,  high  and 
haughty,  on  that  good  old  respectable  ground,  the  right  of 
the  strongest ;  and  he  says,  and  I  think  quite  sensibly,  that 
the  American  planter  is  '  only  doing,  in  another  form,  what 
the  English  aristocracy  and  capitalists  are  doing  by  the  lower 
classes ; '  that  is,  I  take  it,  appropriating  them,  body  and 
bone,  soul  and   spirit,  to  their   use   and   convenience.     He 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.                               21 
i , 

defends  both, —  and  I  think,  at  least,'  consistently.  He  says 
that  there  can  be  no  high  civilization  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.  So  he  reasons, 
because,  as  I  said,  he  is  born  an  aristocrat ; —  so  I  don't 
believe,  because  I  was  born  a  democrat." 

" How  in  the  world  can  the  two  things  be  compared?" 
said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  The  English  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 
isn't  worse  than  some  other  bad  thing." 

"I  didn't  give  it  for  one, —  nay,  I'll  say,  besides,  that 
ours  is  the  more  bold  and  palpable  infringement  of  human 
rights ;  actually  buying  a  man  up,  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 


22                                UK  CLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 
1 

"  Well,  I've  travelled  in  England  some,  and  I've  looked 
over  a  good  many  documents  as  to  the  'state  of  their  lower 
classes ;  and  I  really  think  •  there  is  no  denying  Alfred,  when 
he  says  that  his  slaves  are  better  off  than  a  large  class  of  the 
population  of  England.  You  see,  you  must  not  infer,  from 
what  I  have  told  you,  that  Alfred  is  what  is  called  a  hard 
master ;  for  he  is  n't.  He  is  despotic,  and  unmerciful  to 
insubordination ;  he  would  shoot  a  fellow  down  with  as  little 
remorse  as  he  would  shoot  a  buck,  if  he  opposed  him.  But, 
in  general,  he  takes  a  sort  of  pride  in  having  his  slaves 
comfortably  fed  and  accommodated. 

"  When  I  was  with  him,  I  insisted  that  he  should  do 
something  for  their  instruction  ;  and,  to  please  me,  he  did  get 
a  chaplain,  and  used  to  have  them  catechized  Sunday,  though, 
I  believe,  in  his  heart,  that  he  thought  it  would  do  about  as 
much  good  to  set  a  chaplain  over  his  dogs  and  horses.  And  the 
fact  is,  that  a  mind  stupefied  and  animalized  by  every  bad 
influence  from  the  hour  of  birth,  spending  the  whole  of  every 
week-day  in  unreflecting  toil,  cannot  be  done  much  with  by  a 
few  hours  on  Sunday.  The  teachers  of  Sunday-schools 
among  the  manufacturing  population  of  England,  and  among 
plantation-hands  in  our  country,  could  perhaps  testify  to  the 
same  result,  there  and  here.  Yet  some  striking  exceptions 
there  are  among  us,  from  the  fact  that  the  negro  is  naturally 
more  impressible  to  religious  sentiment  than  the  white." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "how  came  you  to  give  up 
your  plantation  life  ?  "  '    . 

"Well,  we  jogged  on  together  some  time,  till  Alfred  saw 
plainly  that  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 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  23 

these  men  and  women,  the  perpetuation  of  all  thjs  ignorance, 
brutality  and  vice,-1-  just  to  make  money  for  me  ! 

"Besides,  I  was  ahvays  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,  shif  less 
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  wasn'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  satisfied  to  be  as  they  were."  He  paused,  and 
walked  reflectively  up  and  down  the  room. 

"There  was,"  said  St.  Clare,  "a  time  in  my  life  when  I 
had  plans  and  hopes  of  doing  something  in  tills  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,  sometime, —  but  then — " 


24  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

"Why  didn't  you?"  said  Miss  Ophelia; —  "you  ought 
not  to  put  your  hand  to  the  plough,  and  look  back." 

"0,  well,  things  didn't#go  with  me  as  I  expected,  and  I 
got  the  despair  of  living  that  Solomon  did.  I  suppose  it  was 
a  necessary  incident  to  wisdom  in  us  both  ;  but,  some  how  or 
other,  instead  of  being  actor  and  regenerator  in  society,  I 
became  a  piece  of  drift-wood,  and  have  been  floating  and 
eddying  about,  ever  since.  Alfred  scolds  me,  every  time  we 
meet ;  and  he  has  the  better  of  me,  I  grant, —  for  he  really 
does  something ;  his  life  is  a  logical  result  of  his  opinions, 
and  mine  is  a  contemptible  non  sequitur." 

"  My  dear  cousin,  can  you  be  satisfied  with  such  a  way  of 
spending  your  probation  ?  " 

"Satisfied!  Was  I  not  just  telling  you  I  despised  it? 
But,  then,  to  come  back  to  this  point, — we  were  on  this  libera- 
tion business.  I  don't  think  my  feelings  about  slavery  are 
peculiar.  I  find  many  men  who,  in  their  hearts,  think  of  it 
just  as  I  do.  The  land  groans  under  it;  and,  bad  as  it  is  for 
the  slave,  it  is  worse,  if  anything,  for  the  master.  It  takes 
no  spectacles  to  see  that  a  great  class  of  vicious,  improvident, 
degraded  people,  among  us,  are  an  evil  to  us,  as  well  as  to 
themselves.  The  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  assimilate  with.  If  Eva,  now,  was  not 
more  angel  than  ordinary,  she  would  be  ruined.  We  might 
as  well  allow  the  small-pox  to  run  among  them,  and  think 
our  children  would  not  take  it,  as  to  let  them  be  uninstructed 
and  vicious,  and  think  our  children  will  not  be  affected  by 
that.     Yet  our  laws  positively  and  utterly  forbid  any  efficient 


filFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  25 

general  educational  system,  and  they  do  it  wisely,  too ;  forv 
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?"  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

"I  don't  know.  One  thing  is  certain, —  that  there  is  a 
mustering  among  the  masses,  the  world  over ;  ani  there  is  a 
dies  tree  coming  on,  sooner  or  later.  The  same  thing  is 
working  in  Europe,  in  England,  and  in  this  country.  My 
mother  used  to  tell  me  of  a  millennium  that  was  coming,  when 
Christ  should  reign,  and  all  men  should  be  free  and  happy. 
And  she  taught  me,  when  I  was  a  boy,  to  pray,  c  Thy  kingdom 
come.'  Sometimes  I  think  all  this  sighing,  and  groaning, 
and  stirring  among  the  dry  bones  foretells  what  she  used  to 
tell  me  was  coming.  But  who  may  abide  the  day  of  His 
appearing?" 

"  Augustine,  sometimes  I  think  you  are  not  far  from  the 
kingdom,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  laying  down  her  knitting,  and 
looking  anxiously  at  her  cousin. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  good  opinion ;  but  it 's  up  and  down 
with  me, —  up  to  heaven's  gate  in  theory,  down  in  earth's 
dust  in  practice.  But  there  's  the  tea-bell, —  do  let 's  go, — 
and  don't  say,  now,  I  have  n't  had  one  downright  serious  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." 

Ci  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 

VOL.  II.  3 


28  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 

ought  not  to  live.  I  don't  feel  a  particle  of  sympathy  for 
such  cases.  If  they  'd  only  behave  themselves,  it  would  not 
happen." 

"But,  mamma,"  said  Eva,  "the  poor  creature  was  un- 
nappy  ;  that's  what  made  her  drink." 

"  0,  fiddlestick  !  as  if  that  were  any  excuse  I  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 
overseers  and  masters  had  tried  their  hands  on  in  vain." 

"You!"  said  Marie;  "well,  I'd  be  glad  to  know  when 
you  ever  did  anything  of  the  sort." 

"Well,  he  was  a  powerful,  gigantic  fellow, —  a  native-born 
African;  and  he  appeared  to  have  the  rude  instinct  of  freedom 
in  him  to  an  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  we  had  dissolved  partnership. 
Alfred  was  greatly  exasperated  ;  but  I  told  -him  that  it  was 
his  own  fault,  and  laid  him  any  wager  that  I  could  break  the 


LIFE  AMONG  THB  LOWLY.  27 

man  ;  and  finally  it  was  agreed  that,  if  I  caught  him,  I  should 
have  him  to  experiment  on.  So  they  mustered  out  a  party 
of  some  six  or  seven,  with  guns  and  dogs,  for  the  hunt. 
People,  you  know,  can  get  up  just  as  much  enthusiasm  in 
hunting  a  man  as  a  deer,  if  it  is  only  customary ;  in  fact,  I 
got  a  little  excited  myself,  though  I  had  only  put  in  as  a 
*K>rt  of  mediator,  in  case  he  was  caught. 

"Well,  the  dogs  bayed  and  howled,  and  we  rode  and 
scampered,  and  finally  we  started  him.  He  ran  and  bounded 
like  a  buck,  and  kept  us  well  in  the  rear  for  some  time ;  but 
at  last  he  got  caught  in  an  impenetrable  thicket  of  cane ;  then 
he  turned  to  bay,  and  I  tell  you  he  fought  the  dogs  right  gal- 
lantly. He  dashed  them  to  right  and  left,  and  actually  killed 
three  of  them  with  only  his  naked  fists,  when  a  shot  from  a 
gun  brought  him  down,  and  he  fell,  wounded  and  bleeding, 
almost  at  my  feet.  The  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  shoot- 
ing him,  in  the  flush  of  success ;  but  I  persisted  in  my  bar- 
gain, and  Alfred  sold  him  to  me.  Well,  I  took  him  in  hand, 
and  in  one  fortnight  I  had  him  tamed  down  as  submissive 
and  tractable  as  heart  could  desire." 

tl  What  in  the  world  did  you  do  to  him  ?  "  said  Marie. 

"  Well,  it  was  quite  a  simple  process.  I  took  him  to  my 
own  room,  had  a  good  bed  made  for  him,  dressed  his  wounds, 
and  tended  him  myself,  until  he  got  fairly  on  his  feet  again. 
And,  in  process  of  time,  I  had  free  papers  made  out  for  him, 
and  told  him  he  might  go  where  he  liked.'-5 

"  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 


28  UNCLE  tom's  cabin;  or, 

fellow, —  trusty  and  true  as  steel.  He  embraced  Christianity 
afterwards,  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,  everybody  else  fled,  Scipio  worked  for  me  like  a 
giant  and  actually  brought  me  back  into  life  again.  But, 
poor  fellow !  he  was  taken,  right  after,  and  there  was  no 
saving  him.     I  never  felt  anybody's  loss  more." 

Eva  had  come  gradually  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  father, 
as  he  told  the  story, — her  small  lips  apart,  her  eyes  wide  and 
earnest  with  absorbing  interest. 

As  he  finished,  she  suddenly  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  convulsively. 

"Eva,  dear  child!  what  is  the  matter?"  said  St.  Clare, 
as  the  child's  small  frame  trembled  and  shook  with  the 
violence  of  her  feelings.  "This  child,"  he  added,  "ought 
not  to  hear  any  of  this  kind  of  thing, — she  's  nervous." 

"No,  papa,  I'm  not  nervous,"  said  Eva,  controlling  her- 
self, suddenly,  with  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  youi 
papa,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  Look  here, —  see  what  a  beautifu) 
peach  I  have  got  for  you !  " 

Eva  took  it,  and  smiled,  though  there  was  still  a  nervous 
twitching  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  Come,  look  at  the  gold-fish,"  said  St.  Clare,  taking  her 
hand  and  stepping  on  to  the  verandah.     A  few  moments,  and 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  29 

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  cnr  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  out." 

"I  wish  I  could  help  yozi.  Tom!     I've  learnt  to  writo 

VOL.  II.  3* 


30  UNCLE  tom's  cabin;  or, 

some.  Last  year  I  could  make  all  the  letters,  but  I  'm  afraid 
I've  forgotten." 

So  Eva  put  her  little  golden  head  close  to  his,  and  the 
two  commenced  a  grave  and  anxious  discussion,  each  one 
equally  earnest,  and  about  equally  ignorant ;  and,  with  a 
deal  of  consulting  and  advising  over  every  word,  the  com- 
position began,  as  they  both  felt  very  sanguine,  to  look  quite 
like  writing. 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Tom,  it  really  begins  to  look  beautiful/'  said 
Eva,  gazing  delightedly  on  it.  "  How  pleased  your  wife  '11 
be,  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." 

1 '  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. 

"0,  he'll  certainly  come,  then!"  said   Eva.     "I'm  so 


glad  ! " 


"  And  I  wanted  to  send  a  letter,  you  know,  to  let  'em 
know  whar  I  was,  and  tell  poor  Chloe  that  I  was  well  off, — 
cause  she  felt  so  drefful,  poor  soul !  " 

"  I  say,  Tom  !  "  said  St.  Clare's  voice,  coming  in  the  dooi 
at  this  moment. 

Tom  and  Eva  both  started. 

"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  wouldn't  discourage  either  of  you,"  said  St.  Clare, 
"  but   I   rather  think,  Torn,*  you  'd   better  get  me  to  write 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  31 

your  letter  for  you.  I  '11  do  it,  when  I  come  home  from  my 
ride." 

"It's  very  important  he  should  write,"  said  Eva,  "be- 
cause his  mistress  is  going  to  send  down  money  to  redeem 
him,  you  know,  papa  ;  he  told  me  they  told  him  so." 

St.  Clare  thought,  in  his  heart,  that  this  was  probably  only 
one  of  those  things  which  good-natured  owners  say  to  their 
servants,  to  alleviate  their  horror  of  being  sold,  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  Rosa  —  agreed  that  she  was  no  lady ;  ladies  never  kept 
working  about  as  she  did :  —  that  she  had  no  air  at  all ;  and 
they  were  surprised  that  she  should  be  any  relation  of  the 
St.  Clares.  Even  Marie  declared  that  it  was  absolutely 
fatiguing  to  see  Cousin  Ophelia  always  so  busy.  And,  in  fact, 
Miss  Ophelia's  industry  was  so  incessant  as  to  lay  some 
foundation  for  the  complaint.  She  sewed  and  stitched  away, 
from  daylight  till  dark,  with  the  energy  of  one  who  is  pressed 
on  by  some  immediate  urgency;  and  then,  when  the  light 
faded,  and  the  work  was  folded  away,  with  one  turn  out  came 
the  ever-ready  knitting-wTork,  and  there  she  was  again,  going 
on  as  briskly  as  ever.     It  really  was  a  labor  to  see  her. 


32  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

TOPSY. 

One  morning,  while  Miss  Ophelia  was  busy  in  some  of  her 
domestic  cares,  St.  Clare's  voice  was  heard,  calling  her  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Come  down  here,  Cousin;  I've  something  to  show  you." 

"What  is  it?"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  down,  with  her 
sewing  in  her  hand. 

"I've  made  a  purchase  for  your  department, —  see  here," 
said  St.  Clare ;  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  was  dressed  in  a  single  filthy, 
ragged  garment,  made  of  bagging;  and  stood  with  her  hanls 
demurely  folded  before  her.  Altogether,  there  was  some- 
thing odd  and  goblin-like  about  her  appearance, —  something, 
as  Miss  Ophelia  afterwards  said,  "so  heathenish,"  as  to  in- 
spire that  good  lady  with  utter  dismay ;  and,  turning  to  St. 
Clare,  she  said, 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  33 

"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  the 
native  music  of  her  race ;  and  finally,  turning  a  summerset  or 
two,  and  giving  a  prolonged  closing  note,  as  odd  and  un- 
earthly as  that  of  a  steam- whistle,  she  came  suddenly  down 
on  the  carpet,  and  stood  with  her  hands  folded,  and  a  most 
sanctimonious  expression  of  meekness  and  solemnity  over  her 
face,  only  broken  by  the  cunning  glances  which  she  shot 
askance  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

Miss  Ophelia  stood  silent,  perfectly  paralyzed  with  amaze- 
ment. 

St.  Ckre,  like  a  mischievous  fellow  as  he  was,  appeared  to 
enjoy  her  astonishment ;  and,  addressing  the  child  again,  said, 

"Topsy,  this  is  your  new  mistress.  I'm  going  to  give 
you  up  to  her;  see  now  that  you  behave  yourself." 

"Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Topsy,  with  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. 


34  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or 


"  Now,  Augustine,  what  upon  earth  is  this  for  ?  "  said  Misa 
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 '  1 1  tell  you  ?  You  're  always 
preaching  about  educating.  I  thought  I  would  make  you  a 
present  of  a  fresh-caught  specimen,  and  let  you  try  your 
hand  on  her,  and  bring  her  up  in  the  way  she  should  go." 

"  I  don't  want  her,  I  am  sure ;  —  I  have  more  to  do  with 
'em  now  than  I  want  to." 

' 'That's  you  Christians,  all  over!  —  you'll  get  up  a  soci- 
ety, and  get  some  poor  missionary  to  spend  all  his  days  among 
just  such  heathen.  But  let  me  see  one  of  you  that  would 
take  one  into  your  house  with  you,  and  take  the  labor  of 
their  conversion  on  yourselves  I  No ;  when  it  comes  to  that, 
they  are  dirty  and  disagreeable,  and  it 's  too  much  care,  and 
so  on." 

"Augustine,  you  know  I  didn't  think  of  it  in  that  light," 
said  Miss  Ophelia,  evidently  softening.  "Well,  it  might  be 
a  real  missionary  work,"  said  she,  looking  rather  more  favor- 
ably on  the  child, 

St.  Clare  had  touched  the  right  string.  Miss  Ophelia's 
conscientiousness  was  ever  on  the  alert.  "But,"  she  added, 
"  I  really  didn't  see  the  need  of  buying  this  one ;  —  there  are 
enough  now,  in  your  house,  to  take  all  my  time  and  skill." 

"Well,  then,  Cousin,"  said  St.  Clare,  drawing  her  aside, 
CI    ought  to  beg    your  pardon  for  my  good-for-nothing 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  35 


speeches.  You  are  so  good,  after  all,  that  there 's  no  sense 
in  them.  Why,  the  fact  is,  this  concern  belonged  to  a  couple 
of  drunken  creatures  that  keep  a  low  restaurant  that  I  have 
to  pass  by  every  day,  and  I  was  tired  of  hearing  her  scream- 
ing, and  them  beating  and  swearing  at  her.  She  looked 
bright  and  funny,  too,  as  if  something  might  be  made  of  her ; 
-  so  I  bought  her,  and  I  '11  give  her  to  you.  Try,  now,  and 
give  her  a  good  orthodox  New  England  bringing  up,  and  see 
what  it'll  make  of  her.  You  know  I  haven't  any  gift  that 
way;  but  I'd  like  you  to  try." 

"Well,  I '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  nig- 
ger ! "  said  Dinah,  surveying  the  new  arrival  with  no  friendly 
air.     "  Won't  have  her  round  under  my  feet,  i"  know ! " 

"Pah!"  said  Eosa  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. 


36  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR 


It  is  not  for  ears  polite  to  hear  the  particulars  of  the  first 
toilet  of  a  neglected,  abused  child.  In  fact,  in  this  world, 
multitudes  must  live  and  die  in  a  state  that  it  would  be  too 
great  a  shock  to  the  nerves  of  their  fellow-mortals  even  to 
hear  described.  Miss  Ophelia  had  a  good,  strong,  practical 
deal  of  resolution ;  and  she  went  through  all  the  disgusting 
details  with  heroic  thoroughness,  though,  it  must  be  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?  We'll  have  fine  works  with  her, 
I  reckon.  I  hate  these  nigger  young  uns !  so  disgusting !  I 
wonder  that  Mas'r  would  buy  her ! " 

The  "  young  un"  alluded  to  heard  all  these  comments  with 
the  subdued  and  doleful  air  which  seemed  habitual  to  her, 
only  scanning,  with  a  keen  and  furtive  glance  of  her  flickering 
eyes,  the  ornaments  which  Jane  wore  in  her  ears.  When 
arrayed  at  last  in  a  suit  of  decent  and  whole  clothing,  her  hair 
cropped  short  to  her  head,  Miss  Ophelia,  with  some  satisfac- 
tion, said  she  looked  more  Christian-like  than  she  did,  and  in 
her  own  mind  began  to  mature  some  plans  for  her  instruction. 

Sitting  down  before  her,  she  began  to  question  her. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Topsy  ?  " 

"  Dun  no,  Missis,"  said  the  image,  with  a  grin  that  showed 
all  her  teeth. 

"Don't  know  how  old  you  are?  Didn't  anybody  ever 
tell  you?     Who  was  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Never  had  none !  "  said  the  child,  with  another  grin. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  87 

" Never  had  any  mother?  What  do  you  mean?  Where 
were  you  born?  " 

"Never  was  born!"  persisted  Topsy,  with  another  grin, 
that  looked  so  goblin-like,  that,  if  Miss  Ophelia  had  been  at 
all  nervous,  she  might  have  fancied  that  she  had  got  hold  of 
some  sooty  gnome  from  the  land  of  Diablerie;  but  Miss 
Ophelia  was  not  nervous,  but  plain  and  business-like,  and  sha 
said,  with  some  sternness, 

"You  mustn't  answer  me  in  that  way,  child;  I'm  not 
playing  with  you.  Tell  me  where  you  were  born,  and  who 
your  father  and  mother  were." 

"Never  was  born,"  reiterated  the  creature,  more  emphati- 
cally ;  "  never  had  no  father  nor  mother,  nor  nothin'.  I  was 
raised  by  a  speculator,  with  lots  of  others.  Old  Aunt  Sue 
used  to  take  car  on  us." 

The  child  was  evidently  sincere ;  and  Jane,  breaking  into  a 
short  laugh,  said, 

'■Laws,  Missis,  there's  heaps  of  'em.  Speculators  buys 
'em  up  cheap,  when  they 's  little,  and  gets  'em  raised  for 
market." 

"How  long  have  you  lived  with  your  master  and  mis- 
tress?" 

"  Dun  no,  Missis." 

"Is  it  a  year,  or  more,  or  less ? " 

"'Dun  no,  Missis." 

"Laws,  Missis,  those  low  negroes, — they  can't  tell ;  they 
don't  know  anything  about  time,"  said  Jane;  "they  don't 
know  what  a  year  is ;  they  don't  know  their  own  ages." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  anything  about  God,  Topsy?" 

The  child  looked  bewildered,  but  grinned  as  usual. 

"  Do  you  know  who  made  you?  " 

VOL.   II.  4 


38  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR. 

"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  tan- 
gible. 

".No,  Missis." 

"What  can  you  do?  —  what  did  you  do  for  your  master  and 
mistress?" 

"  Fetch  water,  and  wash  dishes,  and  rub  knives,  and  wait 
on  folks." 

"  Were  they  good  to  you  ?  " 

"  Spect  they  was,"  said  the  child,  scanning  Miss  Ophelia 
cunningly. 

Miss  Ophelia  rose  from  this  encouraging  colloquy;  St.  Clare 
was  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair.  • 

"  You  find  virgin  soil  there,  Cousin ;  put  in  your  own  ideas, 
—  you  won't  find  many  to  pull  up." 

Miss  Ophelia's  ideas  of  education,  like  all  her  other  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 
comprised  in  very  few  words :  to  teach  them  to  mind  when 
they  were  spoken  to ;  to  teach  them  the  catechism,  sewing, 
and  reading;  and  to  whip  them  if  they  told  lies.  And 
though,  of  course,  in  the  flood  of  light  that  is  now  poured 
on  education,  these  are  left  far  away  in  the  rear,  yet  it  k 
an  undisputed  fact  that  our  grandmothers  raised  some  toler- 
ably fair  men  and  women  under  this  regime,  as  many  of 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  39 

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  com- 
mand. 

The  child  was  announced  and  considered  in  the  family  as 
Miss  Ophelia's  girl ;  and,  as  she  was  looked  upon  with  no  gra- 
cious eye  in  the  kitchen,  Miss  Ophelia  resolved  to  confine  her 
sphere  of  operation  and  instruction  chiefly  to  he?  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 
cha#iber,  the  first  morning,  and  solemnly  commencing  a 
course  of  instruction  in  the  art  and  mystery  of  bed-making. 

Behold,  then,  Topsy,  washed  and  shorn  of  all  the  little 
braided  tails  wherein  her  heart  had  delighted,  arrayed  in  a 
clean  gown,  with  well-starched  apron,  standing  reverently 
before  Miss  Ophelia,  with  an  expression  of  solemnity  well 
befitting  a  funeral. 

"  Now,  Topsy,  I  'm  going  to  show  you  just  how  my  bed  is 
to  be  made.  I  am  very  particular  about  my  bed.  You  must 
learn  exactly  how  to  do  it." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Topsy,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  face 
of  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  ? ' ' 


40  UNCLE   TOM  S   CABIN  :    OR, 


u 


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  manipula- 
tions, 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  her 
instructress  was  greatly  edified.  By  an  unlucky  slip,  how- 
ever, a  fluttering  fragment  of  the  ribbon  hung  out  of  one  of 
her  sleeves,  just  as  she  was  finishing,  and  caught  Miss  Ophe- 
lia's attention.  Instantly  she  pounced  upon  it.  "What's 
this  ?  You  naughty,  wicked  child, — you  've  been  stealing 
this  ! " 

The  ribbon  was  pulled  out  of  Topsy' s  own  sleeve,  yet  was 
she  not  in  the  least  disconcerted  ;  she  only  looked  at  it  with 
an  air  of  the  most  surprised  and  unconscious  innocence. 

"Laws!  why,  that  ar 's  Miss  Feely's  ribbon,  an't  it? 
How  could  it  a  got  caught  in  my  sleeve  ?" 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  41 

'c  Topsy,  you  naughty  girl,  don't  you  tell  me  a  lie,  —  you 
stole  that  ribbon  !  " 

"  Missis,  I  declar  for  't,  I  didn't;  — never  seed  it  till  dis 
yer  blessed  minnit." 

"  Topsy,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "don't  you  know  it's 
wicked  to  tell  lies?" 

"  I  never  tells  no  lies,  Miss  Feely,"  said  Topsy,  with 
virtuous  gravity;  "it's  jist  the  truth  I've  been  a  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,  couldn't  say  no 
other  w*ay,"  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  sleeve. 

"  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  penitence. 

1  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." 

vol.  n  4* 


42  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"  Laws,  Missis!  I  took  Miss  Eva's  red  thing  she  wars  on 
her  neck." 

"  You  did,  you  naughty  child  !  — "Well,  what,  else?" 

"  I  took  Rosa's  yer-rings, —  them  red  ones." 

u  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 
you." 

Topsy,  with  loud  protestations,  and  tears,  and  groans, 
declared  that  she  could  not.  "They's  burnt  up, — they 
was." 

"  What  did  you  burn  'em  up  for?"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Cause  I 's  wicked, —  I  is.  I 's  mighty  wicked,  any  how. 
I  can't  help  it." 

Just  at  this  moment,  Eva  came  innocently  into  the  room, 
with  the  identical  coral  necklace  on  her  neck. 

"Why,  Eva,  where  did  you -get  your  necklace?"  said 
Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Get  it  ?     Why,  I  've  had  it  on  all  day,"  said  Eva. 

"  Did  you  have  it  on  yesterday?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  what  is  funny,  Aunty,  I  had  it  on  all  night. 
I  forgot  to  take  it  off  when  I  went  to  bed." 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  perfectly  bewildered ;  the  more  so,  as 
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  couldn't  think  of 
nothin  else  to  'fess,"  said  Topsy,  rubbing  her  eyes. 

"  But,  of  course,  I  did  n't  want  you  to  confess  things  you 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  43 

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 
wonder. 

"  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 ! "  • 

"  No,  no,  Rosa,"  said  Eva,  with  an  air  of  command,  which 
the  child  could  assume  at  times;  "you  mustn't  talk  so, 
Rosa.     I  can't  bear  to  hear  it." 

"  La  sakes!  Miss  Eva,  you 's  so  good,  you  don't  know 
nothing  how  to  get  along  with  niggers.  There  's  no  way  but 
to  cut  'em  well  up,  I  tell  ye." 

"  Rosa  !  "  said  Eva,  "  hush !  Don't  you  say  another  word 
of  that  sort !  "  and  the  eye  of  the  child  flashed,  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 
extremes  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,  com- 
mand, education,  physical  and  moral  eminence ;  the  Afric, 
born  of  ages  of  oppression,  submission,  ignorance,  toil,  and 
vice  ! 

Something,  perhaps,  of  such  thoughts  struggled  through 


44  UNCLE  TOM'S  cabin  :   OR, 

Eva's  mind.  But  a  child's  thoughts  are  rather  dim,  unde- 
fined instincts ;  and  in  Eva's'  noble  nature  many  such  were 
yearning  and  working,  for  which  she  had  no  power  of  utter- 
ance. 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  fol- 
lowed by  the  short  laugh  and  habitual  grin.  No  !  the  ear 
that  has  never  heard  anything  but  abuse  is  strangely  incred- 
ulous 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 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  45 

best.  Only  I  '11  make  one  suggestion :  I  've  seen  this  child 
whipped  with  a  poker,  knocked  down  with  the  shovel  or 
tongs,  whichever  came  handiest,  &c. ;  and,  seeing  that  she  is 
used  to  that  style  of  operation,  I  think  your  whippings  will 
have  to  be  pretty  energetic,  to  make  much  impression." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  with  her,  then?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  You  have  started  a  serious  question,"  said  St.  Clare; 
"  I  wish  you  'd  answer  it.  Wftat  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  bo  governed?"  said 
St.  Clare. 

"  I'm  sure  it's  more  than  I  can  say,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Or  I  either,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  The  horrid  cruelties  and 
outrages  that  once  and  a  while  find  their  way  into  the  papers, 
—  such  cases  as  Prue's,  for  example, —  what  do  they  come 
from  ?  In  many  cases,  it  is  a  gradual  hardening  process  on 
both  sides, —  the  owner  growing  more  and  more  cruel,  as  the 
servant  more  and  more  callous.  Whipping  and  abuse  are  like 
laudanum ;  you  have  to  double  the  dose  as  the  sensibilities 
decline.  I  saw  this  very  early  when  I  became  an  owner ;  and 
I  resolved  never  to  begin,  because  I  did  not  know  when  I 
should  stop, — and  I  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 
tc  try  Mith  one  child,  who  is  a  specimen  of  thousands  among 
us." 


46  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"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  V 

"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  employments  for  her,  and  undertook  to  teach  her  to  read 
and  to  sew. 

In  the  former  art,  the  child  was  quick  enough.  She 
learned  her  letters  as  if  by  magic,  and  was  very  soon  able 
to  read  plain  reading ;  but  the  sewing  was  a  more  difficult 
matter.  The  creature  was  as  lithe  as  a  cat,  and  as  active  as 
a  monkey,  and  the  confinement  of  sewing  was  her  abomina- 
tion ;  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  conjurer,  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  watchful- 
ness which  would  leave  her  no  time  for  anything  else,  detect 
her. 

Topsy  was  soon  a  noted  character  in  the  establishment. 
Her  talent  for  every  species  of  drollery,  grimace,  and  mim- 
icry,—  for  dancing,  tumbling,  climbing,  singing,  whistling, 
imitating  every  sound  that  hit  her  fancy,  —  seemed  inexhausti- 
ble. In  her  play-hours,  she  invariably  had  every  child  in  the 
establishment  at  her    heels,  open-mouthed  with  admiration 


LIFE   AMONG    XHE   LOWLY.  47 

and  wonder, —  not  excepting  Miss  Eva,  who  appeared  to  be 
fascinated  by  her  wild  diablerie,  as  a  dove  is  sometimes 
charmed  by  a  glittering  serpent.  Miss  Ophelia  was  uneasy 
that  Eva  should  fancy  Topsy's  society  so  much,  and  implcred 
St.  Clare  to  forbid  it. 

"  Poh  !  let  the  child  alone,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  Topsy  will 
do  her  good." 

"  But  so  depraved  a  child,-1- are  you  not  afraid  she  will 
teach  her  some  mischief?" 

u  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 
servants.  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  sud- 
denly found  utterly  ruined,  or  the  person  would  stumble 
accidentally  into  a  pail  of  hot  water,  or  a  libation  of  dirty  slop 
would  unaccountably  deluge  them  from  above  when  in  full  gala 
dress ;  —  and  on  all  these  occasions,  when  investigation  was 
made,  there  was  nobody  found  to  stand  sponsor  for  the 
indignity.  Topsy  was  cited,  and  had  up  before  all  the  domes- 
tic judicatories,  time  and  again;  but  always  sustained  her 
examinations  with  most  edifying  innocence  and  gravity  of 
appearance.     Nobody  in  the  world  ever  doubted  who  did  the 


48  UNCLE  TOM'S  cabin  :    OR, 

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  chamber-maids,  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  sym- 
pathy. In  short,  Topsy  soon  made  the  household  under- 
stand the  propriety  of  letting  her  alone ;  and  she  was  let  alone 
accordingly. 

Topsy  was  smart  and  energetic  in  all  manual  operations, 
learning  everything  that  was  taught  her  with  surprising 
quickness.  With  a  few  lessons,  she  had  learned  to  do  the 
proprieties  of  Miss  Ophelia's  chamber  in  a  way  with  which 
even  that  particular  lady  could  find  no  fault.  Mortal  hands 
could  not  lay  spread  smoother,  adjust  pillows  more  accurately, 
sweep  and  dust  and  arrange  more  perfectly,  than  Topsy,  when 
she  chose, — but  she  didn't  very  often  choose.  If  Miss  Ophelia, 
after  three  or  four  days  of  careful  and  patient  supervision,  was 
so  sanguine  as  to  suppose  that  Topsy  had  at  last  fallen  into 
her  way,  could  do  without  overlooking,  and  so  go  off  and  busy 
herself  about  something  else,  Topsy  would  hold  a  perfect  car- 
nival of  confusion,  for  some  one  or  two  hours.  Instead  of 
making  the  bed,  she  i  ould  amuse  herself  with  pulling  off  the 
pillow-cases,  butting  ner  woolly  head  among  the  pillows,  till 
it  would  sometimes  ie  grotesquely  ornamented  with  feathers 
sticking  out  in  various  directions ;  she  would  climb  the  posts, 
and  hang  head  downward  from  the  tops ;  flourish  the  sheets 
and  spreads  all  over  the  apartment ;  dress  the  bolster  up  in 
Miss  Ophelia's  night-clothes,  and  enact  various  scenic  per- 


LITE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  49 

formances  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 
hest  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  I 's  so  wicked !  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  what  I  shall  do  with  you,  Topsy." 

"Law,  Missis,  you  must  whip  me;  my  old  Missis  allers 
whipped  me.     I  an't  used  to  workin'  unless  I  gets  whipped." 

"  Why,  Topsy,  I  don't  want  to  whip  you.  You  can  do 
well,  if  you  've  a  mind  to  ;  what  is  the  reason  you  won't?  " 

"Laws,  Missis,  I 's  used  to  whippin';  I  spects  it's  good 
for  me." 

Miss  Ophelia  tried  the  recipe,  and  Topsy  invariably  made 
a  terrible  commotion,  screaming,  groaning  and  imploring, 
though  half  an  hour  afterwards,  when  roosted  on  some  projec- 
tion of  the  balcony,  and  surrounded  by  a  flock  of  admiring 
"  young  uns,"  she  would  express  the  utmost  contempt  of  the 
whole  affair. 

"  Law,  Miss  Feely  whip  !  —  would  n't  kill  a  skeeter,  her 
whippins.  Oughter  see  how  old  Mas'r  made  the  flesh  fly ; 
old  Mas'r  know'd  how !  " 

Topsy  always  made  great  capital  of  her  own  sins  and  enor- 
mities, evidently  considering  them  as  something  peculiarly 
distinguishing. 

"  Law,  you  niggers,"  she  would  say  to  some  of  her  auditors, 
"  does  you  know  you 's  all  sinners  ?     Well,  you  is  —  every- 

VOL.   II.  5 


50  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN:    OR, 

body  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  nothin1 
with  me.  I  used  to  keep  old  Missis  a  swarin'  at  me  half  de 
time.  I  spects  I's  the  wickedest  critter  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  :he  dis- 
tinction. 

Miss  Ophelia  busied  herself  very  earnestly  on  Sundays, 
teaching  Topsy  the  catechism.  Topsy  had  an  uncommon 
verbal  memory,  and  committed  with  a  fluency  that  greatly 
encouraged  her  instructress. 

"  What  good  do  you  expect  it  is  going  to  do  her?"  said 
St.  Clare. 

"Why,  it  always  has  done  children  good.  It's  what 
children  always  have  to  learn,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Understand  it  or  not,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"0,  children  never  understand  it  at  the  time;  but,  after 
they  are  grown  up,  it  '11  come  to  them." 

"  Mine  hasn't  come  to  me  yet,"  said  St.  Clare,  "though 
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,  haven't  you  now?"  said  St.  Clare. 

"I  wish  you  were  as  good  as  you  were  when  you  were  a 
boy,  Augustine." 

"  So  do  I,  that 's  a  fact,  Cousin,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  Well, 
go  ahead  and  catechize  Topsy ;  may  be  you  '11  make  out 
something  yet." 

Topsy,  who  had  stood  like  a  black  statue  during  this  dis- 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  51 

cussion,  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  dat  ar  state  Kintuck?  " 

"  What  state,  Topsy?" 

"  Dat  state  dey  fell  out  of.  I  used  to  hear  Mas'r  tell  how 
we  came  down  from  Kintuck." 

St.  Clare  laughed. 

"  You  '11  have  to  give  her  a  meaning,  or  she  '11  make  one," 
said  he.  "  There  seems  to  be  a-  theory  of  emigration  sug- 
gested there." 

"0!  Augustine,  be  still,"  said  Miss  Ophelia;  "how  can 
I  do  anything,  if  you  will  be  laughing?" 

"  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  somo 
important  words,  and  persist  in  the  mistake,  in  spite  of  every 
effort  to  the  contrary ;  and  St.  Clare,  after  all  his  promises 
of  goodness,  took  a  wicked  pleasure  in  these  mistakes,  calling 
Topsy  to  him  whenever  he  had  a  mind  to  amuse  himself,  and 
getting  her  to  repeat  the  offending  passages,  in  spite  of  Miss 
Ophelia's  remonstrances. 

"How  do  you  think  I  can  do  anything  with  the  child,  if 
you  will  go  on  so,  Augustine? "  she  would  say. 

"  Well,  it  is  too  bad, —  I  won't  again ;  but  I  do  like  to  hear 
the  droll  little  image  stumble  over  those  big  words  !  " 

"  But  you  confirm  her  in  the  wrong  way." 


52  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  on, 


"  What's  the  odds?  One  word  is  as  good  as  another  to 
her." 

"  You  wanted  me  to  bring  her  up  right ;  and  you  ought  to 
remember  she  is  a  reasonable  creature,  and  be  careful  of  jour 
influence  over  her." 

"  0,  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  head-ache. 

St.  Clare  took  the  same  kind  of  amusement  in  the  child 
that  a  man  might  in  the  tricks  of  a  parrot  or  a  pointer. 
Topsy,  whenever  her  sins  brought  her  into  disgrace  in  other 
quarters,  always  took  refuge  behind  his  chair ;  and  St.  Clare, 
in  one  way  or  other,  would  make  peace  for  her.  From  him 
she  got  many  a  stray  picayune,  which  she  laid  out  in  nuts  and 
candies,  and  distributed,  with  careless  generosity,  to  all  the 
children  in  the  family;  for  Topsy,  to  do  her  justice,  was 
good-natured  and  liberal,  and  only  spiteful  in  self-defence. 
She  is  fairly  introduced  into  our  corps  de  ballet,  and  will 
figure,  from  time  to  time,  in  her  turn,  with  other  performers. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  53 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

KENTUCK. 

Our  readers  may  not  be  unwilling  to  glance  back,  for  a 
brief  interval,  at  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  on  the  Kentucky  farm, 
and  see  what  has  been  transpiring  among  those  whom  he  had 
left  behind. 

It  was  late  in  the  summer  afternoon,  and  the  doors  and 
windows  of  the  large  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  running 
through  the  whole  length  of  the  house,  to  a  balcony  on  either 
end.  Leisurely  tipped  back  in  one  chair,  with  his  heels  in 
another,  he  was  enjoying  his  after-dinner  cigar.  Mrs.  Shelby 
sat  in  the  door,  busy  about  some  fine  sewing ;  she  seemed 
like  one  who  had  something  on  her  mind,  which  she  was  seek- 
ing an  opportunity  to  introduce. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  Chloe  has  had  a  letter 
from  Tom?" 

"Ah!  has  she?  Tom's  got  some  friend  there,  it  seems. 
How  is  the  old  boy?  " 

"He  has  been  bought  by  a  very  fine  family,  I  should 
think,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby, —  "is  kindly  treated,  and  has  not 
much  to  do." 

"  Ah !  well,  I  'm  glad  of  it, —  very  glad,"  said  Mr,  Shelby, 
heartily.  "Tom,  I  suppose,  will  get  reconciled  to  a  South- 
ern residence;  —  hardly  want  to  come  up  here  ag&iji."  \ 

"On  the  contrary,  he  inquires  very  anxJonoly,"  said  Mrs. 

VOL.    II.  5* 


54  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

Shelby,    "when    the   money   for   his   redemption   is   to  be 
raised." 

"I'm  sure  /don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Shelby.  "Once  get 
business  running  wrong,  there  does  seem  to  be  no  end  to  it. 
It 's  like  jumping  from  one  bog  to  another,  all  through  a 
swamp ;  borrow  of  one  to  pay  another,  and  then  borrow  of 
another  to  pay  one, —  and  these  confounded  notes  falling  due 
before  a  man  has  time  to  smoke  a  cigar  and  turn  round, — 
dunning  letters  and  dunning  messages, — ■  all  scamper  and 
hurry-scurry." 

"It  does  seem  to  me,  my  dear,  that  something  might  be 
done  to  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 
Kentucky;  but  still  you  haven't  sense  to  know  that  you 
don't  understand  business ;  —  women  never  do,  and  never 
can." 

"But,  at  least,"  said  Mr*.  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." 

"0,  bother!  don't  plague  me,  Emily! — I  can't  tell 
exactly.  I  know  somewhere  about  what  things  are  likely  to 
be;  but  there's  no  trimming  and  squaring  my  affairs,  as 
Chloe  trims  crust  off  her  pies.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  business,  I  tell  you." 

And  Mr.  Shelby,  not  knowing  any  other  way  of  enforc- 
ing his  ideas,  raised  his  voice, —  a  mode  of  arguing  very  con- 
venient and  convincing,  when  a  gentleman  is  discussing  mat- 
ters 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 


LIFE    AMONG   THE    LOWLY.  55 

woman,  she  had  a  clear,  energetic,  practical  mind,  and  a  force 
of  character  every  way  superior  to  that  of  her  husband ;  so 
that  it  would  not  have  been  so  very  absurd  a  supposition,  to 
nave  allowed  her  capable  of  managing,  as  Mr.  Shelby  sup- 
posed. Her  heart  was  set  on  performing  her  promise  to  Tom 
and  Aunt  Chloe,  and  she  sighed  as  discouragements  thickened 
around  her. 

"  Don't  you  think  we  might  in  some  way  contrive  to  raise 
that  money?     Poor  Aunt  Chloe  !  her  heart  is  so  set  on  it ! " 

"  I  'm  sorry,  if  it  is.  I  think  I  was  premature  in  promis- 
ing. 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  some- 
body else." 

"Mr.  Shelby,  I  have  taught  my  people  that  their  mar- 
riages are  as  sacred  as  ours.  I  never  could  think  of  giving 
Chloe  such  advice." 

"It's  a  pity,  wife,  that  you  have  burdened  them  with  a 
morality  above  their  condition  and  prospects.  I  always 
thought  so." 

"  It 's  only  the  morality  of  the  Bible,  Mr.  Shelby." 

"  Well,  well,  Emily,  I  don't  pretend  to  interfere  with  your 
religious  notions ;  only  they  seem  extremely  unfitted  for  peo- 
ph  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,  / 
cannot  absolve  myse  from  the  promises  I  make  to  these 
helpless  creatures,  ll  I  can  get  the  money  no  other  way,  I 
will  take  music-scholars ;  —  I  could  get  enough,  I  know,  and 
earn  the  money  myself." 

'You  wouldn't  degrade  yourself  that  way,  Emily?     I 
never  could  consent  to  it." 


56  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR. 

"  Degrade  !  would  it  degrade  me  as  much  as  to  break  my 
faith  with  the  helpless  ?     No,  indeed  ! " 

"Well,  you  are  always  heroic  and  transcendental,"  said 
Mr.  Shelby,  "but  I  think  you  had  better  think  before  you 
undertake  such  a  piece  of  Quixotism." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance 
of  Aunt  Chloe,  at  the  end  of  the  verandah. 

"If  you  please,  Missis,"  said  she. 

"Well,  Chloe,  what  is  it?"  said  her  mistress,  rising,  and 
going  to  the  end  of  the  balcony. 

"If  Missis  would  come  and  look  at  dis  yer  lot  o'  poetry." 

Chloe  had  a  particular  fancy  for  calling  poultry  poetry,— 
an  application  of  language  in  which  she  always  persisted,  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 
consideration. 

"  I  'm  a  thinkin  whether  Missis  would  be  a  havin  a  chicken 
pie  o'  dese  yer." 

"Really,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  don't  much  care; — serve  them 
any  way  you  like." 

Chloe  stood  handling  them  over  abstractedly ;  it  was  quite 
evident  that  the  chickens  were  not  what  she  was  thinking  of. 
At  last,  with  the  short  laugh  with  which  her  tribe  often 
introduce  a  doubtful  proposal,  she  said, 

"Laws  me,  Missis!  what  should  Mas' r  and  Missis  be  a 
troublin  theirselves  'bout  de  money,  and  not  a  usin  what 's 
right  in  der  hands?"  and  Chloe  laughed  again. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  57 

" 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 
between  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 
out?" 

"  Laws !  I  an't  a  proposin  nothin;  only  Sam  he  said  der 
was  one  of  dese  yer  perfectioners,  dey  calls  'em,  in  Louisville, 
said  he  wanted  a  good  hand  at  cake  and  pastry;  and  said  he'd 
give  four  dollars  a  week  to  one,  he  did." 

"Well,  Chloe." 

"Well,  laws,  I's  a  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, 
considerin  ;  and  if  Missis  would  only  let  me  go,  I  would  help 
fetch  up  de  money.  I  an't  afraid  to  put  my  cake,  nor  pies 
n  other,  'long  side  no  perfectioner '$." 

"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'll  take  de  baby, —  she's 
such  a  peart  young  un,  she  won't  take  no  lookin  arter." 

"  Louisville  is  a  good  way  off." 

"Law  sakes  !  who's  afeard?  —  it's  down  river,  somer  neai 
my  old  man,  perhaps?"  said  Chloe,  speaking  the  last  in  th 
tone  of  a  question,  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Shelby. 


88  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

"  No,  Chloe;  it's  many  a  hundred  miles  off,"  said  Mr* 
Shelby. 

Chloe' s  countenance  fell. 

"  Never  mind;  your  going  there  shall  bring  you  nearer, 
Chloe.  Yes,  you  may  go ;  and  your  wages  shall  every  cent 
of  them  be  laid  aside  for  your  husband's  redemption." 

As  when  a  bright  sunbeam  turns  a  dark  cloud  to  silver,  so 
Chloe' s  dark  face  brightened  immediately,- —  it  really  shone. 

"Laws  !  if  Missis  isn't  too  good  !  I  was  thinking  of  dat 
ar  very  thing;  cause  I  shouldn't  need  no  clothes,  nor  shoes, 
nor  nothin, —  I  could  save  every  cent.  How  many  weeks  is 
der  in  a  year,  Missis  ?  " 

"  Fifty-two,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

"Laws!  now,  dere  is?  and  four  dollars  for  each  on  'em. 
Why,  how  much'd  dat  ar  be?  " 

"  Two  hundred  and  eight  dollars,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

"Why-e!"  said  Chloe,  with  an  accent  of  surprise  and 
delight;  "and  how  long  would  it  take  me  to  work  it  out, 
Missis?" 

"Some  four  or  five  years,  Chloe;  but,  then,  you  needn't 
do  it  all, —  I  shall  add  something  to  it." 

"I  wouldn't  hear  to  Missis'  givin  lessons  nor  nothin. 
Mas'r  's  quite  right  in  dat  ar ;  —  'twould  n't  do,  no  ways.  I 
hope  none  our  family  ever  be  brought  to  dat  ar,  while  I 's  got 
hands." 

"Don't  fear,  Chloe;  I'll  take  care  of  the  honor  of  the 
family,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  smiling.  "But  when  do  you 
expect  to  go?" 

"Well,  I  want  spectin  nothin;  only  Sam,  he's  a  gwine  to 
de  river  with  some  colts,  and  he  said  I  could  go  long  with 
him ;  so  I  jes  put  my  things  together.     If  Missis  was  willin, 


LIFE    AMONG    THE    LOWLY.  59 

T  'd  go  with  Sam  to-morrow  morning,  if  Missis  would  write 
my  pass,  and  write  me  a  commendation." 

1  Well,  Chloe,  I'll  attend  to  it,  if  Mr.  Shelby  has  no 
objections.     I  must  speak  to  him." 

Mrs.  Shelby  went  up  stairs,  and  Aunt  Chloe,  delighted, 
went  out  to  her  cabin,  to  make  her  preparation. 

"Law  sakes,  Mas'r  George!  ye  didn't  know  I's  a  gwine 
to  Louisville  to-morrow  ! "  she  said  to  George,  as.  entering  her 
cabin,  he  found  her  busy  in  sorting  over  her  baby's  clothes , 
"I  thought  I'd  jis  look  over  sis's  things,  and  get  'em 
straightened  up.  But  I  'm  gwine,  Mas'r  George, —  gwine  to 
have  four  dollars  a  week ;  and  Missis  is  gwine  to  lay  it  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?" 

"  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 ;  <md  then,  you  know,  Aunt  Chloe,  I  can  tell  about  the 
new  colts  and  all." 

"  Sartin,  sartin,  Mas'r  George;  you  go  'long,  and  I'll  get 
ye  up  a  bit  o'  chicken,  or  some  sich;  ye  won't  have  many 
more  suppers  wid  yer  poor  old  aunty." 


(ft)  UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN  :    OR, 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

"  THE   GRASS  WITHERETH —  THE  FLOWER    FADETH." 

Life  passes,  with  us  all,  a  day  at  a  time  j  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 
miserable ;  for,  so  well  is  the  harp  of  human  feeling  strung, 
that  nothing  but  a  crash  that  breaks  every  string  can  wholly 
mar  its  harmony ;  and,  on  looking  back  to  seasons  which  in 
review  appear  to  us  as  those  of  deprivation  and  trial,  we  can 
remember  that  each  hour,  as  it  glided,  brought  its  diversions 
and  alleviations,  so  that,  though  not  happy  wholly,  we  were 
not,  either,  wholly  miserable. 

Tom  read,  in  his  only  literary  cabinet,  of  one  who  had 
"  learned  in  whatsoever  state  he  was,  therewith  to  be  content." 
It  seemed  to  him  good  and  reasonable  doctrine,  and  accorded 
well  with  the  settled  and  thoughtful  habit  which  he  had 
acquired  from  the  reading  of  that  same  book. 

His  letter  homeward,  as  we  related  in  the  last  chapter,  was 
in  due  time  answered  by  Master  George,  in  a  good,  round, 
school-boy  hand,  that  Tom  said  might  be  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  Louisville,  where  her  skill  in  the  pastry  line  was  gaining 
wonderful  sums  of  money,  all  of  which,  Tom  was  informedf 


LIFE    AMONW    THE    LOWLY.  61 

--»- ■ T — 

was  to  be  laid  up  to  go  to  make  up  the  sum  of  his  redemption 
money ;  Mose  and  Pete  were  thriving,  and  the  baby  was 
trotting  all  about  the  house,  under  the  care  of  Sally  and  the 
family  generally. 

Tom's  cabin  was  shut  up  for  the  present ;  but  George  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  nourishing  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 

vol.  it.  6 


62  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

him  most  was  her  sunny  head  looking  out  the  gate  for  his 
distant  approach,  and  her  childish  question, —  "Well,  Uncle 
Tom,  what  have  you  got  for  me  to-day  ?  " 

Nor  was  Eva  less  zealous  in  kind  offices,  in  return.  Though 
a  child,  she  was  a  beautiful  reader; —  a  fine  musical  ear  a 
quick  poetic  fancy,  and  an  instinctive  sympathy  with  what  is 
grand  and  noble,  made  her  such  a  reader  of  the  Bible  as  Tom 
had  never  before  heard.  At  first,  she  read  to  please  her  humble 
friend ;  but  soon  her  own  earnest  nature  threw  out  its  tendrils, 
and  wound  itself  around  the  majestic  book;  and  Eva  loved  it, 
because  it  woke  in  her  strange  yearnings,  and  strong,  dim 
emotions,  such  as  impassioned,  imaginative  children  love  to 
feel. 

The  parts  that  pleased  her  most  were  the  Revelations  and 
the  Prophecies, —  parts  whose  dim  and  wondrous  imagery, 
and  fervent  language,  impressed  her  the  more,  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 
unknown ;  and  the  voices  and  shadowy  movings  which  come  tc 
her  from  out  the  cloudy  pillar  of  inspiration  have  each  one 
echoes  and  answers  in  her  own  expecting  nature.  Its  mystic 
imagery  are  so  many  talismans  and  gems  inscribed  with 
unknown  hieroglyphics ;  she  folds  them  in  her  bosom,  and 
expects  to  read  them  when  she  passes  beyond  the  veil. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  6Z 

At  this  time  in  our  story,  the  whole  St.  Clare  establish- 
ment is.  for  the  time  being,  removed  to  their  villa  on  Lake 
Pontchartrain.  The  heats  of  summer  had  driven  all  who 
were  able  to  leave  the  sultry  and  unhealthy  city,  to  seek  the 
shores  of  the  lake,  and  its  cool  sea-breezes. 

St.  Clare's  villa  was  an  East  Indian  cottage,  surrounded  by 
light  verandahs  of  bamboo- work,  and  opening  on  all  sides  into 
gardens  and  pleasure-grounds.  The  common  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  pic- 
ture never  for  an  hour  the  same,  yet  every  hour  more  beau- 
tiful. 

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  litttle  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  'tis." 

"What,  Miss  Eva?" 

•  "  Don't  you  see, —  there  ?  "  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 
fire.' " 


64  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN:    OR, 

"  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,  Uncle  Tom?' 
said  Eva. 

u  0,  up  in  the  clouds,  Miss  Eva." 

1  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 

voice, 

"  They  are  all  robed  in  spotless  white, 

And  conquering  palms  they  bear." 

Uncle  Tom,"  said  Eva,  "I  'm  going  there." 

"Where,  Miss  Eva?" 

The  child  rose,  and  pointed  her  little  hand  to  the  sky ;  the 
glow  of  evening  lit  her  golden  hair  and  flushed  cheek  with  a 
kind  of  unearthly  radiance,  and  her  eyes  were  bent  earnestly 
on  the  skies. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  65 

>  ■  ■    '  ■     ■■  -  ■ — — i — , — , . , ,.—  ,     ...  .  -.— 

"  I  'm  going  there"  she  said,  "  to  the  spirits  bright,  Tom; 
Vm  going,  before  long" 

The  faithful  old  heart  felt  a  sudden  thrust;  and  Tom 
thought  hoy/-  often  he  had  noticed,  within  six  months,  that 
Eva's  little  hands  had  grown  thinner,  and  her  skin  more 
transparent,  and  her  breath  shorter ;  and  how,  when  she  ran  or 
played  in  the  garden,  as  she  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  hectic  fever;  and  yet  the  thought  that  Eva's  words 
suggested  had  never  come  to  him  till  now. 

Has  there  ever  been  a  child  like  Eva  ?  Yes,  there  have 
been ;  but  their  names  are  always  on  grave-stones,  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 
ordinary  words  of  children, — hope  not  to  retain  that  child ;  for 
the  seal  of  heaven  is  on  it,  and  the  light  of  immortality  looks 
out  from  its  eyes. 

Even  so,  beloved  Eva !  fair  star  of  thy  dwelling  !  Thou 
art  passing  away ;  but  they  that  love  thee  dearest  know  it  not. 

The  colloquy  between  Tom  and  Eva  was  interrupted  by  a 
hasty  call  from  Miss  Ophelia. 

VOL.   II.  6* 


66  UNCLE    TOM'S    CABIN  :    OR, 

"  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  wTith  a  restless  petulance,  unlike 
his  usual  careless  good-humor. 

"  Don't  be  croaking,  Cousin, —  I  hate  it ! "  he  would  say  ; 
"don't  you  see  that  the  child  is  only  growing.  Children 
always  lose  strength  when  they  grow  fast." 

"  But  she  has  that  cough !  " 

"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." 

"  0  !  stop  these  hobgoblin'  nurse  legends.  You  old  hands 
got  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 


LIEE    AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  67 

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  matur- 
ity of  the  child's  mind  and  feelings.  While  still  retaining  all 
a  child's  fanciful  graces,  yet  she  often  dropped,  unconsciously, 
words  of  such  a  reach  of  thought,  and  strange  unworldly 
wisdom,  that  they  seemed  to  be  an  inspiration.  At  such 
times,  St.  Clare  would  feel  a  sudden  thrill,  and  clasp  her  in 
his  arms,  as  if  that  fond  clasp  could  save  her ;  and  his  heart 
rose  up  with  wild  determination  to  keep  her,  never  to  let 
her  go. 

The  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 
afar. 

"  Mamma,"  she  said,  suddenly,  to  her  mother,  one  day, 
1  why  don't  we  teach  our  servants  to  read  ?  " 

"  What  a  question,  child !    People  never  do." 

"  Why  don't  they  ?  "  said  Eva. 

"  Because  it  is  no  use  for  them  to  read.  It  don't  help 
them  to  wcrk  any  better,  and  they  are  not  made  for  anything 
else." 


68  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

"  But  they  ought  to  read  the  Bible,  mamma,  to  learn  God's 
will." 

"CM  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?  " 

Marie  was  busy,  turning  over  the  contents  of  a  drawer,  as 
she  answered, 

"Well,  of  course,  by  and  by,  Eva,  you  will* have  other 
things  to  think  of,  besides  reading  the  Bible  round  to  servants. 
Not  but  that  is  very  proper ;  I  've  done  it  myself,  when  I  had 
health.  But  when  you  come  to  be  dressing  and  going  into 
company,  you  won't  have  time.  See  here  ! "  she  added, 
"  these  jewels  I  'm  going  to  give  you  when  you  come  out.  I 
wore  them  to  my  first  ball.  I  can  tell  you,  Eva,  I  made  a 
sensation." 

Eva  took  the  jewel-case,  and  lifted  from  it  a  diamond  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 
with ! ' 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  69 

"  What  would  you  do  with  them?  " 

"  I  'd  sell  them,  and  buy  a  place  in  the  free  states,  and  take 
all  our  people  there,  and  hire  teachers,  to  teach  them  to  read 
and  write." 

Eva  was  cut  short  by  her  mother's  laughing. 

u  Set  up  a  boarding-school !  "Would  n't  you  teach  then 
to  play  on  the  piano,  and  paint  on  velvet  ?" 

"  I  M  teach  them  to  read  their  own  Bible,  and  write  thei , 
own  letters,  and  read  letters  that  are  written  to  them,"  sail 
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  lon't 
know  anything  about  these  things,"  said  Marie;  "besides, 
your  talking  makes  my  head  ache." 

Marie  always  had  a  head-ache  on  hand  for  any  conversa- 
tion that  did  not  exactlysuit  her. 

Eva  stole  away;  but  after  that,  she  assiduously  gave 
Mammy  reading  lessons. 


TO  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN:    OR, 


CHAPTER  XXIH. 

HENRIQUE. 

About  this  time,  St.  Clare's  brother  Alfred,  with  his  eldest 
son,  a  boy  of  twelve,  spent  a  day  or  two  with  the  family  at 
the  lake. 

No  sight  could  be  more  singular  and  beautiful  than  that  of 
these  twin  brothers.  Nature,  instead  of  instituting  resem- 
blances 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  each  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  verandah  by  Tom, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  71 

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. 

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  haven'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?  " 

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 


72  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

waiting,"  he  said.     " Let's  sit  down  here,  on  this  seat,  till 
the j  come.     What 's  the  matter,  Cousin  1  —  you  look  sober." 

"How  could  you  be  so  cruel  and  -wicked  to  poor  Dodo?" 
said  Eva. 

"  Cruel, —  wicked !  "  said  the  boy,  -with  unaffected  surprise. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  dear  Eva? " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  call  me  dear  Eva,  when  you  do  so," 
said  Eva. 

"  Dear  Cousin,  you  don't  know  Dodo ;  it 's  the  only  way  to 
manage  him,  he  's  so  full  of  Iks  and  excuses.  The  only  way 
is  to  put  him  down  at  once, —  not  let  him  open  his  mouth ; 
that's  the  way  papa  manages." 

"But  Uncle  Tom  said  it  was  an  accident,  and  he  never 
tells  what  isn't  true." 

"He's  an  uncommon  old  nigger,  then!"  said  Henrique. 
"  Dodo  will  lie  as  fast  as  he  can  speak." 

"You  frighten  him  into  deceiving,  if  you  treat  him  so." 

"Why,  Eva,  you've  really  taken  such  a  fancy  to  Dodo, 
that  I  shall  be  jealous." 

"But  you  beat  him, —  and  he  didn't'  deserve  it." 

"  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. 


LIFE   AMO.XC*   THE    LOWLY.  78 

Henrique,  who  valued  himself  on  his  gentlemanly  adroit- 
ness in  all  matters  of  gallantry,  soon  had  nis  fair  cousin  in 
the  saddle,  and,  gathering  the  reins,  placed  tliem  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  down  the  walk  after  Eva.  Dodo 
stood  looking  after  the  two  children.  One  had  given  him 
money ;  and  one  had  given  him  what  he  wanted  far  more, — 
a  kind  word,  kindly  spoken.  Dodo  had  been  only  a  few 
months  away  from  his  mother.  His  master  had  bought  him 
at  a  slave  warehouse,  for  his  handsome  face,  to  be  a  match  to 
the  handsome  pony;  and  he  was  now  getting  his  breaking  in, 
at  the  hands  of  his  young  master. 

The  scene  of  the  beating  had  been  witnessed  by  the  two 
brothers  St.  Clare,  from  another  part  of  the  garden. 

Augustine's  cheek  flushed;  but  he  only  observed,  with  his 
usual  sarcastic  carelessness, 

"  I  suppose  that's  what  we  may  call  republican  education , 
Alfred?" 

"  Henrique  is  a  devil  of  a  fellow,  when  his  blood's  up,"  said 
Alfred,  carelessly. 

"  I  suppose  you  consider  this  an  instructive  practice  for 
him,"  said  Augustine,  drily. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  if  I  didn't.     Henrique  is  a  regular 

VOL.   II.  7 


74  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

little  tempest ;  —  his  mother  and  I  have  given  him  up,  long 
ago.  But,  then,  that  Dodo  is  a  perfect  sprite, —  no  amount 
of  whipping  can  hurt  him." 

"  And  this  by  way  of  teaching  Henrique  the  first  verse  of  a 
republican's  catechism,  'All  men  are  born  free  and  equal ! J " 

"  Poh !  "  said  Alfred  ;  "  one  of  Tom  Jefferson's  pieces  of 
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  ate  not  born  free,  nor  born  equal ;  they  are  born 
anything  else.  For  my  part,  I  think  half  this  republican 
talk  sheer  humbug.  It  is  the  educated,  the  intelligent,  the 
wealthy,  the  refined,  who  ought  to  have  equal  rights,  and  not 
the  canaille." 

"If  you  can  keep  the  canaille  of  that  opinion,"  said 
Augustine.     "  They  took  their  turn  once,  in  France." 

"  Of  course,  they  must  be  kept  doivn,  consistently, 
steadily,  as  I  should"  said  Alfred,  setting  his  foot  hard 
down,  as  if  he  were  standing  on  somebody. 

"  It  makes  a  terriMe  slip  when  they  get  up,"  said  Augus- 
tine,—  "in  St.  ~D(r  jngo,  for  instance." 

"Poh!"  said  Alfred,  "we'll  take  care  cf  that,  in  this 
country.  We  -aust  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;  "educate-:! 
they  will  be,  and  we  have  only  to  say  how.  Our  system  is 
educating  them  in  barbarism  and  brutality.  We  are  break- 
ing all  humanizing  ties,  and  making  them  brute  beasts ;  and, 
if  they  get  the  upper  hand,  such  we  shall  find  them." 

"  They  never  shall  get  the  upper  hand ! "  said  Alfred. 


LIFE    AMONtt   THE   LOWLY.  75 


"That  s  right,"  said  St.  Clare;  "put  on  the  steam,  fasten 
down  the  escape- valve,  and  sit  on  it,  and  see  where  you'll 
land." 

"Well,"  said  Alfred,  "we  will  see.  I'm  not  afraid  to 
sit  on  the  escape-valve,  as  long  as  the  boilers  are  strong,  and 
the  machinery  works  well." 

'The  nobles  in  Louis  XVI.  's  time  thought  just  so;  and 
Austria  and  Pius  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. 
*  "I  tell  you,"  said  Augustine,  "if  there  is  anything  that 
is  revealed  with  the  strength  of  a  divine  law  in  our  times,  it 
is  that  the  masses  are  to  rise,  and  the  under  class  become 
the  upper  one." 

"That's  one  of  your  red  republican  humbugs,  Augus- 
tine! Why  didn't  you  ever  take  to  the  stump;  —  you'd 
make  a  famous  stump  orator  !  Well,  I  hope  I  shall  be  dead 
before  this  millennium  of  your  greasy  masses  comes  on.", 

"  Greasy  or  not  greasy,  they  will  govern  you,  when  their 
time  comes,"  said  Augustine;  "and  they  will  be  just  such 
rulers  as  you  make  them.  The  French  noblesse  chose  to 
have  the  people  '  sans  culottes,'  and  they  had  l satis  culotte1 
governors  to  their  hearts'  content.     The  people  of  Hayti — " 

"  0,  come,  Augustine!  as  if  we  hadn'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  a*e 
plenty  among  them  who  have  only  enough  of  the  African  to 


7G  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

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." 

"  Stuff!  —  nonsense  !  " 

"Well,"  said  Augustine,  "there  goes  an  old  saying  to 
this  effect  '  As  it  was  in  the  days  of  Noah,  so  shall  it  be ;  — 
they  ate,  they  drank,  they  planted,  they  builded,  and  knew 
not  till  the  flood  came  and  took  them.'  " 

"  On  the  whole,  Augustine,  I  think  your  talents  might  do 
for  a  circuit  rider,"  said  Alfred,  laughing.  "  Never  you 
fear  for  us ;  possession  is  our  nine  points.  We  've  got  the 
power.  This  subject  race,"  said  he,  stamping  firmly,  "is 
down,  and  shall  stay  down !  We  have  energy  enough  to 
manage  our  own  powder." 

"  Sons  trained  like  your  Henrique  will  be  grand  guardians 
of  your  powder-magazines,"  said  Augustine, —  "so  cool  and 
self-possessed  !  The  proverb  says,  '  They  that  cannot  govern 
themselves  cannot  govern  others.'  " 

"There  is  a  trouble  there,"  said  Alfred,  thoughtfully; 
"  there  's  no  doubt  that  our  system  is  a  difficult  one  to  train 
children  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  fashion- 
able, and  where  he  will  associate  more  with  equals,  and  less 
widi  dependants." 

'  Since  training  children  is  the  staple  work  of  the  human 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  77 


race,"  said  Augustine,   "I  should  think  it  something  of  a 
consideration  that  our  system  does  not  work  well  there." 

" It  does  not  for  some  things,"  said  Alfred;  "for  others* 
again,  it  does.  It  makes  boys  manly  and  courageous ;  an<? 
the  very  vices  of  an  abject  race  tend  to  strengthen  in  theru 
the  opposite  virtues.  I  think  Henrique,  now,  has  a  keenci 
sense  of  the  beauty  of  truth,  from  seeing  lying  and  deception 
the  universal  badge  of  slavery." 

"A  Christian-like  view  of  the  subject,  certainly!"  said 
Augustine. 

"It's  true,  Christian-like  or  not;  and  is  about  as  Chris- 
tian-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  back- 
gammon?" 

The  two  brothers  ran  up  the  verandah  steps,  and  were 
soon  seated  at  a  light  bamboo  stand,  with  the  backgammon- 
board  between  them.  As  they  were  setting  their  men,  Alfred 
said, 

"I  tell  you,  Augustine,  if  I  thought  as  you  do,  I  should 
gd  something." 

"  I  dare  say  you  would, —  you  are  one  of  the  doing  sort, — 
but  what?" 

"Why,  elevate  your  own  servants,  for  a  specimen,"  said 
Alfred,  with  a  half-scornful  smile. 

"  You  might  as  well  set  Mount  iEtna  on  them  flat,  and  tell 
them  to  stand  up  under  it,  as  tell  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  com- 
munity.   Education,  to  do  anything,  must  be  a  state  educa- 

VOL.    II.  7* 


78  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

tion;  or  there  must  be  enough  agreed  in  it  to  make  ?  cur- 
rent." 

"  You  take  the  first  throw,"  said  Alfred;  and  the  bi  thers 
were  soon  lost  in  the  game,  and  heard  no  more  till  the  scrap- 
ing of  horses'  feet  was  heard  under  the  verandah. 

' '  There  come  the  children, ' '  said  Augustine,  rising.  ' '  Look 
here,  Alf !  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  beautiful  ?"  And, 
in  truth,  it  xoas  a  beautiful  sight.  Henrique,  with  his  bold 
brow,  and  dark,  glossy  curls,  and  glowing  cheek,  was  laugh- 
ing gayly,  as  he  bent  towards  his  fair  cousin,  as  they  came  on. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  blue  riding-dress,  with  a  cap  of  the 
same  color.  Exercise  had  given  a  brilliant  hue  to  her  cheeks, 
and  heightened  the  effect  of  her  singularly  transparent  skin, 
and  golden  hair. 

"Good  heavens!  what  perfectly  dazzling  beauty !"  said 
Alfred.  "I  tell  you,  Auguste,  won't  she  make  some  hearts 
ache,  one  of  these  days?" 

"  She  will,  too  truly, —  God  knows  I  'm  afraid  so! "  said  St. 
Clare,  in  a  tone  of  sudden  bitterness,  as  he  hurried  down  to 
take  her  off  her  horse. 

"  Eva,  darling!  you're  not  much  tired?"  he  said,  as  he 
clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"  No,  papa,"  said  the  child;  but  her  short,  hard  breathing 
alarmed  her  father. 

"How  could  you  ride  so  fast,  dear? — you  know  it's  bad 
for  you." 

"  I  felt  so  well,  papa,  and  liked  it  so  much,  I  forgot." 

St.  Clare  carried  her  in  his  arms  into  the  parlor,  and  laid 
her  on  the  sofa. 

"  Henrique,  you  must  be  careful  of  Eva,"  said  he;  "you 
mustn't  ride  fast  with  her." 


LIFE    AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  79 

"I'll  take  her  under  my  care,"  said  Henrique,  seating 
himself  by  the  sofa,  and  taking  Eva's  hand. 

Eva  soon  found  herself  much  better.  Her  father  and  uncle 
resumed  their  game,  and  the  children  were  left  together. 

"  Do  you  know.  Eva,  I'm  so  sorry  papa  is  only  going  to 
stay  two  days  here,  and  then  I  shan't  see  you  again  for  ever 
so  long  !  If  I  stay  with  you,  I  'd  try  to  be  good,  and  not  be 
cross  to  Dodo,  and  so  on.  I  don't  mean  to  treat  Dodo  ill ; 
but,  you  know,  I  've  got  such  a  quick  temper.  I  'm  not 
really  bad  to  him,  though.  I  give  him  a  picayune,  now  and 
then";  and  you  see  he  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 ;  —  no- 
body 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  I 
know  of." 

"  Why  can't  you  ?  "  said  Eva. 

" Love  Dcdo!  Why,  Eva,  you  wouldn't  have  me!  I 
may  like  him  well  enough ;  but  you  don't  love  your  servants." 

" 1  do,  indeed." 

"How  odd!" 

"  Don't  the  Bible  say  we  must  love  everybody?  " 
'  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. 


80  UNCLE   TOjjI's    CABIN:    OK, 

"  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  1 
really  think  you  are  the  loveliest  creature  that  I  ever  saw! " 
And  Henrique  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that  flushed  his 
handsome  face.  Eva  received  it  with  perfect  simplicity,  with- 
out even  a  change  of  feature ;  merely  saying,  "  I  'm  glad  you 
feel  so,  dear  Henrique  !     I  hope  you  will  remember." 

The  dinner-bell  put  an  end  to  the  interview 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


FORESHADOWINGS. 


Two  days  after  this,  Alfred  St.  Clare  and  Augustine 
parted  ;  and  Eva,  who  had  been  stimulated,  by  the  society  of 
her  young  cousin,  to  exertions  beyond  her  strength,  began  to 
fail  rapidly.  St.  Clare  was  at  last  willing  to  call  in  medical 
advice, —  a  thing  from  which  he  had  always  shrunk,  because 
it  was  the  admission  of  an  unwelcome  truth. 

But,  for  a  day  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 
absorbed  in  studying  out  two  or  three  new  forms  of  disease 
to  which  she  believed  she  herself  was  a  victim.  It  was  the 
first  principle  of  Marie's  belief  that  nobody  ever  was  or  could 
be  so  great  a  sufferer  as  herself;  and,  therefore,  she  always 
repelled  quite  indignantly  any  suggestion  that  any  one  around 
her  could  be  sick.     She  was  always  sure,  in  such  a  case,  that 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  81 

it  was  nothing  but  laziness,  or  want  of  energy ;  and  that,  if 
they  had  had  the  suffering  she  had,  they  would  soon  know 
the  difference. 

Miss  Ophelia  h*id  several  times  tried  to  awaken  her  mater- 
nal fears  about  Eva  ;  but  to  no  avail. 

"  I   don't  see  as  anything  ails  the  child,"  she  would  say 
J:  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  anything." 

"  But  she  gets  weak,  and  is  short-breathed." 

"  Law  !  I  've  had  that,  years  and  years ;  it 's  only  a  nerv- 
ous affection." 

11  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 
anything  like  that !  " 

Miss  Ophelia  shut  her  mouth  for  a  season.  But,  now 
that  Eva  was  fairly  and  visibly  prostrated,  and  a  doctor 
called,  Marie,  all  on  a  sudden,  took  a  new  turn. 

"She  knew  it,"  she  said;  "she  always  felt  it,  that  she 
was  destined  to  be  the  most  miserable  of  mothers.  Here  she 
was,  with  her  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. 


82  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OK, 

"  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  ease  !  " 

"  I  can't  take  it  as  indifferently  as  you  can,  St.  Clare.  If 
you  don't  feel  when  your  only  child  is  in  this  alarming  state, 
/do.  It 's  a  blow  too  much  for  me,  with  all  I  was  bearing 
before." 

"  It 's  true,"  said  St.  Clare,  "  that  Eva  is  very  delicate,  that 
I  always  knew ;  and  that  she  has  grown  so  rapidly  as  to 
exhaust  her  strength  ;  and  thstf  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  exer- 
tions 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  didn't  feel  as  I  do ;  it  only 
makes  me  completely  wretched  !  I  wish  I  could  be  as  easy 
as  the  rest  of  you  !  " 

And  the  "rest  of  them"  had  good  reason  to  breathe  the 
same  prayer,  for  Marie  paraded  her  new  misery  as  the  reason 
and  apology  for  all  sorts  of  inflictions  on  every  one  about  her. 
Every  word  that  was  spoken  by  anybody,  everything  that 
was  done  or  was  not  done  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 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  83 

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.  \V1iat  is  it  that  sometimes  speaks 
in  the  soul  so  calmly,  so  clearly,  that  its  earthly  time  is 
short  ?  Is  it  the  secret  instinct  of  decaying  nature,  or  the 
soul's  impulsive  throb,  as  immortality  draws  on  ]  Be  it  what 
it  may,  it  rested  in  the  heart  of  Eva,  a  calm,  sweet,  prophetic 
certainty  that  Heaven  was  near ;  calm  as  the  light  of  sunset, 
sweet  as  the  bright  stillness  of  autumn,  there  her  little  heart 
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  picture  of 
the  distant  past,  and  come  to  be  a  living,  all-surrounding 
reality.  His  love  enfolded  her  childish  heart  with  more  than 
mortal  tenderness ;  and  it  was  to  Him,  she  said,  she  was  going, 
and  to  his  home. 

But  her  heart  yearned  with  sad  tenderness  for  all  that  she 
was  to  leave  behind.  Her  father  most, —  for  Eva,  though 
she  never  distinctly  thought  so,  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 


84  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

selfishness  that  she  had  seen  in  her  only  saddened  and  perplexed 
her;  for  she  had  a  child's  implicit  trust  that  her  mother 
could  not  do  wrong.  There  was  something  about  her  that 
Eva  never  could  make  out ;  and  she  always  smoothed  it  over 
with  thinking  that,  after  all,  it  was  mammd^  and  she  loved 
her  very  dearly  indeed. 

She  felt,  too,  for  those  fond,  faithful  servants,  to  whom  she 
was  as  daylight  and  sunshine.  Children  do  not  usually  gen- 
eralize ;  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  long- 
ings 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. 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  she  said,  one  day,  w7hen  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,  wThen  I  saw  those  poor  creatures  on 
the  boat,  you  know,  when  you  came  up  and  I, —  some  had  lost 
their  mothers,  and  some  their  husbands,  and  some  mothers 
cried  for  their  little  children, —  and  when  I  heard  about  poor 
Prue, —  oh,  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 


LIFE  AMiiNG  THE  LOWLY.  85 

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^er  forehead." 

•'Ah,  yes,  yes,"  said  Mammy,  raising  her  hands;  "I've 
tilers  said  so.  She  was  n't  never  like  a  child  that  ;s  to  lire 
—  there  was  allers  something* deep  in  her  eyes.  I've  told 
Missis  so,  many  the  time  ;  it 's  a  comin'  true, —  we  all  sees  it, 
— dear,  little,  blessed  lamb  !  " 

Eva  came  tripping  up  the  verandah  steps  to  her  father.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  formed  a 
kind  of  glory  behind  her,  as  she  came  forward  in  her  white 
dress,  with  her  golden  hair  and  glowing  cheeks,  her  eyes 
unnaturally  bright  with  the  slow  fever  that  burned  in  her 
veins. 

St.  Clare  had  called  her  to  show  a  statuette  that  he  had 
been  buying  for  her ;  but  her  appearance,  as  she  came  on, 
impressed  him  suddenly  and  painfully.  There  is  a  kind  of 
beauty  so  intense,  yet  so  fragile,  that  we  cannot  bear  to  look 
at  it.  Her  father  folded  her  suddenly  in  his  arms,  and 
almost  forgot  what  he  was  going  to  tell  her. 

"  Eva,  dear,  you  are  better  now-a-days, —  are  you  not?  " 

11  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  1  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 

VOL.   II.  8 


86  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR^ 

as  he  spoke,  but  speaking  cheerfully,  "you've  got  nervous 
and  low-spirited;  you  mustn't  indulge  such  gloomy  thoughts. 
See  here,  I  've  bought  a  statuette  for  you  !  " 

"No,  papa,"  said  Eva,  putting  it  gently  away,  "don't 
deceive  yourself !  —  I  am  not  any  better,  I  l^pw  it  perfectly 
well,-— and  I  am  going,  before  long.  I  am  not  nervous, —  I  am 
not  luw-spirited.  If  it  were  not  for  you,  papa,  and  my 
friends,  I  should  be  perfectly  hUppy.  I  want  to  go, —  I  long 
to  go ! " 

"  Why,  dear  child,  what  has  made  your  poor  little  heart  so 
sad?  You  have  had  everything,  to  make  you  happy,  that 
could  be  given  you." 

"  I  had  rather  be  in  heaven;  though,  only  for  my  friends' 
sake,  I  would  be  willing  to  live.  There  are  a  great  many 
things  here  that  make  me  sad,  that  seem  dreadful  to  me ;  I 
had  rather  be  there;  but  I  don't  want  to  leave  you, — 'it 
almost  breaks  my  heart ! " 

"  What  makes  you  sad,  and  seems  dreadful,  Eva?" 

"  0,  things  that  are  done,  and  done  all  the  time.  I  feel 
sad  for  our  poor  people ;  they  love  me  dearly,  and  they  aro 
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?" 

"  0;  but,  papa,  if  anything  should  happen  to  you,  what 
would  become  of  them  ?  There  are  very  few  men  like  you, 
papa.  Uncle  Alfred  isn't  like  you,  and  mamma  isn't;  and 
then,  think  of  poor  old  Prue's  owners  !  What  horrid  things 
people  do,  and  can  do  !  "  and  Eva  shuddered. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  are  too  sensitive.  I'm  sorry  I  ever 
let  you  hear  such  stories." 

"0,  that 's  what  troubles  me,  papa.  You  want  me  to  live 
so  happy,  and  never  to  have  any  pain, —  never  suffer  any- 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  87 


thing, —  not  even  hear  a  sad  story,  when  otner  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 
iowndeep;  I've  thought  and  thought  about  them.  Papa, 
»s  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,  I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done  about 
it!" 

"  Papa,  you  are  such  a  good  man,  and  so  noble,  and  kind, 
and  you  always  have  a  way  of  saying  things  that  is  so  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 
could." 

"When  you  are  dead,  Eva,"  said  St.  Clare,  passionately. 
"0,  child,  don't  talk  to  me  so !  You  are  all  I  have  on 
earth." 

"  Poor  old  Prue's  child  was  all  that  she  had, — and  yet  she 
had  to  hear  it  crying,  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  happening,  all  the  time  !  " 

''There,  there,  darling,"  said  St.  Clare,  soothingly;  "only 
don't  distress  yourself,  and  don't  talk  of  dying,  and  I  will  do 
anything  you  wish." 

"And  promise  me,  dear  father,  that  Tom  shall  have  his 


88  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

freedom  as  soon  as" — she  stopped,  and  said,  in  a  hesitating 
tone  —  "lam  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?"  said  St.  Clare. 

"  To  our  Saviour's  home ;  it 's  so  sweet  and  peaceful  there 
—  it  is  all  so  loving  there  !  "  The  child  spoke  unconsciously, 
as  of  a  place  where  she  had  often  been.  "  Don't  you  want  to 
go,  papa?"  she  said. 

St.  Clare  drew  her  closer  to  him,  but  was  silent. 

"  You  will  come  to  me,"  said  the  child,  speaking  in  a  voice 
of  calm  certainty  which  she  often  used  unconsciously. 

"  I  shall  come  after  you.     I  shall  not  forget  you." 

The  shadows  of  the  solemn  evening  closed  round  them 
deeper  and  deeper,  as  St.  Clare  sat  silently  holding  the  little 
frail  form  to  his  bosom.  He  saw  no  more  the  deep  eyes,  but 
the  voice  came  over  him  as  a  spirit  voice,  and,  as  in  a  sort  of 
judgment  vision,  his  whole  past  life  rose  in  a  moment  before  his 
eyes  :  his  mother's  prayers  and  hymns ;  his  own  early  yearn- 
ings and  aspirings  for  good ;  and,  between  them  and  this  hour, 
years  of  worldliness  and  scepticism,  and  what  man  calls 
respectable  living.  We  can  think  much,  very  much,  in 
a  moment.  St.  Clare  saw  and  felt  many  things,  but  spoke 
nothing ;  and,  as  it  grew  darker,  he  took  his  child  to  her  bed- 
room ;  and,  when  she  was  prepared  for  rest,  he  sent  away  the 
attendants,  and  rocked  her  in  his  arms,  and  sung  to  her  till 
she  was  asleep. 


LIFE  AMONG  TIIS  LOWLY.  89 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


THE   LITTLE   EVANGELIST. 


It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  St.  Clare  was  stretched  on  a 
bamboo  lounge  in  the  verandah,  solacing  himself  with  a  cigar. 
Marie  lay  reclined  on  a  sofa,  opposite  the  window  opening  on 
the  verandah,  closely  secluded,  under  an  awning  of  transpar- 
ent gauze,  from  the  outrages  of  the  mosquitos,  and  languidly 
holding  in  her  hand  an  elegantly  bound  prayer-book.  She 
was  holding  it  because  it  was  Sunday,  and  she  imagined 
she  had  been  reading  it, —  though,  in  fact,  she  had  been  only 
taking  a  succession  of  short  naps,  with  it  open  in  her  hand. 

Miss  Ophelia,  who,  after  some  rummaging,  had  hunted  up 
a  small  Methodist  meeting  within  riding  distance,  had  *gone 
out,  with  Tom  as  driver,  to  attend  it ;  and  Eva  had  accom- 
panied them. 

"I  say,  Augustine,"  said  Marie  after  dozing  awhile,  "I 
must  send  to  the  city  after  my  old  Doctor  Posey ;  I  'm  sure 
I've  got  the  complaint  of  the  heart." 

1 '  Well ;  why  need  you  send  for  him  ?  This  doctor  tliut 
attends  Eva  seems  skilful." 

"I  would  not  trust  him  in  a  critical  case,"  said  Marie;  "and 
I  think  I  may  say  mine  is  becoming  so  !  I  've  been  thinking 
of  it,  these  two  or  three  nights  past ;  I  have  such  distressing 
pains,  and  such  strange  feelings." 

"  0,  Marie,  you  are  blue;  I  don't  believe  it 's  heart  com- 
plaint." 

"  I  dare  say  you  don't,"  said  Marie  ;  "I  was  prepared  to 
expect  that.     You  can  be  alarmed  enough,  if  Eva  coughs,  or 

VOL.    II.  8* 

I 


90  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

has  the  least  thing  the  matter  with  her ;  but  you  never  think 
of  me." 

"Kit's  particularly  agreeable  to  you  to  have  heart  dis- 
ease, why,  I  '11  try  and  maintain  you  have  it,"  said  St. 
Clare ;  "  I  did  n'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 
wretch  of  a  man  as  he  was,  till  a  carriage  drove  up  before  the 
verandah,  and  Eva  and  Miss  Ophelia  alighted. 

Miss  Ophelia  marched  straight  to  her  own  chamber,  to  put 
away  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  as  was  always  her  manner,  before 
she  spoke  a  word  on  any  subject ;  while  Eva  came,  at  St. 
Clare's  call,  and  was  sitting  on  his  knee,  giving  him  an 
account  of  the  services  they  had  heard. 

They  soon  heard  loud  exclamations  from  Miss  Ophelia's 
room,  which,  like  the  one  in  which  they  were  sitting,  opened 
on  to  the  verandah,  and  violent  reproof  addressed  to  some- 
body. 

"What  new  witchcraft  has  Tops  been  brewing?"  asked 
St.  Clare.  "That  commotion  is  of  her  raising,  I'll  be 
bound !  " 

And,  in  a  moment  after,  Miss  Ophelia,  in  high  indignation, 
came  dragging  the  culprit  along. 

"  Come  out  here,  now  ! "  she  said.  "  I  will  tell  your  mas- 
ter !  " 

"  What 's  the  case  now  ?  "  asked  Augustine. 

"  The  case  is,  that  I  cannot  be  plagued  with  this  child,  any 


LIFE    AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  91 


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 !  " 

"  I  told  you,  Cousin,"  said  Marie,  "that  you'd  find  out 
that  these  creatures  can't  be  brought  up,  without  severity. 
If  I  had  my  way,  now,"  she  said,  looking  reproachfully  at 
St.  Clare,  "  I  'd  send  that  child  out,  and  ha.ve  her  thoroughly 
whipped ;  I  'd  have  her  whipped  till  she  could  n't  stand  ! " 

"I  do^'t  doubt  it,"  said  St.  Clare.  "Tell  me  of  the 
lovely  rule  of  woman  !  I  never  saw  above  a  dozen  women 
that  wouldn't  half  kill  a  horse,  or  a  servant,  either,  if  they 
had  their  own  way  with  them  !  — let  alone  a  man." 

"There  is  no  use  in  this  shilly-shally  way  of  yours,  St. 
Clare  !"  said  Marie.  "  Cousin  is  a  woman  of  sense,  and  she 
sees  it  now,  as  plain  as  I  do." 

Miss  Ophelia  had  just  the  capability  of  indignation  that 
belongs  to  the  thorough-paced  housekeeper,  and  this  had 
been  pretty  actively  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;  out 
Marie's  words  went  beyond  her,  and  she  felt  less  heat. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  the  child  treated  so,  for  the  world,"  she 
said;  "but,  I  am  sure,  Augustine,  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I've  taught  and  taught;  I've  talked  till  I'm  tired;  I've 
whipped  her  I  've  punished  her  in  every  way  I  can  think  of, 
and  still  she  's  just  what  she  was  at  first." 

"  Come  here,  Tops,  you  monkey !  "  said  St.  Clare,  calling 
the  child  up  to  him. 

ropsy  came  up ;  her  found,  hard  eyes  glittering  and  blink- 


92  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

ing  with  a  mixture  of  apprehensiveness  and  their  usual  odd 
drollery. 

"What  makes  you  behave  so?  "  said  St.  Clare,  who  could 
not  help  being  amused  with  the  child's  expression. 

"  Spects  it's  my  wicked  heart,"  said  Topsy,  demurely; 
"Miss  Feely  says  so." 

"  Don't  you  see  how  much  Miss  Ophelia  has  done  for  you? 
She  says  she  has  done  everything  she  can  think  of." 

"Lor,  yes,  Mas'r!  old  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  wouldn't  do  no  good,  neither, —  I's  so  wicked!  Laws! 
I 's  nothin  but  a  nigger,  no  ways  ! " 

"Well,  I  shall  have  to  give  her  up,"  said  Miss  Ophelia; 
"  I  can't  have  that  trouble  any  longer." 

"Well,  I  'd  just  like  to  ask  one  question,"  said  St  Clare. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Why,  if  your  Gospel  is  not  strong  enough  to  save  one 
heathen  child,  that  you  can  have  at  home  here,  all  to  your- 
self, what's  the  use  of  sending  one  or  two  poor  missionaries 
off  with  it  among  thousands  of  just  such  ?  I  suppose  this 
child  is  about  a  fair  sample  of  what  thousands  of  your  heathen 


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  verandah,  which  St.  Clare  used  as 
a  sort  of  reading-room ;  and  Eva  and  Topsy  disappeared  into 
this  place. 

"What's  Eva  going  about,  now?"  said  St.  Clare;  "I 
mean  to  see." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  93 

And,  advancing  on  tiptoe,  he  lifted  up  a  curtain  that  cov- 
eied  the  glass-door,  and  looked  in.  In  a  moment,  laying  his 
finger  on  his  lips,  he  made  a  silent  gesture  to  Miss  Ophelia 
to  come  and  look.  There  sat  the  two  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?  " 

"  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  hadn't  you  any 
brother,  or  sister,  or  aunt,  or  — " 

"  No,  none  on  'em, — never  had  nothing  nor  nobody." 

"  But,  Topsy,  if  you  'd  only  try  to  be  good,  you  might — " 

"  Couldn't  never  be  nothin'  but  a  nigger,  if  I  was  ever  so 
good,"  said  Topsy.  "If  I  could  be  skinned,  and  come  white, 
I'd  try  then." 

"But  people  can  love  you,  if  you  are  black,  Topsy.  Miss 
Ophelia  would  love  you,  if  you  were  good." 

Topsy  gave  the  short,   blunt  laugh  that  was  her  common 
mode  of  expressing  incredulity. 
'   "  Don't  you  think  so?  "  said  Eva. 

"  No;  she  can't  bar  ne,  'cause  I'm  a  nigger!  —  she'd  's 
soon  have  a  toad  touch  her !  There  can't  nobody  love  nig- 
gers, and  niggers  can't  do  nothin'  !  /don't  care,"  said  Topsy, 
beginning  to  whistle. 

"0,  Topsy,  poor  child,  /  love  you!  "  said  Eva,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  feeling,   and  laying  her  little  thin,  white 


94  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

hand  on  Topsy' s  shoulder;  "I  love  you,  because  you  haven't 
had  any  father,  or  mother,  or  friends ;  —  because  you  've  been 
a  poor,  abused  child  !  I  love  you,  and  I  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,  in  that  moment,  a 
ray  of  real  belief,  a  ray  of  heavenly  love,  had  penetrated  the 
darkness  of  her  heathen  soul !  She  laid  her  head  down 
between  her  knees,  and  wept  and  sobbed, —  while  the  beauti- 
ful child,  bending  over  her,  looked  like  the  picture  of  some 
bright  angel  stooping  to  reclaim  a  sinner. 

"  Poor  Topsy  !  "  said  Eva,  "don't  you  know  that  Jesus 
loves  all  alike  ?  He  is  just  as  willing  to  love  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 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  95 


Ophelia,  "and  it 's  a  fact,  I  never  could  bear  to  have  that 
thild  touch  me;  but,  I  didn't  think  she  knew  it." 

"Trust  any  child  to  find  that  out,"  said  St.  Clare; 
1  there 's  no  keeping  it  from  them.  But  I  believe  tl  at  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  t\c 
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  I  help  feeling  so  ?  " 

"  Eva  does,  it  seems." 

"  Well,  she's  so  loving !     After  all,  though,  she 's  no  mor 
than  Christ-like,"  said  Miss  Ophelia;  "I  wish  I  were  likd 
her.     She  might  teach  me  a  lesson." 

"It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  a  little  child  had  been  used 
to  instruct  an  old  disciple,  if  it  xoere  so,". said  St.  Clare. 


96  UNCLE  tom's  cabin;  or, 


CHAPTER   XXYI. 


DEATH. 


Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 
In  life's  early  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes. 

Eva's  bed-room  was  a  spacious  apartment,  which,  like 
all  the.  other  rooms  in  the  house,  opened  on  to  the  broad 
verandah.  The  room  communicated,  on  one  side,  with  her 
father  and  mother's  apartment;  on  the  other,  with  that  appro- 
priated to  Miss  Ophelia.  St.  Clare  had  gratified  his  own  eye 
and  taste,  in  furnishing  this  room  in  a  style  that  had  a  pecu- 
liar 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  rose-buds  and  leaves,  and 
a  centre-piece  with  full-blown  roses.  The  bedstead,  chairs, 
and  lounges,  were  of  bamboo,  wrought  in  peculiarly  graceful 
and  fanciful  patterns.  Over  the  head  of  the  bed  was  an 
alabaster  bracket,  on  which  a  beautiful  sculptured  angel 
stood,  with  drooping  wings,  holding  out  a  crown  of  myrtle- 
leaves.  From  this  depended,  over  the  bed,  light  curtains  of 
rose-colored  gauze,  striped  with  silver,  supplying  that  protec- 
tion from  mosquitos  which  is  an  indispensable  addition  to  all 
sleeping  accommodation  in  that  climate.  The  graceful  bam- 
boo lounges  were  amply  supplied  with  cushions  of  rose-colored 
damask,  while  over  them,  depending  from  the  hands  of  sculp- 
tured figures,  were  gauze  curtains  similar  to  those  of  the  bed. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  97 


A  light,  fanciful  bamboo  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  where  a  Parian  vase,  wrought  in  the  shape  of  a  white 
lily,  with  its  buds,  stood,  ever  filled  with  flowers.  On  this 
table  lay  Eva's  books  and  little  trinkets,  with  an  elegantly 
wrought  alabaster  writing-stand,  which  her  father  had  sup- 
plied to  her  when  he  saw  her  trying  to  improve  herself  in 
writing.  There  was  a  fireplace  in  the  room,  and  on  the 
marble  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  verandah,  and  oftener  and 
oftener  she  was  found  reclined  on  a  little  lounge  by  the  open 
window,  her  large,  deep  eyes  fixed  on  the  rising  and  falling 
waters  of  the  lake. 

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  verandah. 

"  What  now,  you  baggage  !  —  what  new  piece  of  mischief ! 
You  've  been  picking  the  flowers,  hey  ?  "  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 

vol.  n.  9 


98  UNCLE  TOM'S  cabin  :   Oil, 

your  flowers,  you  good-for-nothing  nigger!  Get  along  off  with 
you  !  " 

In  a  moment,  Eva  was  off  from  her  lounge,  and  in  the 
verandah. 

"  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  here." 

Topsy,  who  had  stood  sullenly,  holding  down  her  head, 
now  came  up  and  offered  her  flowers.  She  did  it  with  a  look 
of  hesitation  and  bashfulness,  quite  unlike  the  eldrich  bold- 
ness 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 's  odd ! "  said  Marie.  "  What  in  the  world  do 
you  want  that  for  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  mamma ;  you  'd  as  lief  as  not  Topsy  should 
do  it, —  had  you  not  ?  " 

"Of  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 
she  turned  away,  Eva  saw  a  tear  roll  down  her  dark  cheek. 

"  You  see,  mamma,  I  knew  poor  Topsy  wanted  to  do  some- 
thing for  me,"  said  Eva  to  her  mother. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  90 


"  0,  nonsense  !  it 's  only  because  she  likes  to  do  mischief. 
She  knows  she  mustn't  pick  flowers, —  so  she  does  it; 
that 's  all  there  is  to  it.  But,  if  you  fancy  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  hasn't 
been  talked  to,  and  preached  to,  and  every  earthly  thing  done 
that  anybody  could  do  ;  —  and  she  's  just  so  ugly,  and  always 
will  be  ;  you  can't  make  anything  of  the  creature  !  " 

"  But,  mamma,  it 's  so  different  to  be  brought  up  as  I  've 
been,  with  so  many  friends,  so  many  things  to  make  me  good 
and  happy ;  and  to  be  brought  up  as  she  's  been,  all  the  time, 
till  she  came  here  !  " 

"  Most  likely,"  said  Marie,  yawning, —  "dear  me,  how  hot 
it  is!" 

"  Mamma,  you  believe,  don't  you,  that  Topsy  could  be- 
come an  angel,  as  well  as  any  of  us,  if  she  were  a  Chris- 
tian?" 

"  Topsy  !  what  a  ridiculous  idea  !  Nobody  but  you  would 
ever  think  of  it.    I  suppose  she  could,  though." 

"But,  mamma,  isn't  God  her  father,  as  much  as  ours'? 
Is  n't  Jesus  her  Saviour  ?" 

"Well,  that  may  be.  I  suppose  God  made  everybody," 
said  Marie.     "  Where  is  my  smelling-bottle?  " 

"  It 's  such  a  pity, —  oh  !  such  a  pity !  "  said  Eva,  looking 
out  on  the  distant  lake,  and  speaking  half  to  herself. 

"What 's  a  pity ? "  said  Marie. 


100  UNCLK   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"Why,  that  any  one,  who  could  be  a  bright  angel,  and  live 
with  angels,  should  go  all  down,  clown,  down,  and  nobody  help 
them  !  — oh,  dear  !  " 

"  Well,  we  can't  help  it ;  it 's  no  use  worrying,  Eva  !  I 
don't  know  what 's  to  be  done ;  we  ought  to  be  thankful  for 
our  own  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 
religion  makes  me  thankful  for  my  advantages." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Eva,  "  I  want  to  have  some  of  my  hair 
cut  off, —  a  good  deal  of  it." 

"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?" 

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?"  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  give  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 
pride." 

"  0,  papa  !  "  said  Eva,  sadly. 

"  Yes,  and  I  want  them  kept  handsome  against  the  time  I 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  101 

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?  " 

"  Why  do  you  insist  that  I  shall  believe  such  a  cruel  thing, 
Eva  ?  "  said  her  father. 

"  Only  because  it  is  true,  papa:  and,  if  you  will  believe  it 
now,  perhaps  you  will  get  to  feel  about  it  as  I  do." 

St.  Clare  closed  his  lips,  and  stood  gloomily  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 's 
just  what  has  been  preying  on  my  health,  from  day  to  day, 
bringing  me  downward  to  the  grave,  though  nobody  regards 
it.  I  have  seen  this,  long.  St.  Clare,  you  will  see,  after  a 
while,  that  I  was  right." 

"  Which  will  afford  you  great  consolation,  no  doubt !  "  said 
St.  Clare,  in  a  dry,  bitter  tone. 

Marie  lay  back  on  a  lounge,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
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, — 

VOL.    II.  9* 


102  UNCLE  tom's  cabin  :   OR, 

that -I  ought  to  do;  and  you  are  so  unwilling  to  have  klo 
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. 

"  Welly1  said  St.  Clare,  in  a  tone  of  dry  endurance. 

Miss  Ophelia  despatched  a  messenger,  and  soon  the  whole 
of  the  servants  were  convened  in  the  room. 

Eva  lay  back  on  her  pillows ;  her  hair  hanging  loosely 
about  her  face,  her  crimson  cheeks  contrasting  painfully 
with  the  intense  whiteness  of  her  complexion  and  the  thin 
contour  of  her  limbs  and  features,  and  her  large,  soul-like 
eyes  fixed  earnestly  on  every  one. 

The  servants  were  struck  with  a  sudden  emotion.  The 
spiritual  face,  the  long  locks  of  hair  cut  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  — " 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  103 

Here  the  child  was  interrupted  by  bursts  of  groans,  sobs, 
and  lamentations,  which  broke  from  all  present,  and  in  which 
her  slender  voice  was  lost  entirely.  She  waited  a  moment, 
and  then,  speaking  in  a  tone  that  checked  the  sobs  of  all,  she 
said 

'•  If  you  love  me,  you  must  not  interrupt  me  so.  Listen 
to  what  I  say.    I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  your  souls. 

Many  of  you,  I  am  afraid,  are  very  careless.     You 

are  thinking  only  about  this  world.  I  want  you  to  remember 
that  there  is  a  beautiful  world,  where  Jesus  is.  I  am  going 
there,  and  you  can  go  there.  It  is  for  you,  as  much  as  me. 
But,  if  you  want  to  go  there,  you  must  not  live  idle,  care- 
less, 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, 

"  0,  dear  !  you  carCt  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, 


104  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

for  the  time  completely  overcome,  were  sobbing,  with  their 
heads  bowed  upon  their  knees. 

"  I  know,"  said  Eva,  "  you  all  love  me." 

"  Yes  ;  oh,  yes  !  indeed  we  do  !  Lord  bless  her  !  "  was  the 
involuntary  answer  of  all. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  do!  There  isn't  one  of  you  that 
has  n't  always  been  very  kind  to  me ;  and  I  want  to  give 
you  something  that,  when  you  look  at,  you  shall  always 
remember  me.  I  'm  going  to  give  all  of  you  a  curl  of  my 
hair ;  and,  when  you  look  at  it,  think  that  I  loved  you  and  am 
gone  to  heaven,  and  that  I  want  to  see  you  all  there." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  scene,  as,  with  tears  and 
sobs,  they  gathered  round  the  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  endearment,  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  everything  off  the  place  to  oncet ! "  and  Mammy  gave 
way  to  a  passion  of  grief. 

Miss   Ophelia  pushed    her  and  Tom    gently  from    the 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  105 

apartment,  and  thought  they  were  all  gone;  but,  as  she 
turned,  Topsy  was  standing  there. 

"Where  did  you  start  up  from?"  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?  " 

"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 !  Tears  like  I  an't  used  to  it, 
no  ways !  " 

"  Jesus  knows  it,  Topsy ;  he  is  sorry  for  you ;  he  will  help 
you." 

Topsy,  with  her  eyes  hid  in  her  apron,  was  silently  passed 
from  the  apartment  by  Miss  Ophelia;  but,  as  she  went,  she 
hid  the  precious  curl  in  her  bosom. 

All  being  gone,  Miss  Ophelia  shut  the  door.  That  worthy 
lady  had  wiped  away  many  tears  of  her  own,  during  the  scene ; 
but  concern  for  the  consequence  of  such  an  excitement  to  her 
young  charge  was  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. 


108  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:   or, 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  that  doesn't  make  it  any  easier  to  bear," 
said  he,  with  a  dry,  hard,  tearless  manner,  as  he  turned 
away. 

"  Papa,  you  break  my  heart!"  said  Eva,  rising  and 
throwing  herself  into  his  arms ;  "  you  must  not  feel  so  ! "  and 
the  child  sobbed  and  wept  with  a  violence  which  alarmed 
them  all  and  turned  her  father's  thoughts  at  once  to  another 
channel. 

"  There,  Eva, —  there,  dearest!  Hush!  hush!  I  was 
wrong;  I  was  wicked.  I  will  feel  any  way,  do  any  way, — 
only  don't  distress  yourself;  don't  sob  so.  I  will  be  resigned; 
I  was  wicked  to  speak  as  I  did." 

Eva  soon  lay  like  a  wearied  dove  in  her  father's  arms ;  and 
he,  bending  over  her,  soothed  her  by  every  tender  word  he 
could  think  of. 

Marie  rose  and  threw  herself  out  of  the  apartment  into  her 
own,  when  she  fell  into  violent  hysterics. 

"You  didn't  give  me  a  curl,  Eva,"  said  her  father,  smil- 
ing sadly. 

"They  are  all  yours,  papa,"  said  she,  smiling, —  "yours 
and  mamma's ;  and  you  must  give  dear  aunty  as  many  as  she 
wants.  I  only  gave  them  to  our  poor  people  myself,  because 
you  know,  papa,  they  might  be  forgotten  when  I  am  gone, 

and  because  I  hoped  it  might  help  them  remember 

You  are  a  Christian,  are  you  not,  papa?  "  said  Eva,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  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,  Eva?" 


LIFE   AMONQ   THE   LOWLY.  107 

"Certainly  I  do." 

"You  never  saw  him,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  said  Eva.  "  I  believe  him, 
and  in  a  few  days  I  shall  see  him ; "  and  the  young  face  grew 
fervent,  radiant  with  joy. 

St.  Clare  said  no  more.  It  was  a  feeling  which  he  had  seen 
before  in  his  mother ;  but  no  chord  within  vibrated  to  it. 

Eva,  after  this,  declined  rapidly;  there  was  no  more  any 
doubt  of  the  event ;  the  fondest  hope  could  not  be  blinded. 
Her  beautiful  room  was  avowedly  a  sick  room ;  and  Miss 
Ophelia  day  and  night  performed  the  duties  of  a  nurse, — and 
never  did  her  friends  appreciate  her  value  more  than  in  that 
capacity.  With  so  well-trained  a  hand  and  eye,  such  perfect 
adroitness  and  practice  in  every  art  which  could  promote 
neatness  and  comfort,  and  keep  out  of  sight  every  disagree- 
able incident  of  sickness, —  with  such  a  perfect  sense  of  time, 
such  a  clear,  untroubled  head,  such  exact  accuracy  in  re- 
membering every  prescription  and  direction  of  the  doctors, — 
she  was  everything  to  him.  They  who  had  shrugged  their 
shoulders  at  her  little  peculiarities  and  setnesses,  so  unlike 
the  careless  freedom  of  southern  manners,  acknowledged  that 
now  she  was  the  exact  person  that  was  wanted. 

Uncle  Tom  was  much  in  Eva's  room.  The  child  suffered 
much  from  nervous  restlessness,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to 
be  carried ;  and  it  was  Tom's  greatest  delight  to  carry  her  lit- 
tle frail  form  in  his  arms,  resting  on  a  pillow,  now  up  and 
down  her  room,  now  out  into  the  verandah ;  and  when  the 
fresh  sea-breezes  blew  from  the  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. 


108  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

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- 
handkerchief,  to  see  what  the  noise  was  in  Eva's  room,  to 
let  down  a  curtain  because  it  was  too  light,  or  to  put  it  up 
because  it  was  too  dark;  and,  in  the  day-time,  when  she 
longed  to  have  some  share  in  the  nursing  of  her  pet,  Marie 
seemed  unusually  ingenious  in  keeping  her  busy  anywhere 
and  everywhere  all  over  the  house,  or  about  her  own  person ; 
so  that  stolen  interviews  and  momentary  glimpses  were  all 
she  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.  Clar^,  "I  thought  our  cousin 
relieved  you  of  that." 


LIFE   AMONtt   THE   LOWLY.  109 

"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  couldn't 
help  it, —  for  St.  Clare  could  smile  yet.  For  so  bright  and 
placid  was  the  farewell  voyage  of  the  little  spirit, —  by  such 
sweet  and  fragrant  breezes  was  the  small  bark  borne  towards 
the  heavenly  shores, —  that  it  was  impossible  to  realize  that  it 
was  death  that  was  approaching.  The  child  felt  no  pain, — 
only  a  tranquil,  soft  weakness,  daily  and  almost  insensibly 
increasing ;  and  she  was  so  beautiful,  so  loving,  so  trustful,  so 
happy,  that  one  could  not  resist  the  soothing  influence  of 
that  air  of  innocence  and  peace  whjph  seemed  to  breathe 
around  her.  St.  Clare  found  a  strange  calm  coming  over  him. 
It  was  not  hope, —  that  was  impossible;  it  was  not  resigna- 
tion ;  it  was  only  a  calm  resting  in  the  present,  which  seemed 
so  beautiful  that  he  wished  to  think  of  no  future.  It  was 
like  that  hush  of  spirit  which  we  feel  amid  the  bright,  mild 
woods  of  autumn,  when  the  bright  hectic  flush  is  on  the  trees, 
and  the  last  lingering  flowers  by  the  brook ;  and  we  joy  in  it 
all  the  more,  because  we  know  that  soon  it  will  all  pass  away. 

The  friend  who  knew  most  of  Eva's  own  imaginings  and 
foreshadowings  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  for- 
ever. 

Tom,  at  last,  would  not  sleep  in  his  room,  but  lay  all  night 
m  the  outer  verandah,  ready  to  rouse  at  every  call. 

"  Uncle  Tom,  what  alive  have  you  taken  to  sleeping  any- 
where and  everywhere,  like  a  dog,  for?"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

vol.  ii.  10 


110  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OK, 

"I  thought  you  was  one  of  the  orderly  sort,  that  liked  to  lie 
in  bed  in  a  Christian  way." 

"I  do,  Miss  Feely,"  said  Tom,  mysteriously.  "I  do,  but 
now  — " 

"Well,  what  now?" 

"We  mustn't  speak  loud;  Mas'r  St.  Clare  won't  hear 
on't;  but  Miss  Feely,  you  know  there  must  be  somebody 
watchin'  for  the  bridegroom." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Tom?  " 

"You  know  it  says  in  Scripture,  i  At  midnight  there  was 
a  great  cry  made.  Behold,  the  bridegroom  cometh.'  That 's 
what  I'm  spectin  now,  every  night,  Miss  Feely, —  and  I 
couldn't  sleep  out  o'  hearin,  no  ways." 

"  Why,  Uncle  Tom  ,#what  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Miss  Eva,  she  talks  to  me.  The  Lord,  he  sends  his 
messenger  in  the  soul.  I  must  be  thar,  Miss  Feely;  for 
when  that  ar  blessed  child  goes  into  the  kingdom,  they'll 
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?" 

"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, 
between  ten  and  eleven,  one  evening,  after  her  arrangements 
had  all  been  made  for  the  night,  when,  on  going  to  bolt  her 
outer  door,  she  found  Tom  stretched  along  by  it,  in  the  outer 
verandah. 

She  was  not  nervous  or  impressible ;  but  the  solemn,  heart- 
felt manner  struck  her.     Eva  had  been  unusually  bright  and 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  Ill 

cheerful,  that  afternoon,  and  had  sat  raised  in  her  bed,  and 
looked  over  all  her  little  trinkets  and  precious  things,  and 
designated  the  friends  to  whom  she  would  have  them  given ; 
and  her  manner  was  more  animated,  and  her  voice  more  nat- 
ural, 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  sick- 
ness ;  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  door. 

"  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 
bending  over  Eva,  who  still  slept. 

What  was  it  he  saw  that  made  his  heart  stand  still  1  Why 
was  no  word  spoken  between  the  two  ?  Thou  canst  say,  who 
hast  seen  that  same  expression  on  the  face  dearest  to  thee;  — 


112  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN:    OB, 

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 
immortal  life  in  that  childish  soul. 

They  stood  there  so  still,  gazing  upon  her,  that  even  the 
ticking  of  the  watch  seemed  too  loud.  In  a  few  moments, 
Tom  returned,  with  the  doctor.  He  entered,  gave  one  look, 
and  stood  silent  as  the  rest. 

"When  did  this  change  take  place?"  said  he,  in  a  low 
whisper,  to  Miss  Ophelia. 

"About  the  turn  of  the  night,"  was  the  reply. 

Marie,  roused  by  fhe  entrance  of  the  doctor,  appeared, 
hurriedly,  from  the  next  room. 

u  Augustine !  Cousin  !  —  0  !  —  what !  "  she  hurriedly  be- 
gan. 

"  Hush  ! "  said  St.  Clare,  hoarsely ;  "  she  is  dying  !  " 

Mammy  heard  the  words,  and  flew  to  awaken  the  servants. 
The  house  was  soon  roused, —  lights  were  seen,  footsteps 
heard,  anxious  faces  thronged  the  verandah,  and  looked  tear- 
fully through  the  glass  doors ;  but  St.  Clare  heard  and  said 
nothing, —  he  saw  only  that  look  on  the  face  of  the  little 
sleeper. 

"0,  if  she  would  only  wake,  and  speak  once  more !  "  h* 
said;  and,  stooping  over  her,  he  spoke  in  her  ear, —  "Eva, 
darling!  " 

The  large  blue  eyes  unclosed, —  a  smile  passed  over  hei 
face  ;  —  she  tried  to  raise  her  head,  and  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  Eva?  " 

"Dear  papa,"  said  the  child,  with  a  last  effort,  throwing 
her  arms  about  his  neck.     In  a  moment  they  dropped  again  ■ 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  113 

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." 

11  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  ?  Earth  was  past, 
and  earthly  pain;  but  so  solemn,  so  mysterious,  was  the 
triumphant  brightness  of  that  face,  that  it  checked  even  the 
sobs  of  sorrow.  They  pressed  around  her,  in  breathless  still- 
ness. 

"  Eva,"  said  St.  Clare,  gently. 

She  did  not  hear. 

"0,  Eva,  tell  us  what  you  see!  What  is  it?"  said  her 
father. 

A  bright,  a  glorious  smile  passed  over  her  face,  and  she 
said,  brokenly, —  "  0  !  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!  " 

VOL.   II.  10* 


1 14  UNCLE  tom's  cabin  :   OR, 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

"TIIIS  IS  THE  LAST  OF  EARTH." — John  Q.  Adams. 

The  statuettes  and  pictures  in  Eva's  room  were  shrouded 
in  white  napkins,  and  only  hushed  breathings  and  muffled 
foot-falls  were  heard  there,  and  the  light  stole  in  solemnly 
through  windows  partially  darkened  by  closed  blinds. 

The  bed  was  draped  in  white ;  and  there,  beneath  the 
drooping  angel-figure,  lay  a  little  sleeping  form, —  sleeping 
never  to  waken ! 

There  she  lay,  robed  in  one  of  the  simple  white  dresses  she 
had  been  wont  to  wear  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  rap- 
ture 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- 
ness 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 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  115 

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  h3  had  answered,  impatiently,  that  he  cared  not. 

Adolph  and  Rosa  had  arranged  the  chamber ;  volatile, 
fickle  and  childish,  as  they  generally  were,  they  were  soft- 
hearted and  full  of  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  arrange- 
ments, 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,  deli- 
cate and  fragrant,  with  graceful,  drooping  leaves.  Eva's 
little  table,  covered  with  white,  bore  on  it  her  favorite  vase, 
with  a  single  white  moss  rose-bud  in  it.  The  folds  of  the 
drapery,  the  fall  of  the  curtains,  had  been  arranged  and 
rearranged,  by  Adolph  and  Rosa,  with  that  nicety  of  eye 
which  characterizes  their  race.  Even  now,  while  St.  Clare 
stood  there  thinking,  little  Rosa  tripped  softly  into  the  cham- 
ber with  a  basket  of  white  flowers.  She  stepped  back  when 
she  saw  St.  Clare,  and  stopped  respectfully ;  but,  seeing  that 
he  did  not  observe  her,  she  came  forward  to  place  them 
around  the  dead.  St.  Clare  saw  her  as  in  a  dream,  while  she 
placed  in  the  small  hands  a  fair  cape  jessamine,  and,  with 
admirable  taste,  disposed  other  flowers  around  the  couch. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  Topsy,  her  eyes  swelled  with 
crying,  appeared,  holding  something  under  her  apron.  Rosa 
made  a  quick,  forbidding  gesture ;  but  she  took  a  step  into  the 
room. 

"  You  must  go  out,"  said  Rosa,  in  a  sharp,  positive 
whisper  ;  "  you  have  n't  any  business  here  !  " 


116  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"  0,  do  let  me  !  I  brought  a  flower, —  such  a  pretty  one  !  " 
said  Tops y,  holding  up  a  half-blown  tea  rose-bud.  "Do  let 
me  put  just  one  there," 

"  Get  along  !  "  said  Rosa,  more  decidedly. 

"  Let  her  stay ! "  said  St.  Clare,  suddenly  stamping  his 
foot.     "  She  shall  come." 

Rosa  suddenly  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. 

"  0,  Miss  Eva  !  oh,  Miss  Eva  !  I  wish  I 's  dead,  too,— I 
do!" 

There  was  a  piercing  wildness  in  the  cry ;  the  blood 
flushed  into  St.  Clare's  white,  marble-like  face,  and  the  first 
tears  he  had  shed  since  Eva  died  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"  Get  up,  child,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  in  a  softened  voice; 
"don't  cry  so.  Miss  Eva  is  gone  to  heaven;  she  is  an 
angel." 

"  But  I  can't  see  her  !  "  said  Topsy.  "  I  never  shall  see 
her !  "  and  she  sobbed  again. 

They  all  stood  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  She  said  she  loved  me,"  said  Topsy, —  "she  did  !  0, 
dear  !  oh.  dear  !  there  an't  nobody  left  now, —  there  an't !  " 

"That's  true  enough,"  said  St.  Clare;  "but  do,"  he 
said  to  Miss  Ophelia,  "see  if  you  can't  comfort  the  poor 
creature." 

"  I  jifit  wish  I  had  n't  never  been  born."  said  Topsy.  c'  I 
did  n't  want  to  be  born,  no  ways ;  and  I  don't  see  no  use 
on't." 

Miss  Ophelia  raised  her  gently,  but  firmly,  and  took  her 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  117 

from  the  room ;  but,  as  she  did  so,  some  tears  fell  from  her 
eyes. 

"  Topsy,  you  poor  child,"  she  said,  as  she  led  her  into  her 
room,  "  don't  give  up  !  i"  can  love  you,  though  I  am  not  like 
that  dear  little  child.  I  hope  I  've  learnt  something  of  the 
love  of  Christ  from  her.  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* 
From  that  hour,  she  acquired  an  influence  over  the  mind  of 
the  destitute  child  that  she  never  lost. 

"  0,  my  Eva,  whose  little  hour  on  earth  did  so  much  of 
good,"  thought  St.  Clare,  "what  account  have  I  to  give  for 
my  long  years  ?  " 

There  were,  for  a  while,  soft  whisperings  and  foot-falls  in 
the  chamber,  as  one  after  another  stole  in,  to  look  at  the 
dead;  and  then  came  the  little  coffin;  and  then  there  was  a 
funeral,  and  carriages  drove  to  the  door,  and  strangers  came 
and  were  seated ;  and  there  were  white  scarfs  and  ribbons, 
and  crape  bands,  and  mourners  dressed  in  black  crape ;  and 
there  were  words  read  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.  St.  Clare  stood  beside  it, —  looked  vacantly  down* 
he  saw  them  lower  the  little  coffin ;  he  heard,  dimly,  the 
solemn  words,  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  Life  ;  he  that 
belie v 3th  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live;  " 


118  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

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 
attentions  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 
feel  it  as  she  did. 

"  St.  Clare  did  not  shed  a  tear,"  she  said;  "he  didn't 
sympathize  with  her ;  it  was  perfectly  wonderful  to  think  how 
hard-hearted  and  unfeeling  he  was,  when  he  must  know  how 
she  suffered." 

So  much  are  people  the  slave  of  their  eye  and  ear,  that  many 
of  the  servants  really  thought  that  Missis  was  the  principal 
sufferer  in  the  case,  especially  as  Marie  began  to  have  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  fuss- 
ing, 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 
m  all  Marie's  moans  and  lamentations. 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  119 

In  a  few  days  the  St.  Clare  family  were  back  again  in  the 
city ;  Augustine,  with  the  restlessness  of  grief,  longing  for 
another  scene,  to  change  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  So 
they  left  the  house  and  garden,  with  its  little  grave,  and 
came  back  to  New  Orleans  ;  and  St.  Clare  walked  the  streets 
busily,  and  strove  to  fill  up  the  chasm  in  his  heart  with 
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  attending  to  business  matters ;  and  who  could 
see  that  all  this  smiling  outside  was  but  a  hollow  shell  over 
a  heart  that  was  a  dark  and  silent  sepulchre  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  can- 
not 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. 

"  0,  I  don't  believe  in  such  things;  it's  all  talk.  If  peo- 
ple 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, 
know  he  don't  forget  Miss  Eva;  I  know  there  couldn't 
nobody, —  dear,  little,  blessed  cretur  !  "  she  added,  wifing  her 
eyes. 

i(  Y(qI\,  at  all  events,  he  has  no  consideration  for  me,"  said 


120  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

Marie;  "he  hasn't  spoken  one  word  of  sympathy,  and  ho 
must  know  how  much  more  a  mother  feels  than  any  man 
can." 

"  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness,"  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
gravely. 

"  That 's  just  what  I  think.  I  know  just  what  I  feel, — 
nobody  else  seems  to.  Eva  used  to,  but  she  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, 
another  was  going  on  in  St.  Clare's  library. 

Tom,  who  was  always  uneasily  following  his  master  about, 
had  seen  him  go  to  his  library,  some  hours  before ;  and,  after 
vainly  waiting  for  him  to  come  out,  determined,  at  last,  to 
make  an  errand  in.  He  entered  softly.  St.  Clare  lay  on 
his  lounge,  at  the  further  end  of  the  room.  He  was  lying  on 
his  face,  with  Eva's  Bible  open  before  him,  at  a  little  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  boy,  the  whole  world  is  as  empty  as  an  egg- 
shell." 

"I  know  it,  Mas'r, —  I  know  it,"  said  Tom;  "but,  oh,  if 
Mas'r  could  only  look  up, —  up  where  our  dear  Miss  Eva  is, 
—  up  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  !  " 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  121 

"  All,  Tom!  I  do  look  up;  but  the  trouble  is,  I  don't  see 
anything,  when  I  do.     I  wish  I  could." 

Tom  sighed  heavily. 

"  It  seems  to  be  given  to  children,  and  poor,  honest  fellows, 
like  you,  to  see  what  we  can't,"  said  St.  Clare.  "  How 
comes  it?  " 

"  Thou  hast  l  hid  from  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  revealed 
unto  babes,'"  murmured  Tom;  "'even  so,  Father,  for  so 
<t  seemed  good  in  thy  sight.'  " 

"Tom,  I  don't  believe, —  I  can't  believe, —  I 've  got  the 
\abit  01  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  ; 
aelp  thou  my  unbelief.'  " 

"Who  knows  anything  about  anything?"  said  St.  Clare, 
his  eyes  wandering  dreamily,  and  speaking  to  himself.  "  Was 
all  that  beautiful  love  and  faith  only  one  of  the  ever-shifting 
phases  of  human  feeling,  having  nothing  real  to  rest  on,  pass- 
ing away  with  the  little  breath  ?  And  is  there  no  more  Eva, 
—  no  heaven, —  ncr  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  it !  " 

"How  do  you  know  there's  any  Christ,  Tom?  You 
never  saw  the  Lord." 

"  Felt  Him  in  my  soul,  Mas'r, —  feel  Him  now  !  0,  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  aiid  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 

VOL.    II.  11 


' 


122  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

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,  complainin'  cretur;  it  comes  from  the  Lord;  and  1 
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  se*4 
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 
yours." 

"  0,  Mas'r,  dere  's  more  than  me  loves  you, — the  blessed 
Lord  Jesus  loves  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Tom?  "  said  St.  Clare. 

"  Feels  it  in  my  soul.  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  ma  a 'ever  had  such  long  and  living 
power  !  0,  that  I  could  f  Jieve  what  my  mother  taught  me, 
and  pray  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  boy  !  " 

"  If  Mas'r  pleases,"  jaid  Tom,  "  Miss  Eva  used  to  read  this 
so  beautifully.  I  wish  Mas'r  'd  be  so  good  as  read  it.  Don't 
get  no  readin',  hardl  ,  now  Miss  Eva  's  gone." 

The  chapter  was  the  eleventh  of  John, —  the  touching 
account  of  the  raising  of  Lazarus.  St.  Clare  read  it  aloud, 
often  pausing  tc  wrestle  down  feelings  which  were  roused  by 
the  pathos  of  the  story.     Tom  knelt  before  him,  with  clasped 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  123 

1  ■  ■  '     * 

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  !  n 

tl  I  can  jest  fairly  see  it,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom. 

"  I  wish  I  had  your  eyes,  Tom." 

u  I  wish,  to  the  dear  Lord,  Mas'r  had  !  " 

{  But,  Tom,  you  know  that  I  have  a  great  deal  more 
knowledge  than  you  ;  what  if  I  should  tell  you  that  I  don't 
believe  this  Bible  ?  " 

"  0,  Mas'r !"  said  Tom,  holding  up  his  hands,  with  a 
deprecating  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,  haven't  you  jest  read  how  he  hides  from  the 
wise  and  prudent,  and  reveals  unto  babes?  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  trouble- 
some 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 
w7aters  that  have  been  long  suppressed.  One  thing  was  plain 
enough ;  Tom  thought  there  wTas  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 


124  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OB, 

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. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


REUNION. 


Week  after  week  glided  away  in  the  St.  Clare  mansion,  and 
the  waves  of  life  settled  back  to  their  usual  flow,  where  that 
little  bark  had  gone  down.  For  how  imperiously,  how  coolly, 
in  disregard  of  all  one's  feeling,  does  the  hard,  cold,  uninter- 
esting 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 
he  had  planned  the  disposal  of  his  time ;  and,  to  do  this  and 
that  for  Eva, —  to  buy,  improve,  alter,  and  arrange,  or  dis- 
pose something  for  her, —  had  been  so  long  his  habit,  that 
now  she  was  gone,  there  seemed  nothing  to  be  thought  of, 
and  nothing  to  be  done. 

True,  there  was  another  life, — a  life  which,  once  believed 
m,  stands  as  a  solemn,  significant  figure  before  the  otherwise 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  125 

unmeaning  ciphers  of  time,  changing  them  to  orders  of 
mysterious,  untold  value.  St.  Clare  knew  this  well;  and 
often,  in  mpuy  a  weary  hour,  he  heard  that  slender,  childish 
voice  calling  him  to  the  skies,  and  saw  that  little  hand  point- 
ing 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  reli- 
gious things  from  its  own  perceptions  and  instincts,  than 
many  a  matter-of-fact  and  practical  Christian.  The  gift  to 
appreciate  and  the  sense  to  feel  the  finer  shades  and  relations 
of  moral  things,  often  seems  an  attribute  of  those  whose  whole 
life  shows  a  careless  disregard  of  them.  Hence  Moore, 
Byron,  Goethe,  often  speak  words  more  wisely  descriptive  of 
the  true  religious  sentiment,  than  another  man,  whose  whole 
life  is  governed  by  it.  In  such  minds,  disregard  of  religion 
is  a  more  fearful  treason, — a  more  deadly  sin. 

St.  Clare  had  never  pretended  to  govern  himself  by  any 
religious  obligation ;  and  a  certain  fineness  of  nature  gave  him 
such  an  instinctive  view  of  the  extent  of  the  requirements  of 
Christianity,  that  he  shrank,  by  anticipation,  from  what  he  felt 
would  be  the  exactions  of  his  own  conscience,  if  he  once  did 
resolve  to  assume  them.  For,  so  inconsistent  is  human  nature, 
especially  in  the  ideal,  that  not  to  undertake  a  thing  at  all 
seems  better  than  to  undertake  and  come  short. 

Still  St.  Clare  was,  in  many  respects,  another  man.  He 
read  his  little  Eva's  Bible  seriously  and  honestly ;  he  thought 
more  soberly  and  practically  of  his  relations  to  his  servants, 
—  enough  to  make  him  extremely  dissatisfied  with  both  his 
past  and  present  course ;  and  one  thing  he  did,  soon  after  his 
return  to  New  Orleans,  and  that  was  to  commence  the  legal 
steps  necessary  to  Tom's  emancipation,  which  was  to  be  per- 
fected as  soon  as  he  could  get  through  the  necessary  fornv»i;- 

VOL.   II.  11* 


126  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

ties.  Meantime,  he  attached  himself  to  Tom  more  and  more, 
every  day.  In  all  the  wide  world,  there  was  nothing  that 
seemed  to  remind  him  so  much  of  Eva ;  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  expression  of  affection  and 
devotion  with  which  Tom  continually  followed  his  young 
master. 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  St.  Clare,  the  day  after  he  had  com- 
menced 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  haven't  had  such  very  bad  times  here,  that  you 
need  be  in  such  a  rapture,  Tom,"  he  said,  drily. 

"No,  no,  Mas'r !  'tan't  that, — it's  bein'  a  free  man  I 
That 's  what  I  'm  joy  in'  for." 

"Why,  Tom,  don't  you  think,  for  your  own  part,  you've 
been  better  off  than  to  be  free  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Mas'r  St.  Clare,"  said  Tom,  with  a  flash  of 
energy.     "  No,  indeed  !  " 

"Why,  Tom,  you  couldn't  possibly  have  earned,  by  your 
work,  such  clothes  and  such  living  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 
everything,  and  have  'em  mine,  than  have  the  best,  and  have 
'em  any  man's  else, —  I  had  so,  Mas'r ;   I  think  it 's  natur 
<*as'r." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  127 

"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  shouldn't,  no  mortal  knows,"  he  said,  in  a 
gayer  tone;  and,  getting  up,  he  began  to  walk  the  floor. 

"Not  while  Mas'r  is  in  trouble,"  said  Tom.  "I'll  stay 
with  Mas'r  as  long  "as  he  wants  me, — so  as  I  can  be  any  use." 

"•Not  while  I'm  in  trouble,  Tom?"  said  St.  Clare,  look- 
ing sadly  out  of  the  window "  And  when  will 

my  trouble  be  over?" 

"When  Mas'r  St.  Clare's  a  Christian,"  said  Tom. 

"And  you  really  mean  to  stay  by  till  that  day  comes?" 
said  St.  Clare,  half  smiling,  as  he  turned  from  the  window, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder.  "  Ah,  Tom,  you  soft, 
silly  boy !  I  won't  keep  you  till  that  day.  Go  home  to  your 
wife  and  children,  and  give  my  love  to  all." 

"  I 's  faith  to  believe  that  day  will  come,"  said  Tom, 
earnestly,  and  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  Tom. 

"  Good  theology,  Tom ;  better  than  Dr.  B.  preaches,  I  dare 
swear,"  said  St.  Clare. 

The  conversation  wTas  here  interrupted  by  the  announce- 
ment of  some  visiters. 

Marie  St.  Clare  felt  the  loss  of  Eva  as  deeply  as  she  could 


128  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OB 


feel  anything;  and,  as  she  was  a  woman  that  had  a  great 
faculty  of  making  everybody  unhappy  when  she  was,  hei 
immediate  attendants  had  still  stronger  reason  to  regret  the 
loss  of  their  young  mistress,  whose  winning  ways  and  gentle 
intercessions  had  so  often  been  a  shield  to  them  from  the 
tyrannical  and  selfish  exactions  of  her  mother.  Poor  old 
Mammy,  in  particular,  whose  heart,  severed  from  all  nat- 
ural domestic  ties,  had  consoled  itself  with  this  one  beautiful 
being,  was  almost  heart-broken.  She  cried  day  and  night, 
and  was,  from  excess  of  sorrow,  less  skilful  and  alert  in  her 
ministrations  on  her  mistress  than  usual,  which  drew  down  & 
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  soft- 
ened, more  gentle ;  and,  though  equally  assiduous  in  every 
duty,  it  was  with  a  chastened  and  quiet  air,  as  one  who  com- 
muned with  her  own  heart  not  in  vain.  She  was  more  dili- 
gent in  teaching  Topsy, —  taught  her  mainly  from  the  Bible, 
—  did  not  any  longer  shrink  from  her  touch,  or  manifest  an 
ill-repressed  disgust,  because  she  felt  none.  She  viewed  her 
now  through  the  softened  medium  that  Eva's  hand  had  first 
held  before  her  eyes,  and  saw  in  her  only  an  immortal  crea- 
ture, whom  God  had  sent  to  be  led  by  her  to  glory  and  vir- 
tue. Topsy  did  not  become  at  once  a  saint ;  but  the  life  and 
death  of  Eva  did  work  a  marked  change  in  her.  The  cal- 
lous indifference  was  gone ;  the:  2  was  now  sensibility,  hope, 
desire,  and  the  striving  for  good, — a  strife  irregular,  inter- 
rupted, suspended  oft,  but  yet  renewed  again. 

One  day,  when  Topsy  had  been  sent  for  by  Miss  Ophelia, 
ghe  came,  hastily  thrusting  something  into  her  bosom. 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  you  limb?  You've  been 
stealing  something,  I'll  be  bound,"  said  the  imperious  little 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  129 

Rosa,  who  bad  been  sent  to  call  her,  seizing  her,  at  the 
same  time,  ro  ighly  by  the  arm. 

"  You  go  'long,  Miss  Rosa ! "  said  Topsy,  pulling  from 
her;  "  'tan't  none  o'  your  business  !  " 

"  None  o'  your  sa'ce  !  "  said  Rosa.  "I  saw  you  hiding 
something, —  I  know  yer  tricks,"  and  Rosa  seized  her  arm, 
and  tried  to  force  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  while  Topsy, 
enraged,  kicked  and  fought  valiantly  for  what  she  considered 
her  rights.  The  clamor  and  confusion  of  the  battle  drew 
Miss  Ophelia  and  St.  Clare  both  to  the  spot. 

"  She  's  been  stealing  !  "  said  Rosa. 

"I  han't,  neither!"  vociferated  Topsy,  sobbing  with  pas- 
sion. 

"  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  stockings. 

Miss  Ophelia  turned  it  out.  There  was  a  small  book, 
which  had  been  given  to  Topsy  by  Eva,  containing  a  single 
verse  of  Scripture,  arranged  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?"  said  St. 
Clare,  holding  up  the  crape. 

"  Cause, —  cause, —  cause  'twas  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  be^an  to  sob 
vehemently. 

It  was  a  curious  mixture  of  the  pathetic  and  the  ludicrous. 


130  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

—  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  sorroiv  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  1 " 

"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  slave-holder ! " 

"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  l  doing  evil  that  good  may 
come'!     I  can't  encourage  it." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  joke,  but  to  reason,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia.  "  There  is  no  use  in  my  trying  to  make  this  child 
a  Christian  child,  unless  I  save  her  from  all  the  chances  and 
reverses  of  slavery ;  and,  if  you  really  are  willing  I  should 
have  her,  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  deed  of  gift,  or  some  legal 
paper." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  131 

"Well,  well,"  said  St.  Clare,  "I  will;  "  and  lie  sat  down, 
ind  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  downright- 
ness. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  said  he.  "Can't  you  take 
my  word  ?  One  would  think  you  had  taken  lessons  of  the 
Jews,  coming  at  a  fellow  so  !  " 

"I  want  to  make  sure  of  it,"  said  Miss  Ophelia.  "You 
may  die,  or  fail,  and  then  Topsy  be  hustled  off  to  auction, 
spite  of  all  I  can  do." 

"Really,  you  are  quite  provident.  Well,  seeing  I'm  in 
the  hands  of  a  Yankee,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  con- 
cede; "  and  St.  Clare  rapidly  wrote  off  a  deed  of  gift,  which, 
as  he  was  well  versed  in  the  forms  of  law,  he  could  easily  do, 
and  signed  his  name  to  it  in  sprawling  capitals,  concluding  by 
a  tremendous  flourish. 

"There,  isn't  that  black  and  white,  now,  Miss  Ver- 
mont? "  he  said,  as  he  handed  it  to  her. 

"  Good  boy,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  smiling.  "  But  must  it 
not  be  witnessed?" 

"0,  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. 
n  Ridiculous !     I  thought  Cousin  was  too  pious  for  such 


132  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

horrid  things,"  she  added,  as  she  carelessly  wrote  her  name, 
"but,  if  she  has  a  fancj  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 ; 
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 
oi  your  death?  " 

"  No."  said  St.  Clare,  as  he  read  on. 

"  Then  all  your  indulgence  to  them  may  prove  a  great 
ciuelty,  by  and  by." 

St.  Clare  had  often  thought  the  same  thing  himself;  but 
he  answered,  negligently, 

"  Well,  I  mean  to  make  a  provision,  by  and  by." 

"  When?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  0,  one  of  these  days." 

"  What  if  you  should  die  first?  " 

"Cousin,  what's  the  matter?"  said  St.  Clare,  laying 
down  his  paper  and  looking  at  her.  "  Do  you  think  I  show 
symptoms  of  yellow  fever  or  cholera,  that  you  are  making 
post  mortem  arrangements  with  such  zeal?  " 

"'In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death/"  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWnY.  133 

St.  Clare  rose  up,  and  laying  the  paper  down,  carelessly, 
walked  to  the  door  that  stood  open  on  the  verandah,  to  put  an 
end  to  a  conversation  that  was  not  agreeable  to  him.  Me- 
chanically, he  repeated  the  last  word  again, —  "  Death  /" — 
and,  as  he  leaned  against  the  railings,  and  watched  the  spark- 
ling water  as  it  rose  and  fell  in  the  fountain;  and,  as  in  a  dim 
and  dizzy  haze,  saw  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 
a*id  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  verandah,  he  saw  Tom  busily  intent  on  his 
Bible,  pointing,  as  he  did  so,  with  his  finger  to  each  succes- 
sive word,  and  whispering  them  to  himself  with  an  earnest 
air. 

"Want  me  to  read  to  you,  Tom?"  said  St.  Clare,  seating 
himself  carelessly  by  him. 

"If  Mas'r  pleases,"  said  Tom,  gratefully,  "Mas'r  makes 
it  so  much  plainer." 

St.  Clare  took  the  book  and  glanced  at  the  place,  and 
began  reading  one  of  the  passages  which  Tom  had  designated 
by  the  heavy  marks  around  it.     It  ran  as  follows : 

' '  When  the  Son  of  man  shall  come  in  his  glory,  and  all 
his  holy  angels  with  him,  then  shall  he  sit  upon  the  throne 
of  his  glory :  and  before  him  shall  be  gathered  all  nations ; 
and  he  shall  separate  them  one  from  another,  as  a  shepherd 
divideth  his  sheep  from  the  goats."  St.  Clare  read  on  in  an 
animated  voice,  till  he  came  to  the  last  of  the  verses. 

"  Then  shall  the  king  say  unto  them  on  his  left  hand, 

VOL.    II.  12 


134  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  everlasting  fire :  for  I  was 
an  hungered,  and  ye  gave  me  no  meat :  I  was  thirsty,  and  ye 
gave  me  no  drink  :  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  not  in  : 
naked,  and  ye  clothed  me  not :  J  was  sick,  and  in  prison,  and 
ye  visited  me  not.  Then  shal1  they  answer  unto  Him,  Lord 
when  saw  we  thee  an  hungered,  or  athirst,  or  a  stranger,  or 
naked,  or  sick,  or  in  prison,  and  did  not  minister  unto  thee  ? 
Then  shall  he  say  unto  them,  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  not  to 
one  of  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  revolv- 
ing the  words  in  his  mind. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  "these  folks  that  get  such  hard  measure 
seem  to  have  been  doing  just  what  I  have, —  living  good, 
easy,  respectable  lives ;  and  not  troubling  themselves  to  in- 
quire how  many  of  their  brethren  were  hungry  or  athirst,  or 
sick,  or  in  prison." 

Tom  did  not  answer. 

St.  Clare  rose  up  and  walked  thoughtfully  up  and  down 
the  verandah,  seeming  to  forget  everything  in  his  own 
thoughts;  so  absorbed  was  he,  that  Tom  had  to  remind  him 
twice  that  the  tea-bell  had  rung,  before  he  could  get  his 
attention. 

St.  Clare  was  absent  and  thoughtful,  all  tea-time.  After 
tea,  he  and  Marie  and  Miss  Ophelia  took  possession  of  the 
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  -ZEolian  accompaniment.  He  seemed  in  a  deep 
reverie,  and  to  be  soliloquizing  to  himself  by  music.     Aftei  a 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  135 

little,  he  opened  one  of  the  drawers,  took  out  an  old  music- 
book  whose  leaves  were  yellow  with  age,  and  began  turning 
it  over. 

"  There,"  he  said  to  Miss  Ophelia,  "this  was  one  of  my 
mother's  books, — and  here  is  her  handwriting, —  come  and 
look  at  it.  She  copied  and  arranged  this  from  Mozart's 
Requiem."     Miss  Ophelia  came  accordingly. 

c: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  Irce." 

Tom,  who  was  listening  in  the  outer  verandah,  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,  espec- 
ially when  St.  Clare  sang  the  more  pathetic  parts.  Tom 
would  have  sympathized  more  heartily,  if  he  b-,r1  known  t^« 
meaning  of  the  beautiful  words  : 

Recordare  Jesu  pie 
Quod  sum  causa  tuce  visa 
Ne  me  perdas,  ilia  die 
Quserens  me  sedisti  lassus 
Redemisti  crucem  passus 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus.* 

St.  Clare  threw  a  deep  and  pathetic  expression  into  the 

♦  These  lines  'lave  been  thus  rather  inadequately  translated : 

Think,  0  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  soul  death  tasted, 

Let  not  all  these  toils  be  wasted. 


136  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

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 
sympathy  those  strains  which  the  ethereal  Mozart  first  con- 
ceived 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  everjr  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 
m  vain  to  some  noble  purpose ;  who  has  floated  on,  a  dreamy, 
neutral  spectator  of  the  struggles,  agonies,  and  wrongs  of 
man,  when  he  should  have  been  a  worker? " 

"I  should  say,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "that  he  ought  to 
repent,  and  begin  now." 

"Always  practical  and  to  the  point!  "  said  St.  Clare,  his 
face  breaking  out  into  a  smile.     "You  never  leave  me  any 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  137 


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  Ophelia. 

"  Dear  little  Eva, —  poor  child!"  said  St.  Clare,  "she  had 
set  her  little  simple  soul  on  a  good  work  for  me." 

It  was  the  first  time  since  Eva's  death  that  he  had  ever 
said  as  many  words  as  these  of  her,  and  he  spoke  now  evi- 
dently repressing  very  strong  feeling. 

"My  view  of  Christianity  is  such,"  he  added,  "that  I 
think  no  man  can  consistently  profess  it  without  throwing  the 
whole  weight  of  his  being  against  this  monstrous  system  of 
injustice  that  lies  at  the  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  intercourse  with  a  great  many  enlightened  and  Christian 
people  who  did  no  such  thing ;  and  I  confess  that  the  apathy 
of  religious  people  on  this  subject,  their  want  of  perception 
of  wrongs  that  filled  me  with  honor,  have  engendered  in  me 
more  scepticism  than  any  other  thing." 

"If  you  knew  all  this,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "why  didn't 
you  do  it  1  " 

"  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?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

"God  only  knows  the  future,"  said  St.  Clare.  "I  am 
braver  than  I  was,  because  I  have  lost  all ;  and  he  who  has 
nothing  to  lose  can  afford  all  risks." 

VOL.   II.  12* 


138  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  My  duty,  I  hope,  to  the  poor  and  lowly,  as  fast  as  I  find  it 
out,"  said  St.  Clare,  "beginning  with  my  own  servants,  for 
whom  I  have  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?  "  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  eman- 
cipate, who  would  educate  these  millions,  and  teach  them  how 
to  use  their  freedom  ?  They  never  would  rise  to  do  much 
among  us.  The  fact  is,  we  are  too  lazy  and  unpractical,  our- 
selves, 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  uni- 
versal 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  thou- 
sands of  dollars  to  foreign  missions  ;  but  could  you  endure  to 
have  the  heathen  sent  into  your  towns  and  villages,  and  give 
your  time,  and  thoughts,  and  money,  to  raise  them  to  the 
Christian  standard?  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  If  we 
emancipate,  are  you  willing  to  educate  ?  How  many  families, 
in  your  town,  would  take  in  a  negro  man  and  woman,  teach 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  139 

them,  bear  with  them,  and  seek  to  make  them  Christians  I 
How  many  merchants  would  take  Adolph,  if  I  wanted  to 
make  him  a  clerk ;  or  mechanics,  if  I  wanted  him  taught  a 
trade  ?  If  I  wanted  to  put  Jane  and  Rosa  to  a  school,  how 
many  schools  are  there  in  the  northern  states  that  would 
take  them  in  ?  how  many  families  that  would  board  them  ? 
and  yet  they  are  as  white  as  many  a  woman,  north  or  south. 
You  see,  Cousin,  I  want  justice  done  us.  We  are  in  a  bad 
position.  We  are  the  more  obvious  oppressors  of  the  negro ; 
but  the  unchristian  prejudice  of  the  north  is  an  oppressor 
almost  equally  severe." 

"  Well,  Cousin,  I  know  it  is  so,"  said  Miss  Ophelia, — M  I 
know  it  was  so  with  me,  till  I  saw  that  it  was  my  duty  to 
overcome  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  certainly  be  a  greater  self-denial  to  receive  heathen 
among  us,  than  to  send  missionaries  to  them ;  but  I  think 
we  would  do  it." 

"  You  would,  I  know,"  said  St.  Clare.  "I'd  like  to  see 
anything  you  would  n't  do,  if  you  thought  it  your  duty  !  " 

"Well,  I'm  not  uncommonly  good,"  saift  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 
exactly  what  you  said." 

"  Yes,  but  they  are  a  minority ;  and,  if  we  should  begin 
to  emancipate  to  any  extent,  we  should  soon  hear  from  you." 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  reply.  There  was  a  pause  of  some 
moments ;  and  St.  Clare's  countenance  was  overcast  by  a  sad, 
dreamy  expression. 


1  f.0  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

"I  don't  know  what  makes  me  tliink  of  my  mothei  so 
much,  to-night,"  he  said.  H  I  have  a  strange  kind  of  feeling, 
as  if  she  were  near  me.  I  keep  thinking  of  things  she  used 
to  say.  Strange,  what  brings  these  past  things  so  vividly 
back  to  us,  sometimes  !  " 

St.  Clare  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  some  minutes 
more,  and  then  said, 

"  I  believe  I  '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  verandah.  It  was  a  beautiful  moon- 
light evening,  and  he  sat  watching  the  rising  and  falling 
spray  of  the  fountain,  and  listening  to  its  murmur.  Tom 
thought  of  his  home,  and  that  he  should  soon  be  a  free  man, 
and  able  to  return  to  it  at  will.  He  thought  how  he  should 
work  to  buy  his  wife  and  boys.  He  felt  the  muscles  of  his 
brawny  arms  with  a  sort  of  joy,  as  he  thought  they  would 
soon  belong  to  nimself,  and  how  much  they  could  do  to  work 
out  the  freedom  of  his  family.  Then  he  thought  of  his  noble 
young  master,  and,  ever  second  to  that,  came  the  habitual 
prayer  that  he  had  always  offered  for  him  ;  and  then  his 
thoughts  passed  on  to  the  beautiful  Eva,  whom  he  now 
thought  of  among  the  angels ;  and  he  thought  till  he  almost 
fancied  that  that  bright  face  and  golden  hair  were  looking 
upon  him,  out  of  the  spray  of  the  fountain.  Andy  so  musing, 
he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  he  saw  her  coming  bounding 
towards  him,  just  as  she  used  to  come,  with  a  wreath  of  jes- 
samine in  her  hair,  her  cheeks  bright,  and  her  eyes  radiant 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  141 

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 
despair,  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  gen- 
tlemen in  the  room,  who  were  both  partially  intoxicated.  St. 
Clare  and  one  or  two  otLers  made  an  effort  to  separate  them, 
and  St.  Clare  received  a  fatal  stab  in  the  side  with  a  bowie- 
knife,  which  he  was  attempting  to  wrest  from  one  of  them. 

The  house  was  full  of  cries  and  lamentations,  shrieks  and 
screams;  servants  frantically  tearing  their  hair,  throwing 
themselves  on  the  ground,  or  running  distractedly  about, 
lamenting.  Tom  and  Miss  Ophelia  alone  seemed  to  have 
any  presence  of  mind  ;  for  Marie  was  in  strong  hysteric  con- 
vulsions. 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  and  loss  of 
blood ;  but,  as  Miss  Ophelia  applied  restoratives,  he  revived, 
opened  his  eyes,  looked  fixedly  on  them,  looked  earnestly 
around  the  room,  his  eyes  travelling  wistfully  over  every 
object,  and  finally  they  rested  on  his  mother's  picture. 

The  physician  now  arrived,  and  made  his  examination.  It 
was  evident,  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  that  there  was 


142  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

no  hope ;  but  lie  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  verandah. 

"Now,"  said  the  physician,  "  we  must  turn  all  these 
creatures  out ;  all  depends  on  his  being  kept  quiet." 

St.  Clare  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  fixedly  on  the  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  depended  on  their  stillness  and  obedience. 

St.  Clare  could  say  but  little  ;  he  lay  with  his  eyes  shut, 
but  it  was  evident  that  he  wrestled  with  bitter  thoughts. 
After  a  while,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Tom's,  who  was  kneeling 
beside  him,  and  said,  "  Tom  !  poor  fellow  !  " 

"  What,  Mas'r?  "  said  Tom,  earnestly. 

"I  am  dying!"  said  St.  Clare,  pressing  his  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  seemed  looking  so 
steadily  and  mournfully  from  those  large,  melancholy  blue 
eyes.  It  was  literally  prayer  offered  with  strong  crying  and 
tears. 

When  Tom  ceased  to  speak,  St.  Clare  reached   out  and 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  143 

took  his  hand,  looking  earnestly  at  him,  but  saying  nothing. 
He  closed  his  eyes,  but  still  retained  his  hold ;  for,  in  the 
gates  of  eternity,  the  black  hand  and  the  white  hold  each  other 
with  an  equal  clasp.  He  murmured  softly  to  himself,  at 
broken  intervals, 

"  Recordare  Jesu  pie — 

Ne  me  perdas — ille  die 
Quserens  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,  ener- 
getically ;   "at  last !  at  last !  " 

The  effort  of  speaking  exhausted  him.  The  sinking  pale- 
ness of  death  fell  him  ;  but  with  it  there  fell,  as  if  shed 
from  the  wings  of  s—  *  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 
said  "Mother!"  and  then  he  was  gone ! 


144  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OR, 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 


THE   UNPROTECTED. 


We  hear  often  of  the  distress  of  the  negro  servants,  on  the 
loss  of  a  kind  master  ;  and  with  good  reason,  for  no  creature 
on  God's  earth  is  left  more  utterly  unprotected  and  desolate 
than  the  slave  in  these  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  bale  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 
irresponsible  power  humanely  and  generously  is  small. 
Everybody  knows  this,  and  the  slave  knows  it  best  of  all ;  so 
that  he  feels  that  there  are  ten  chances  of  his  finding  an 
abusive  and  tyrannical  master,  to  one  of  his  finding  a  con- 
siderate 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- 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  145 

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  mar- 
riage passed  from  her  forever,  without  the  possibility  of  even 
a  parting  word. 

Miss  Ophelia,  with  characteristic  strength  and  self-control, 
nad  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  whicii  the  poor  slave  had  poured  forth 
for  the  soul  of  his  dying  master. 

When  they  were  arranging  him  for  his  last  rest,  they  found 
apon  his  bosom  a  small,  plain  miniature  case,  opening  with  a 
spring.  It  was  the  miniature  of  a  noble  and  beautiful  female 
face ;  and  on  the  reverse,  under  a  crystal,  a  lock  of  dark  hair. 
They  laid  them  back  on  the  lifeless  breast, —  dust  to  dust, — 
poor  mournful  relics  of  early  dreams,  which  once  made  that  ^ 
cold  heart  beat  so  warmly  ! 

Tom's  whole  soul  was  filled  with  thoughts  of  eternity ;  and 
while  he  ministered  around  the  lifeless  clay,  he  did  not  once 
think  that  the  sudden  stroke  had  left  him  in  hopeless  slavery. 
He  felt  at  peace  about  his  master ;  for  in  that  hour,  when  he 
had  poured  forth  his  prayer  into  the  bosom  of  his  Father,  he 
had  found  an  answer  of  quietness  and  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, 

VOL.   II.  13 


146  UNCLE   TOM*S   CABIN:    OR, 


muddy  waves  of  ever y-day  life  ;  and  up  came  the  everlasting 
hard  inquiry  of  u  What  is  to  be  done  next?  " 

It  rose  to  the  mind  of  Marie,  as,  dressed  in  loose  morn- 
ing-robes, and  surrounded  by  anxious  servants,  she  sat  up  m  a 
great  easy-chair,  and  inspected  samples  of  crape  and  bom  Da- 
zine.  It  rose  to  Miss  Ophelia,  who  began  to  turn  her 
thoughts  towards  her  northern  home.  It  rose,  in  silent  ter- 
rors, to  the  minds  of  the  servants,  who  well  knew  the  unfeel- 
ing, tyrannical  character  of  the  mistress  in  whose  hands 
they  were  left.  All  knew,  very  well,  that  the  indulgences 
which  had  been  accorded  to  them  were  not  from  their  mis- 
tress, 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  Ophe- 
lia, busied  one  day  in  her  apartment,  heard  a  gentle  tap  at 
the  door.  She  opened  it,  and  there  stood  Rosa,  the  pretty 
young  quadroon,  whom  we  have  before  often  noticed,  her 
hair  in  disorder,  and  her  eyes  swelled  with  crying. 

"0,  Miss  Feely,"  she  said,  falling  on  her  knees,  and 
catching  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  udo,  do  go  to  Miss  Marie  for 
me  !  do  plead  for  me  !  She  's  goin'  to  send  me  out  to  be 
whipped, — look  there  !  "  And  she  handed  to  Miss  Ophelia  a 
paper. 

It  was  an  order,  written  in  Marie's  delicate  Italian  hand, 
to  the  master  of  a  whipping-establishment,  to  give  the  bearer 
fifteen  lashes. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"You  know,  Miss  Feely,  I've  got  such  a  bad  temper; 
it  's  very  bad  of  me.  I  was  trying  on  Miss  Marie's  dress, 
and  she  slapped  my  face  ;  and  I  spoke  out  before  I  thought, 
and  was  saucy ;  and  she  said  that  she  'd  bring  me  down,  and 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  147 


have  me  know,  once  for  all,  that  I  was  n't  going  to  he  so  top- 
ping as  I  had  heen ;  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  Eosa,  "I  don't  mind  the 
whipping  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  !  " 

I  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  down,  child,  while  I  go  to  your  mistress." 

"  Shameful !  monstrous  !  outrageous !  "  she  said  to  her- 
self, 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?"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

A  deep  sigh,  and  a  closing  of  the  eyes,  was  the  only  reply, 
for  a  moment;  and  then  Marie  answered,  "  0,  I  don't  know, 
Cousin;   I  suppose  I'm  as  well  as  I  ever  shall  be!"  and 


148  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

Marie  "wiped  her  eyes  with  a  cambric  handkerchief,  bordered 
with  an  inch  deep  of  black. 

"I  came,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  with  a  short,  dry  cough, 
such  as  commonly  introduces  a  difficult  subject, —  "I  came  to 
speak  with  yon  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  1 " 

"She  is  very  sorry  for  her  fault." 

"  She  is,  is  she?  She  '11  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  dust !  " 

"But  could  not  you  punish  her  some  other  way, — some 
way  that  would  be  less  shameful  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  shame  her ;  that's  just  what  I  want.  She  has 
all  her  life  presumed  on  her  delicacy^  and  her  good  looks,  and 
her  lady-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  mel  " 

"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  aL 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  149 

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'll  have  them  all  to  know  that  I'll  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 

mient,  as  if  she  had  swallowed  some  explosive  mature,  and 
were  ready  to  burst.  Then,  recollecting  the  utter  uselessness 
of  contention  writh  such  a  nature,  she  shut  her  lips  resolutely, 
gathered  herself  up,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  hard  to  go  back  and  tell  Rosa  that  she  could  do 
nothing  for  her;  and,  shortly  after,  one  of  the  man-servants 
came  to  say  that  her  mistress  had  ordered  him  to  take  Rosa 
with  him  to  the  whipping-house,  whither  she  was  hurried,  in 
spite  of  her  tears  and  entreaties. 

A  few  days  after,  Tom  was  standing  musing  by  the  bal- 
conies, when  he  was  joined  by  Adolph,  who,  since  the  death 
of  his  master,  had  been  entirely  crest-fallen  and  disconsolate. 
Adolph  knew  that  he  had  always  been  an  object  of  dislike  t© 
Marie;  but  while  his  master  lived  he  had  paid  but  little 
attention  to  it.  JSTow  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  communicating  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 
Adolph. 

VOL.    II.  13* 


150  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR 


"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'll  never  get  another  such  a  master,"  said  Adolph, 
apprehensively;  "but  I'd  rather  be  sold  than  take  my  chance 
under  Missis." 

Tom  turned  away ;  his  heart  was  full.  The  hope  of  lib- 
erty, 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  goin' 
on  with  it,  as  it  was  Mas'r  St.  Clare's  wish." 

"I'll  speak  for  you,  Tom,  and  do  my  best,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia;  "  but,  if  it  depends  on  Mrs.  St.  Clare,  I  can't  hope 
much  for  you  ;  —  nevertheless,  I  will  try." 

This  incident  occurred  a  few  days  after  that  of  Rosa,  while 
Miss  Ophelia  was  busied  in  preparations  to  return  north. 

Seriously  reflecting  within  herself,  she  considered  that  per- 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  151 

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,  tak- 
ing 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,  sup- 
porting 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  Der- 
bennon  wore  just  this  very  thing,  after  the  General  died,  last 
summer  ;  it  makes  up  lovely  ! " 

"What  do  you  think?  "  said  Marie  to  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  It's  a  matter  of  custom,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Qjphelia. 
':  You  can  judge  about  it  better  than  I." 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Marie,  "  that  I  haven't  a  dress  in  the 
world  that  I  can  wear ;  and,  as  I  am  going  to  break  up  the 
establishment,  and  go  off,  next  week,  I  must  decide  upon 
something." 

"  Are  you  going  so  soon?" 

"  Yes.  St.  Clare's  brother  has  written,  and  he  and  the 
lawyer  think  that  the  servants  and  furniture  had  better  be 
put  up  at  auction,  and  the  place  left  with  our  lawyer." 

"There's  one  thing  I  wanted  to  speak  with  you  about," 
said  Miss  Ophelia.  "Augustine  promised  Tom  his  liberty, 
and  began  the  legal  forms  necessary  to  it.  I  hope  you  will 
use  your  influence  to  have  it  perfected." 

"Indeed,  I  shall  do  no  such  thing !  "  said  Marie,  sharply. 


152  uncle  tom's  cabin  :  on, 


"  Tom  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  servants  on  the  place, —  it 
couldn't  be  afforded,  any  way.  Besides,  what  does  he  want 
of  liberty?     He  's  a  great  deal  better  off  as  he  is." 

"  But  he  does  desire  it,  very  earnestly,  and  his  master 
promised  it,"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  I  dare  say  he  does  want  it,"  said  Marie  ;  "  they  all  want 
it,  just  because  they  are  a  discontented  set, —  always  wanting 
wThat  they  have  n't  got.  Now,  I  'm  principled  against  eman- 
cipating, in  any  case.  Keep  a  negro  under  the  care  of  a 
master,  and  he  does  well  enough,  and  is  respectable ;  but  set 
them  free,  and  they  get  lazy,  and  won't  work,  and  take  to 
drinking,  and  go  all  down  to  be  mean,  worthless  fellows. 
I've  seen  it  tried,  hundreds  of  times.  It 's  no  favor  to  set 
them  free." 

"  But  Tom  is  so  steady,  industrious,  and  pious." 

"  0,  you  needn'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  isn't  one  time 
in  a  hundred  that  a  good  fellow  gets  a  bad  master ;  most 
masters  are  good,  for  all  the  talk  that  is  made.  I  've  lived 
and  grown  up  here,  in  the  South,  and  I  never  yet  was  ac- 
quainted with  a  master  that  didn't  treat  his  servants  well, — 
quite  as  well  as  is  worth  while.  I  don't  feel  any  fears  on 
that  head." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  energetically,  "I  know  it  was 
one  of  the  last  wishes  of  your  husband  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." 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  153 

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  shouldn't  have  expected  that  you  would 
bring  up  all  these  remembrances  of  my  troubles  to  me, —  it 's 
so  inconsiderate !  But  nobody  ever  does  consider, —  my  trials 
are  so  peculiar!  It'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  care- 
lessly,— when  you  know  how  it  overcomes  me !  I  suppose 
you  mean  well ;  but  it  is  very  inconsiderate, —  very  !  "  And 
Marie  sobbed,  and  gasped  for  breath,  and  called  Mammy  to 
open  the  window,  and  to  bring  her  the  camphor-bottle,  and 
to  bathe  her  head,  and  unhook  her  dress.  And,  in  the  gen- 
eral confusion  that  ensued,  Miss  Ophelia  made  her  escape  to 
her  apartment. 

She  saw,  at  once,  that  it  would  do  no  good  to  say  anything 
more ;  for  Marie  had  an  indefinite  capacity  for  hysteric  fits  ; 
and,  after  this,  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  let- 
ter 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  for  auction. 


154  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


THE   SLAVE  "WAREHOUSE. 


A  slave  warehouse  !  Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  con- 
jure up  horrible  visions  of  such  a  place.  They  fancy  sonu 
foul,  obscure  den,  some  horrible  Tartarus  "  informis,  in- 
gens,  cai  lumen  ademption"  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  re- 
spectable 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  ex- 
amine, and  shall  find  an  abundance  of  husbands,  wives,  broth- 
ers, sisters,  fathers,  mothers,  and  young  children,  to  be  "sold 
separately,  or  in  lots  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the  pur- 
chaser;" 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 


LIFE    AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  155 

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  of  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! 
Sambo,  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  possi- 
ble from  the  noisy  group,  he  sat  down  on  it,  and  leaned  his 
face  against  the  wall. 

The  dealers  in  the  human  article  make  scrupulous  and 
systematic  efforts  to  promote  noisy  mirth  among  them,  as  a 
means  of  drowning  reflection,  and  rendering  them  insensible 
to  their  condition.  The  whole  object  of  the  training  to 
which  the  negro  is  put,  from  the  time  he  is  sold  in  the  north- 
ern 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,  heathy  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  dangerous,  and  subjected  to  all  the  evils  which 
the  ill  will  of  an  utterly  irresponsible  and  hardened  man  can 


L56  UNCLE    TOM'S    CABIN:    OR, 

inflict  upon  him.  Briskness,  alertness,  and  cheerfulness  of 
appearance,  especially  before  observers,  are  constantly  en- 
forced 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  unsalable. 

"What  dat  ar  nigger  doin  here?"  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  grimace. 

"What  you  doin  here?"  said  Sambo,  coming  up  to  Tom, 
and  poking  him  facetiously  in  the  side.     "  Meditatin',  eh  ?  " 

"  I  am  to  be  sold  at  the  auction,  to-morrow !  "  said  Tom, 
quietly. 

"  Sold  at  auction, —  haw !  haw !  boys,  an't  this  yer  fun?  I 
wish't  I  was  gwine  that  ar  way !  —  tell  ye,  wouldn't  I  make 
em  laugh  ?  But  how  is  it, — dis  yer  whole  lot  gwine  to-mor- 
row ? "  said  Sambo,  laying  his  hand  freely  on  Adolph's 
shoulder. 

"  Please  to  let  me  alone !  "  said  Adolph,  fiercely,  straight- 
ening 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  iind  snuffing.  "  0,  Lor  !  he  'd  do  for  a  tobaccer- 
shop;  they  could  keep  him  to  scent  snuff!  Lor,  he  'd  keep 
ti  whole  shope  agwme, —  he  would  I" 

"I  say,  keep  off,  can't  you?"  said  Adolph,  enraged. 

"  Lor,  now,  how  touchy  we  is, —  we  white  niggers  !  Look 
at  us,  now !  "  and  Sambo  gave  a  ludicrous  imitation  of 
Adolph's  manner;  "here's  de  airs  and  graces.  We 's  been 
\n  a  good  family,  I  specs." 

"Yes,"  said  Adolph;  "I  had  a  master  that  could  have 
bought  you  all  for  old  truck  !  " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  157 

"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  o1 
cracked  tea-pots  and  sich  like  ! "  said  Sambo,  with  a  pro  yok- 
ing 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  door. 

"What  now,  boys?  Order, —  order  !  "  he  said,  coming  in 
and  flourishing  a  large  whip. 

All  fled  in  different  directions,  except  Sambo,  who,  pre- 
suming 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,  'tan't  us, —  we 's  reglar  stiddy, —  it's  these 
ycr  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 

VOL.   II.  14 


158  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:   or, 

out  yesterday,  and  who  to-night  cried  herself  to  sleep  when 
nobody  was  looking  at  her.  Here,  a  worn  old  negress,  whose 
thin  arms  and  callous  fingers  tell  of  hard  toil,  waiting  to  be 
sold  to-morrow,  as  a  cast-off  article,  for  what  can  be  got  for 
her;  and  some  forty  or  fifty  others,  with  heads  variously 
enveloped  in  blankets  or  articles  of  clothing,  lie  stretched 
around  them.  But,  in  a  corner,  sitting  apart  from  the  rest; 
are  two  females  of  a  more  interesting  appearance  than  com- 
mon. One  of  these  is  a  respectably-dressed  mulatto  woman 
between  forty  and  fifty,  with  soft  eyes  and  a  gentle  and  pleas- 
ing physiognomy.  She  has  on  her  head  a  high-raised  tur- 
ban, 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  discernible.  She  has  the  lame  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 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  159 

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  general  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  haven'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  'twas  anybody's  else  case,  I  should  say  so,  too,  Em," 


160  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

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  first-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  chamber-maid  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  try- 
ing to  look  handsome.  I  know  their  ways  better  'n  you  do," 
said  Susan. 

"  Well,  mother,  then  I  will." 

"And,  Emmeline,  if  we  shouldn't  ever  see  each  other 
again,  after  to-morrow, —  if  I  'm  sold  way  up  on  a  plantation 
somewhere,  and  you  somewhere  else, —  always  remember  how 
you  've  been  brought  up,  and  all  Missis  has  told  you ;  take 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  161 

your  Bible  with  you,  and  your  hymn-book;  and  if  you're 
faithful  to  the  Lord,  he'll  be  faithful  to  you." 

So  speaks  the  poor  soul,  in  sore  discouragement ;  for  she 
knows  that  to-morrow  any  man,  however  vile  and  brutal, 
however  godless  and  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  ?  She  thinks  of  all 
this,  as  she  holds  her  daughter  in  her  arms,  and  wishes  that 
she  were  not  handsome  and  attractive.  It  seems  almost  an 
aggravation  to  her  to  remember  how  purely  and  piously, 
how  much  above  the  ordinary  lot,  she  has  been  brought  up. 
But  she  has  no  resort  but  to  pray ;  and  many  such  prayers 
to  God  have  gone  up  from  those  same  trim,  neatly-arranged, 
respectable  slave-prisons, —  prayers  which  God  has  not  for- 
gotten, as  a  coming  day  shall  show;  for  it  is  written,  "Whoso 
causeth  one  of  these  little  ones  to  offend,  it  were  better  for 
iiim  that  a  mill-stone  were  hanged  about  his  neck,  and  that 
he  were  drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea." 

The  soft,  earnest,  quiet  moonbeam  looks  in  fixedly  mark- 
ing the  bars  of  the  grated  windows  on  the  prostrate,  sleeping 
forms.  The  mother  and  daughter  are  singing  together  a  wild 
and  melancholy  dirge,  common  as  a  funeral  hymn  among  the 
slaves : 

"  0,  where  is  weeping  Mary  ? 
0,  where  is  weeping  Mary J 

'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 

vol.  il.  14* 


162  UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN:    OR, 

rooms  with  a   pathetic   cadence,   as   verse   after  verse  was 
breathed  out: 

"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  jou  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  look-out  on  the 
toilet;  injunctions  passed  around  to  every  one  to  put  on  their 
best  face  and  be  spry ;  and  now  all  are  arranged  in  a  circle 
for  a  last  review,  before  they  are  marched  up  to  the  Bourse. 

Mr.  Skeggs,  with  his  palmetto  on  and  his  cigar  in  his 
mouth,  walks  around  to  put  farewell  touches  on  his  wares. 

"How's  this?"  he  said,  stepping  in  front  of  Susan  and 
Emmeline.     "  Where 's  your  curls,  gal?  " 

The  girl  looked  timidly  at  her  mother,  who,  with  the 
smooth  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 
respectable  so." 

"Bother!"  said  the  man,  peremptorily,  turning  to  th. 
girl;  "you  go  right  along,  and  curl  yourself  real  smart!" 
He  added,  giving  a  crack  to  a  rattan  he  held  in  hxa  hand, 
"  And  be  back  in  quick  time,  too  !  " 

"You  go  and  help  her,"  he  added,  to  the  mother.  "Then 
curls  may  make  a  hundred  dollars  difference  in  the  sale  of  her.' ' 

*  *  *  #  *  *  * 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  163 

Beneath  a  splendid  dome  were  men  of  all  nations,  moving 
to  and  fro,  over  the  marble  pave.  On  every  side  of  the  cir- 
cular area  were  little  tribunes,  or  stations,  for  the  use  of 
speakers  and  auctioneers.  Two  of  these,  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  area,  were  now  occupied  by  brilliant  and  talented  gentle- 
men, enthusiastically  forcing  up,  in  English  and  JYench  com- 
mingled, the  bids  of  connoisseurs  in  their  various  wares.  A 
third  one,  on  the  other  side,  still  unoccupied,  was  surrounded 
by  a  group,  waiting  the  moment  of  sale  to  begin.  And  here 
we  may  recognize  the  St.  Clare  servants, —  Tom,  Adolph, 
and  others ;  and  there,  too,  Susan  and  Emmeline,  awaiting 
their  turn  with  anxious  and  dejected  faces.  Various  specta- 
tors, intending  to  purchase,  or  not  intending,  as  the  case 
might  be,  gathered  around  the  group,  handling,  examining, 
and  commenting  on  their  various  points  and  faces  with  the 
same  freedom  that  a  set  of  jockeys  discuss  the  merits  of  a 
horse. 

"Hulloa,  Alf!  what  brings  you  here?"  said  a  young 
exquisite,  slapping  the  shoulder  of  a  sprucely-dressed  young 
man,  who  was  examining  Adolph  through  an  eye-glass. 

"  Well,  I  was  wanting  a  valet,  and  I  heard  that  St.  Clare's 
lot  was  going.     I  thought  I  'd  just  look  at  his  — " 

"  Catch  me  ever  buying  any  of  St.  Clare's  people  !  Spoilt 
niggers,  every  one.  Impudent  as  the  devil .  '  said  the 
other. 

" Never  fear  that!  "  said  the  first.  "If  I  get  'em,  I'll 
soon  have  their  airs  out  of  them;  they'll  soon  find  that 
they  've  another  kind  of  master  to  deal  with  than  Monsieur 
St.  Clare.  'Pon  my  word,  I'll  buy  that  fellow.  I  like  the 
shape  of  him." 

"  You  '11  find  it  '11  take  all  you  've  got  to  keep  him.  He 's 
deucedly  extravagant !  " 


164  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"Yes,  but  my  lord  will  find  that  he  can't  be  extravagant 
with  me.  Just  let  him  be  sent  to  the  calaboose  a  few  times, 
and  thoroughly  dressed  down  !  I  '11  tell  you  if  it  don't  bring 
him  to  a  sense  of  his  ways  !  0,  I  '11  reform  him,  up  hill  and 
down, —  you  '11  see.     I  buy  him,  that 's  flat !  " 

Tom  had  teen  standing  wistfully  examining  the  multitude 
of  faces  thronging  around  him,  for  one  whom  he  would  wish 
to  call  master.  And  if  you  should  ever  be  under  the  neces- 
sity, sir,  of  selecting,  out  of  two  hundred  men,  one  who  was 
to  become  your  absolute  owner  and  disposer,  you  would,  per- 
haps, realize,  just  as  Tom  did,  how  few  there  were  that  you 
would  feel  at  all  comfortable  in  being  made  over  to.  Tom 
saw  abundance  of  men, —  great,  burly,  gruiF  men;  little, 
chirping,  dried  men;  long-favored,  lank,  hard  men;  and 
every  variety  of  stubbed-looking,  commonplace  men,  who  pick 
up  their  fellow-men  as  one  picks  up  chips,  putting  them  into 
the  fire  or  a  basket  with  equal  unconcern,  according  to  their 
convenience ;  but  he  saw  no  St.  Clare. 

A  little  before  the  sale  commenced,  a  short,  broad,  muscu- 
lar man,  in  a  checked  shirt  considerably  open  at  the  bosom, 
and  pantaloons  much  the  worse  for  dirt  and  v^ear,  elbowed 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  like  one  who  is  going  actively 
into  a  business ;  and,  coming  up  to  the  group,  began  to  ex- 
amine them  systematically.  From  the  moment  that  Tom 
saw  him  approaching,  he  felt  an  immediate  and  revolting 
horror  at  him,  that  increased  as  he  came  near.  He  was 
evidently,  though  short,  of  gigantic  strength.  His  round, 
bullet  head,  large,  light-gray  eyes,  with  their  shaggy,  sandy 
eye-brows,  and  stiff,  wiry,  sun-burned  hair,  were  rather  un- 
prepossessing items,  it  is  to  be  confessed;  his  large,  coarse 
mouth  was  distended  with  tobacco,  the  juice  of  which,  from 
time  to  time,  he  ejected  from  him  with  great  decision  and 


LIFE-   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  165 


explosive  force ;  his  hands  were  immensely  large,  hairy,  sun- 
burned,- freckled,  and  very  dirty,  and  garnished  with  long 
nails,  in  a  very  foul  condition.  This  man  proceeded  to  a 
very  free  personal  examination  of  the  lot.  He  seized  Tom 
by  the  jaw,  and  pulled  open  his  mouth  to  inspect  his  teeth ; 
made  him  strip  up  his  sleeve,  to  show  his  muscle ;  turned  him 
round,  made  him  jump  and  spring,  to  show  his  paces. 

"Where  was  you  raised?"  he  added,  briefly,  to  these  in- 
vestigations. 

"In  Kintuek,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  looking  about,  as  if  for 
deliverance. 

"  What  have  you  done?  " 

"Had  care  of  Mas'r' s  farm,"  said  Tom. 

"Likely  story !  "  said  the  other,  shortly,  as  he  passed  on. 
He  paused  a  moment  before  Dolph ;  then  spitting  a  discharge 
of  tobacco-juice  on  his  well-blacked  boots,  and  giving  a  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  suf- 
fering 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  whimp- 
ering here, —  the  sale  is  going  to  begin."  And  accordingly 
the  sale  begun. 

Adolph  was  knocked  off,  at  a  good  sum,  to  the  young  gen- 
tleman who  had  previously  stated  his  intention  of  buying 
him ;  and  the  other  servants  of  the  St.  Clare  lot  went  to 
various  bidders. 


166  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"  Now,  up  with  you,  boy  !  d  'ye  hear  ?  "  said  the  auction- 
eer to  Tom. 

Tom  stepped  upon  the  block,  gave  a  few  anxious  looks 
round  all  seemed  mingled  in  a  common,  indistinct  noise, — 
the  clatter  of  the  salesman  crying  off  his  qualifications  in 
French  and.  English,  the  quick  fire  of  French  and  English 
bids ;  and  almost  in  a  moment  came  the  final  thump  of  the 
hammer,  and  the  clear  ring  on  the  last  syllable  of  the  word 
"dollars"  as  the  auctioneer  announced  his  price,  and  Tom 
was  made  over.  —  He  had  a  master ! 

He  was  pushed  from  the  block ;  —  the  short,  bullet-headed 
man  seizing  him  roughly  by  the  shoulder,  pushed  him  to  one 
side,  saying,  in  a  harsh  voice,  "  Stand  there,  yon  !  " 

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  ii? 
the  face  of  the  man  who  has  bought  her, —  a  respectable  mid- 
dle-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  gir) 
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  ^er 
before.  The  auctioneer  sees  his  advantage,  and  expatiates 
volubly  in  mingled  French  and  English,  and  bids  rise  in 
rapid  succession. 

"I'll  do  anything  in  reason,"  said  the  benevolent-looking 


LIFE   AMONG   THE    LOWLY.  167 


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,  con- 
temptuously 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  ! 

Her  master  is  Mr.  Legree,  who  owns  a  cotton  plantation 
on  the  Red  river.  She  is  pushed  along  into  the  same  lot  with 
Tom  and  two  other  men,  and  go*3s  off,  weeping  as  she  goes. 

The  benevolent  gentleman  is  sorry ;  but,  then,  the  thing 
happens  every  day !  One  sees  girls  and  mothers  crying,  at 
these  sales,  always!  it  can't  be  helped,  &c. ;  and  he  walks 
off,  with  his  acquisition,  in  another  direction. 

Two  days  after,  the  Lwyer  of  the  Christian  firm  of  B.  & 
Co.,  New  York,  sent  on  their  money  to  them.  On  the 
reverse  of  that  draft,  so  obtained,  let  them  write  these  words 
of  the  great  Paymaster,  to  whom  they  shall  make  up  their 
account  in  a  future  day:  "  When  he  maketh  inquisition 
for  blood,  he  forgetteth  not  the  cry  of  the  humble!  " 


168  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OK, 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


THE  MIDDLE   PASSAGE. 


"Thou  art  of  purer  eyes  than  to  behold  evil,  and  canst  not  look  upon 
iniquity  :   wherefore  lookest  thou  upon  them  that  deal  treacherously,  and 
holdest  thy  tongue  when  the  wicked  devoureth  the  man  that  is  more  right 
eous  than  he  ?" — Hab.  1 :  13. 

On  the  lower  part  of  a  small,  mean  boat,  on  the  Red  river, 
Tom  sat, —  chains  on  his  wrists,  chain's  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 
<&he  trees  and  banks  were  now  passing,  to  return  no  more. 
Kentucky  home,  with  wife  and  children,  and  indulgent 
owners;  St.  Clare  home,  with  all  its  refinements  and  splen- 
dors ;  the  golden  head  of  Eva,  with  its  saint-like  eyes ;  the 
proud,  gay,  handsome,  seemingly  careless,  yet  ever-kind  St. 
Clare ;  hours  of  ease  and  indulgent  leisure, —  all  gone  !  and 
in  place  thereof,  what  remains  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  bitterest  apportionments  of  a  lot  of  slavery, 
that  the  negro,  sympathetic  and  assimilative,  after  acquiring, 
m  a  refined  family,  the  tastes  and  feelings  which  form  the 
atmosphere  of  such  a  place,  is  not  the  less  liable  to  become 
the  bond-slave  of  the  coarsest  and  most  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 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  169 


'  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  Red  river. 

Having  got  them  fairly  on  board,  and  the  boat  being  off, 
he  came  round,  with  that  air  of  efficiency  which  ever  char- 
acterized him,  to  take  a  review  of  them.  Stopping  opposite 
to  Tom,  who  had  been  attired  for  sale  in  his  best  broadcloth 
suit,  with  well-starched  linen  and  shining  boots,  he  briefly 
expressed  himself  as  follows  : 

"  Stand  up." 

Tom  stood  up. 

"  Take  off  that  stock !  "  and,  as  Tom,  encumbered  by  his 
fetters,  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  from  it  a  pair  of  old 
pantaloons  and  a  dilapidated  coat,  which  Tom  had  been  wont 
to  put  on  about  his  stable- work,  he  said,  liberating  Tom's 
hands  from  the  handcuffs,  and  pointing  to  a  recess  in  among 
the  boxes, 

"You  go  there,  and  put  these  on." 

Tom  obeyed,  and  in  a  few  moments  returned. 

"  Take  off  your  boots,"  said  Mr.  Legree. 

Tom  did  so. 

"  There,"  said  the  former,  throwing  him  a  pair  of  coarse, 
stout  shoes,  such  as  were  common  among  the  slaves,  "put 
these  on." 

VOL.   II.  15 


170  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

In  Tom's  hurried  exchange,  he  had  not  forgotten  to  trans- 
fer his  cherished  Bible  to  his  pocket.  It  was  well  he  did  so  ; 
for  Mr.  Legree,  having  refitted  Tom's  handcuffs,  proceeded 
deliberately  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  ha^ 
forgotten,  he  now  held  up  and  turned  over. 

u Humph!  pious,  to  be  sure.  So,  what's  yer  name,— 
you  belong  to  the  church,  eh?  " 

"Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  firmly. 

"  Well,  I'll  soon  have  thai  out  of  you.  I  have  none  o' 
yer  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,  uFm  your 
church  now  !    You  understand, — you  've  got  to  be  as  /  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 !  for  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 
downcast  face  of  Tom,  and  walked  off.  He  took  Tom's  trunk, 
which  contained  a  very  neat  and  abundant  wardrobe,  to  the 
forecastle,  where  it  was  soon  surrounded  by  various  hands  of 
the  boat.  With  much  laughing,  at  the  expense  of  niggers 
who  tried  to  be  gentlemen,  the  articles  very  readily  were  sold 
to  one  and  another,  and  the  empty  trunk  finally  put  up  at  auc- 
tion.    It  was  a  good  joke,  they  all  thought,  especially  to  see 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  171 

how  Tom  looked  after  his  things,  as  they  were  going  this  way 
and  that ;  and  then  the  auction  of  the  trunk,  that  was  fun- 
nier than  all,  and  occasioned  abundant  witticisms. 

This  little  affair  being  over,  Simon  sauntered  up  again  to 
his  property. 

"  Now,  Tom,  I  've  relieved  you  of  any  extra  baggage, 
you  see.  Take  mighty  good  care  of  them  clothes.  It  '11  be 
long  enough  'fore  you  get  more.  I  go  in  for  making  niggers 
careful;  one  suit  has  to  do  for  one  year,  on  my  place." 

Simon  next  walked  up  to  the  place  where  Emmeline  was 
sitting,  chained  to  another  woman. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  chucking  her  under  the  chin, 
"  keep  up  your  spirits." 

The  involuntary  look  of  horror,  fright  and  aversion,  with 
"Which  the  girl  regarded  him,  did  not  escape  his  eye.  He 
frowned  fiercely. 

"  None  o'  your  shines,  gal !  you  's  got  to  keep  a  pleasant 
face,  when  I  speak  to  ye, —  d'ye  hear  1  And  you,  you  old 
yellow  poco  moonshine !  "  he  said,  giving  a  shove  to  the 
mulatto  woman  to  whom  Emmeline  was  chained,  "  don't  you 
carry  that  sort  of  face  !     You 's  got  to  look  chipper,  I  tell 

ye!" 

"  I  say,  all  on  ye,"  he  said  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 
glaring  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  fist'? 
Heft  it !  "  he  said,  bringing  it  down  on  Tom's  hand.  "Look 
at  these  yer  bones  !  Well,  I  tell  ye  this  yer  fist  has  got  as 
hard  as  iron  knocking  down  niggers.     I  never  see  the 


if2  UNCLE   T0M*S   CABIN:    OR, 

nigger,  yet,  I  couldn't  bring  down  with  one  crack,"  said  he, 
bringing  his  fist  down  so  near  to  the  face  of  Tom  that  he  winked 
and  drew  back.  "  I  don't  keep  none  o'  yer  cussed  overseers; 
I  does  my  own  overseeing ;  and  I  tell  you  things  is  seen  to. 
You  's  every  one  on  ye  got  to  toe  the  mark,  I  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  no  mercy  !  " 

The  women  involuntarily  drew  in  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  expect." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  stranger,  looking  upon  him  with  the 
curiosity  of  a  naturalist  studying  some  out-of-the-way  speci- 
men. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  I  'm  none  o'  yer  gentlemen  planters,  with 
lily  fingers,  to  slop  round  and  be  cheated  by  some  old  cuss  of 
an  overseer  !  Just  feel  of  my  knuckles,  now ;  look  at  my 
fist.  Tell  ye,  sir,  the  flesh  on 't  has  come  jest  like  a  stone, 
practising  on  niggers, —  feel  on  it." 

The  stranger  applied  his  fingers  to  the  implement  in  ques- 
tion, and  simply  said, 

'"Tis  hard  enough ;  and,  I  suppose,"  he  added,  "  practice 
has  made  your  heart  just  like  it." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  may  say  so,"  said  Simon,  with  a  hearty 
laugh.  "  I  reckon  there  's  as  little  soft  in  me  as  in  any  one 
e;oing.     Tell  you,  nobody  comes  it  over  me !     Niggers  never 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  173 

gets  round  me,  neither  with  squalling  nor  soft  soap, —  that  's 
a  fact." 

'■  You  have  a  fine  lot  there." 

<{  Heal,"  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  '11  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 
fellers  last  six  or  seven  years ;  trashy  ones  gets  worked  up  in 
two  or  three.  I  used  to,  when  I  fust  begun,  have  consider- 
able 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'  decent  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  nigger's  dead,  I  buy  another;  and  I  find  it  comes  cheaper 
and  easier,  every  way." 

The  stranger  turned  away,  and  seated  himself  beside  a 
gentleman,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation  with 
repressed  uneasiness. 

"  You  must  not  take  that  fellow  to  be  any  specimen  of 
Southern  planters,"  said  he. 

vol.  ir.  15* 


174  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"I  should  hope  not,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  with 
emphasis. 

"He  is  a  mean,  low,  brutal  fellow !  "  said  the  other. 

"And  yet  your  laws  allow  him  to  hold  any  number  of 
human  beings  subject  to  his  absolute  will,  without  even  a 
shadow  of  protection  ;  and,  low  as  he  is,  you  cannot  say  that 
there  are  not  many  such." 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  "there  are  also  many  considerate 
and  humane  men  among  planters." 

"  Granted,"  said  the  young  man ;  "  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  foot-hold  for  an  hour.  If  there  were 
no  planters  except  such  as  that  one,"  said  he,  pointing  with 
his  finger  to  Legree,  who  stood  with  his  back  to  them,  "  the 
whole  thing  would  go  down  like  a  mill-stone.  It  is  your 
respectability  and  humanity  that  licenses  and  protects  his 
brutality." 

"You  certainly  have  a  high  opinion  of  my  good  nature," 
said  the  planter,  smiling  ;  ' {  but  I  advise  you  not  to  talk  quite 
so  loud,  as  there  are  people  on  board  the  boat  who  might  not 
be  quite  so  tolerant  to  opinion  as  I  am.  You  had  better  wait 
till  I  get  up  to  my  plantation,  and  there  you  may  abuse  us  all, 
quite  at  your  leisure." 

The  young  gentleman  colored  and  smiled,  and  the  two 
were  soon  busy  in  a  game  of  backgammon.  Meanwhile, 
another  conversation  was  going  on  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
boat,  between  Emmeline  and  the  mulatto  woman  with  whom 
she  was  confined.  As  was  natural,  they  were  exchanging 
with  each  other  some  particulars  of  their  history. 

"  Who  did  you  belong  to  ?  "  said  Emmeline. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  175 

"  Well,  my  Mas'r  was  Mr.  Ellis, —  lived  on  Levee-street. 
P'raps  you  've  seen  the  house." 

"  Was  he  good  to  you?  "  said  Emmeline. 

"  Mostly,  till  he  tuk  sick.  He  's  lain  sick,  off  and  on, 
more  than  six  months,  and  been  orful  oneasy.  'Pears  like 
he  warnt  willin'  to  have  nobody  rest,  day  nor  night ;  and  got 
so  curous,  there  could  n't  nobody  suit  him.  'Pears  like  he 
just  grew  crosser,  every  day ;  kep  me  up  nights  till  I  got 
farly  beat  out,  and  could  n't  keep  awake  no  longer ;  and 
cause  I  got  to  sleep,  one  night,  Lors,  he  talk  so  orful  to  me, 
and  he  tell  me  he  'd  sell  me  to  just  the  hardest  master  he 
could  find ;  and  he  'd  promised  me  my  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  consola- 
tion. Emmeline  wanted  to  say  something,  but  she  could  not 
think  of  anything  to  say.  What  was  there  to  be  said  1  As 
by  a  common  consent,  they  both  avoided,  with  fear  and 
dread,  all  mention  of  the  horrible  man  who  was  now  their 
master. 

True,  there  is  religious  trust  for  even  the  darkest  hour 
The  mulatto  woman  was  a  member  of  the*  Methodist  church, 
and  had  an  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  Christian,  to  find  them- 


176  UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN  :    OK, 


selves  abandoned,  apparently,  of  God,  in  the  grasp  of  ruth- 
less violence  ?  How  much  more  must  it  shake  the  faith  of 
Christ's  poor  little  ones,  weak  in  knowledge  and  tender  in 
years ! 

The  boat  moved  on, —  freighted  with  its  weight  of  sorrow 
—  up  the  red,  muddy,  turbid  current,  through  the  abrupt, 
tortuous  windings  of  the  Red  river;  and  sad  eyes  gazed 
wearily  on  the  steep  red-clay  banks,  as  they  glided  by  in 
dreary  sameness.  At  last  the  boat  stopped  at  a  small  town, 
and  Legree,  with  his  party,  disembarked. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

DARK  PLACES. 

"  The  dark  places  of  the  earth  are  full  of  the  habitations  of  cruelty." 

Trailing  wearily  behind  a  rude  wagon,  and  over  a  ruder 
road,  Tom  and  his  associates  faced  onward. 

In  the  wagon  was  seated  Simon  Legree;  and  the  two 
women,  still  fettered  together,  were  stowed  away  with  some 
baggage  in  the  back  part  of  it,  and  the  whole  company  were 
seeking  Legree' s  plantation,  which  lay  a  good  distance  off. 

It  was  a  wild,  forsaken  road,  now  winding  through  dreary 
pine  barrens,  where  the  wind  whispered  mournfully,  and  now 
over  log  causeways,  through  long  cypress  swamps,  the 
doleful  trees  rising  out  of  the  slimy,  spongy  ground,  hung 
with  long  wreaths  of  funereal  black  moss,  while  ever  and 
anon  the  loathsome  form  of  the  moccasin  snake  might  be  seen 
sliding  among  broken  stumps  and  shattered  branches  that  lay 
here  and  there,  rotting  in  the  water. 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LO  "LY.  177 


It  is  disconsolate  enough,  this  riding,  to  the  stranger,  who, 
with  well-filled  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  object  that  passed  them  in  their  sad  journey. 

Simon  rode  on,  however,  apparently  well  pleased,  occasion- 
ally 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  lc  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 
Bongs,  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  !  boys,  ho  ! 
Ho!  yo!  hi  — e!  oh!" 


178  UNCLE   TOM'S   OABIN  :    OR 


The  singer  appeared  to  make  up  the  song  to  his  own 
pleasure,  generally  hitting  on  rhyme,  without  much  attempt 
at  reason ;  and  all  the  party  took  up  the  chorus,  at  intervals, 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  boys,  ho  ! 
High  —  e  —  oh  !  high  —  e  —  oh!" 

It  was  sung  very  boisterously,  and  with  a  forced  attempt 
at  merriment ;  but  no  wail  of  despair,  no  words  of  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  spirits." 

"  Well,  my  little  dear,"  said  he,  turning  to  Emmeline,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  "  we  're  almost  home  !  " 

When  Legree  scolded  and  stormed,  Emmeline  was  terri- 
fied ;  but  when  he  laid  his  hand  on  her,  and  spoke  as  he  now 
did,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  rather  he  would  strike  her.  The 
expression  of  his  eyes  made  her  soul  sick,  and  her  flesh  creep. 
Involuntarily  she  clung  closer  to  the  mulatto  woman  by  her 
side,  as  if  she  were  her  mother. 

"You  didn't  ever  wear  ear-rings,"  he  said,  taking  hold 
of  her  small  ear  with  his  coarse  fingers. 

"  No,  Mas'r  !  "  said  Emmeline,  trembling  and  looking 
down. 

"  Well,  I'll  give  you  a  pair,  when  we  get  home,  if  you  're 
a  good  girl.  You  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." 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  179 

Legree  had  been  drinking  to  that  degree  that  -he  was 
inclining  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  pur- 
chased, at  a  bargain,  by  Legree,  who  used  it,  as  he  did  every- 
thing 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 
covered  with  frowsy  tangled  grass,  with  horse-posts  set  up, 
here  and  there,  in  it,  where  the  turf  was  stamped  away,  and  the 
ground  littered  with  broken  pails,  cobs  of  corn,  and  other  slov- 
enly remains.  Here  and  there,  a  mildewed  jessamine  or  honey- 
suckle hung  raggedly  from  some  ornamental  support,  which 
had  been  pushed  to  one  side  by  being  used  as  a  horse-post. 
"What  once  was  a  large  garden  was  now  all  grown  over  with 
weeds,  through  which,  here  and  there,  some  solitary  exotic 
reared,  its  forsaken  head.  What  had  been  a  conservatory 
had  now  no  window-sashes,  and  on  the  mouldering  shelves 
stood  some  dry,  forsaken  flower-pots,  with  sticks  in  them, 
whose  dried  leaves  showed  they  had  once  been  plants. 

The  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 


180  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

a  manner  common  at  the  South ;  a  wide  verandah  of  two 
stories  running  round  every  part  of  the  house,  into  which 
every  outer  door  opened,  the  lower  tier  being  supported  by 
brick  pillars. 

But  the  place  looked  desolate  and  uncomfortable;  some 
windows  stopped  up  with  boards,  some  with  shattered  panes, 
and  shutters  hanging  by  a  single  hinge, —  all  telling  of  coarse 
neglect  and  discomfort. 

Bits  of  board,  straw,  old  decayed  barrels  and  boxes,  gar- 
nished the  ground  in  all  directions ;  and  three  or  four  fero- 
cious-looking dogs,  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  wagon-wheels, 
eame  tearing  out,  and  were  with  difficulty  restrained  from 
laying  hold  of  Tom  and  his  companions,  by  the  effort  o;  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  yer- 
self !  How  now,  Sambo  !  "  he  said,  to  a  ragged  fellow,  with- 
out any  brim- to  his  hat,  who  was  officious  in  his  attentions. 
H  How  have  things  been  going?" 

"  Fust  rate,  Mas'r." 

"  Quimbo,"  said  Legree  to  another,  who  was  making  zeal- 
ous demonstrations  to  attract  his  attention,  "  ye  minded  what 
I  tolled  ye?" 

"  Guess  I  did,  didn't  I?" 

These  two  colored  men  were  the  two  principal  hands  on 
the  plantation.  Legree  had  trained  them  in  savageness  and 
brutality  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  com- 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  181 


mon  remark,  and  one  that  is  thought  to  militate  strongly 
against  the  character  of  the  race,  that  the  negro  overseer  is 
always  more  tyrannical  and  cruel  than  the  white  one.  This 
is  simply  saying  that  the  negro  mind  has  been  more  crushed 
and  debased  than  the  white.  It  is  no  more  true  of  this  race 
than  of  every  oppressed  race,  the  world  over.  The  slave  is 
always  a  tyrant,  if  he  can  get  a  chance  to  be  one. 

Legree,  like  some  potentates  we  read  of  in  history,  governed 
his  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  the 
three  parties,  to  get  informed  of  whatever  was  on  foot  in  the 
place. 

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 
illustration  of  the  fact  that  brutal  men  are  lower  even  than 
animals.  Their  coarse,  dark,  heavy  features ;  their  great  eyes, 
rolling  enviously  on  each  other ;  their  barbarous,  guttural, 
half-brute  intonation ;  their  dilapidated  garments  fluttering  in 
the  wind, — were  all  in  admirable  keeping  with  the  vile  and 
unwholesome  character  of  everything  about  the  place. 

"Here,  you  Sambo,"  said  Legree,  "take  these  yer  boys 
down  to  the  quarters  ;  and  here  's  a  gal  I  've  get  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."' 

VOL.    II.  1G 


182  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:     OR, 


The  woman  gave  a  sudden  start,  and,  drawing  back,  said, 
suddenly, 

"  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  bpened  the  door,  a 
female  voice  said  something,  in  a  quick,  imperative  tone. 
Tom,  who  was  looking,  with  anxious  interest,  after  Emme- 
line, as  she  went  in,  noticed  this,  and  heard  Legree  answer, 
angrily,  u  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 
shanties,  in  a  row,  in  a  part  of  the  plantation,  far  off  from  the 
house.  They  had  a  forlorn,  brutal,  forsaken  air.  Tom's  heart 
6unk  when  he  saw  them.  He  had  been  comforting  himself 
With  the  thought  of  a  cottage,  rude,  indeed,  but  one  which 
he  might  make  neat  and  quiet,  and  where  he  might  have  a 
shelf  for  his  Bible,  and  a  place  to  be  alone  out  of  his  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,  sub- 
missively. 

"Dunno;  ken  turn  in  here,  I  spose,"  said  Sambo; 
"spects  thar  's  room  for  another  thar;  thar  's  a  pretty  smart 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  188 

heap  o'  niggers  to  each  on  'em,  now ;  sure,  I  dunno  what  1 's 
to  do  with  more." 

At,  *V>  -AS*  4£f  «4fc* 

*W  TV  "TV  •Tv  TT 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  the  weary  occupants  of 
the  shanties  came  flocking  home, —  men  and  women,  in  soiled 
and  tattered  garments,  surly  and  uncomfortable,  and  in  no 
mood  to  look  pleasantly  on  new-comers.  The  small  village 
was  alive  with  no  inviting  sounds;  hoarse,  guttural  voices  con- 
tending at  the  hand-mills  where  their  morsel  of  hard  corn 
was  yet  to  be  ground  into  meal,  to  fit  it  for  the  cake  that 
was  to  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,  and  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." 
Isn't  it?  And  it  isn't  much  inconvenience,  either,  to 
have  one  drop  of  water  fall  on  your  head;  yet  the  worst 
torture  of  the  inquisition  is  produced  by  drop  after  drop,  drop 
after  drop,  falling  moment  after  moment,  with  monotonous 
succession,  on  the  same  spot ;  and  work,  in  itself  not  hard, 
becomes  so,  by  being  pressed,  hour  after  hour,  with  unvarying, 
unrelenting  sameness,  with  not  even  the  consciousness  of  free- 
will to  take  from  its  tediousness.  Tom  looked  in  vain  among 
the  gang,  as  they  poured  along,  for  companionable  faces.  He 
saw  only  sullen,  scowling,  imbruted  men,  and  feeble,  dis- 
couraged women,  or  women  that  were  not  women, —  the 
strong  pushing  away  the  weak, —  the  gross,  unrestricted  ani- 
mal selfishness  of  human  beings,  of  whom  nothing  good  waa 
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 


184  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  I    OR, 

of  the  grinding  was  protracted ;  for  the  mills  were  few  in 
number  compared  with  the  grinder s,  and  the  weary  and 
feeble  ones  wers  driven  back  by  the  strong,  and  came  on  last 
in  their  turn. 

"Ho  yo !  "  said  Sambo,  coming  to  the  mulatto  woman, 
and  throwing  down  a  bag  of  corn  before  her;  "what  a  cuss 
yo  name?" 

"Lucy,"  said  the  woman. 

"Wal,  Lucy,  yo  my  woman  now.  Yo  grind  dis  yer  corn, 
and  get  my  supper  baked,  ye  har  ?  " 

"  I  an't  your  woman,  and  I  won't  be  !  "  said  the  woman, 
with  the  sharp,  sudden  courage  of  despair;  "  you  go  long !  " 

"I'll  kick  yo,  then!  "  said  Sambo,  raising  his  foot  threat- 
eningly. 

"Ye  may  kill  me,  if  ye  choose, —  the  sooner  the  better! 
Wish't  I  was  dead !  "  said  she. 

"  I  say,  Sambo,  you  go  to  spilin'  the  hands,  I'll  tellMas'r 
o'  you?"  said  Quimbo,  who  was  busy  at  the  mill,  from  which 
he  had  viciously  driven  two  or  three  tired  women,  who  were 
waiting  to  grind  their  corn. 

"And  I'll  tell  him  ye  won't  let  the  women  come  to  the 
mills,  yo  old  nigger ! "  said  Sambo.  "  Yo  jes  keep  to  yo  own 
row." 

Tom  was  hungry  with  his  day's  journey,  and  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 
saw  trying  to  grind  their  corn  there,  he  ground  for  them,  put 
together  the  decaying  brands  of  the  fire,  where  many  had 


LIEE   AMONG   THE   LOAVLY.  185 


baked  cakes  before  them,  and  then  went  about  getting  his 
own  supper.  It  was  a  new  kind  of  work  there, —  a  deed  of 
charity,  small  as  it  was ;  but  it  woke  an  answering  touch  in 
their  hearts, —  an  expression  of  womanly  kindness  came  over 
their  hard  faces;  they  mixed  his  cake  for  him,  and  tended  its 
baking ;  and  Tom  sat  down  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  and  drew 
out  his  Bible, —  for  he  had  need  of  comfort. 

"  What's  that  1 "  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?"  said  Tom,  with  interest. 

"Yes,  and  well  raised,  too ;  never  'spected  to  come  to  dis 
yer!  "  said  the  woman,  sighing. 

"  What 's  dat  ar  book,  any  way  ?  "  said  the  other  woman. 

"Why,  the  Bible." 

"  Laws  a  me !  what 's  dat?  "  said  the  woman. 

"  Do  tell !  you  never  hearn  on 't?  "  said  the  other  woman. 
"  I  used  to  har  Missis  a  readin'  on't,  sometimes,  in  Kentuck; 
but,  laws  o'  me  !  we  don't  har  nothin'  here  but  crackin'  and 


swarin'." 


"Bead  a   piece,  anyways!"  said  the  first  woman,  curi- 
ously, 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?" 

"  The  Lord,"  said  Tom. 

"I  jest  wish  I  know'd  whar  to  find  Him,"  said  the  woman. 

1  I  would  go ;   'pears  like  I  never  should  get  rested  agin 

My  flesh  is  fairly  sore,  and  I  tremble  all  over,  every  day,  and 

Sambo  's  allers  a  jawin'  at  me,  'cause  I  does  n't  pick  faster  ; 

and  nights  it 's  most  midnight  'fore  I  can  get  my  supper  ;  and 

VOL.    II.  16* 


186  UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN:    Oil. 

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  Lor  was,  I  'd  tell  him." 

"  He  's  here,  he 's  everywhere,"  said  Tom. 

ct  Lor,  you  an'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  fire,  that  flickered  up  redly  in  his  face. 

The  silver,  fair-browed  moon  rose  in  the  purple  sky,  and 
looked  down,  calm  and  silent,  as  God  looks  on  the  scene  of 
misery  and  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  child,  and  friend,  rising  from  the  dark 
wave,  and  surging  in  the  face  of  the  half-drowned  mariner ! 
Ah,  was  it  easy  here  to  believe  and  hold  fast  the  great  pass- 
word of  Christian  faith,  that  "  God  is,  and  is  the  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 
weary  sleepers,  and  the  foul  air  of  the  place  almost  repelled 
him;  but  the  heavy  night-dews  were  chill,  and  his  limbs 
weary,  and,  wrapping  about  him  a  tattered  blanket,  which 
formed  his  only  bed-clothing,  he  stretched  himself  in  the 
straw  and  fell  asleep. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  .         187 

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  the  flame  kindle  upon  thee  ;  for  I  am  the  Lord  thy  God, 
the  Holy  One  of  Israel,  thy  Saviour." 

Gradually  the  words  seemed  to  melt  and  fade,  as  in  a 
divine  music ;  the  child  raised  her  deep  eyes,  and  fixed  them 
lovingly  on  him,  and  rays  of  warmth  and  comfort  seemed  to 
go  from  them  to  his  heart ;  and,  as  if  wafted  on  the  music, 
she  seemed  to  rise  on  shining  wings,  from  which  flakes  and 
spangles  of  gold  fell  off  like  stars,  and  she  was  gone. 

Tom  woke.  Was  it  a  dream  ?  Let  it  pass  for  one.  But 
who  shall  say  that  that  sweet  young  spirit,  which  in  life  so 
yearned  to  comfort  and  console  the  distressed,  was  forbidden 
of  God  to  assume  this  ministry  after  death  ? 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief, 

That  ever  round  our  head 
Are  hovering,  on  angel  wings, 

The  spirits  of  the  dead. 


188  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OB. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


CASSY. 


"  And  behold,  the  tears  of  such  as  were  oppressed,  and  they  had  no 
comforter  ;  and  on  the  side  of  their  oppressors  there  was  power,  but  they 
had  no  ccmforter." — Eccl.  4  :  1. 

It  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  unremit- 
ting 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  commiseration  for  his  fellow-sufferers,  strange  and 
new  to  them,  which  was  watched  with  a  jealous  eye  by  Le- 
gree. He  had  purchased  Tom  with  a  view  of  eventually 
making  him  a  sort  of  overseer,  with  whom  he  might,  at  times, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  189 

intrust  his  affairs,  in  short  absences ;  and,  in  his  view,  the 
first,  second,  and  third  requisite  for  that  place,  was  hard- 
ness. 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  ap- 
pearance of  her  face,  she  might  have  been  between  thirty-five 
and  forty ;  and  it  was  a  face  that,  once  seen,  could  never  be 
forgotten, — one  of  those  that,  at  a  glance,  seem  to  convey  to 
us  an  idea  of  a  wild,  painful,  and  romantic  history.  Her 
forehead  was  high,  and  her  eyebrows  marked  with  beautiful 
clearness.  Her  straight,  well-formed  nose,  her  finely-cut 
mouth,  and  the  graceful  contour  of  her  head  and  neck,  showed 
that  she  must  once  have  been  beautiful;  but  her  face  was 
deeply  wrinkled  with  lines  of  pain,  and  of  proud  and  bitter 
endurance.  Her  complexion  was  sallow  and  unhealthy  her 
cheeks  thin,  her  features  sharp,  and  her  whole  form  emaci- 
ated. But  her  eye  was  the  most  remarkable  feature, —  so 
large,  SO  heavily  black,  overshadowed  by  long  lashes  of  equal 
darkness,  and  so  wildly,  mournfully  despairing.  There  was  a 
fierce  pride  and  defiance  in  every  line  of  her  face,  in  every 
curve  of  the  flexible  lip,  in  every  motion  of  her  body ;  but  in 
her  eye  was  a  deep,  settled  night  of  anguish, —  an  expression 
so  hopeless  and  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 


190  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

I  *  — 

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 
surrounded. 

"  Got  to  come  to  it,  at  last, — grad  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'll  get  a  cutting  up,  at  night,  like  the  rest 
of  us!" 

"I  'd  be  glad  to  see  her  down  for  a  flogging,  I  '11  bound !  " 
said  another. 

The  woman  took  no  notice  of  these  taunts,  but  walked  on, 
with  the  same  expression  of  angry  scorn,  as  if  she  heard  noth- 
ing. Tom  had  always  lived  among  refined  and  cultivated 
people,  and  he  felt  intuitively,  from  her  air  and  bearing,  that 
she  belonged  to  that  class  ;  but  how  or  why  she  could  be  fallen 
to  those  degrading  circumstances,  he  could  not  tell.  The 
woman  neither  looked  at  him  nor  spoke  to  him,  though,  all 
the  way  to  the  field,  she  kept  close  at  his  side. 

Tom  was  soon  busy  at  his  work ;  but,  as  the  woman  was  at 
no  great  distance  from  him,  he  often  glanced  an  eye  to  her,  at 
her  work.  He  saw,  at  a  glance,  that  a  native  adroitness  and 
handiness  made  the  task  to  her  an  easier  one  than  it  proved 
to  many.  She  picked  very  fast  and  very  clean,  and  with  an 
air  of  scorn,  as  if  she  despised  both  the  work  and  the  dis- 
grace and  humiliation  of  the  circumstances  in  which  she  was 
placed. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  Tom  was  working  near  the  mu- 
latto woman  who  had  been  bought  in  the  same  lot  with  him- 
self.    She  was  evidently  in  a  condition  of  great  suffering,  and 


LIFE    AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  191 


0  Tom  often  heard  her  praying,  as  she  wavered  and  trembled, 
and  seemed  about  to  fall  down.  Tom  silently,  as  he  came 
near  to  her,  transferred  several  handfuls  of  cotton  from  his 
own  sack  to  hers. 

"  0,  don't,  don't !"  said  the  woman,  looking  surprised; 
"  it  '11  get  you  into  trouble." 

Just  then  Sambo  came  up.  He  seemed  to  have  a  special 
spite  against  this  woman ;  and,  flourishing  his  whip,  said,  in 
brutal,  guttural  tones,  "What  dis  yer,  Luce, —  foolin'  a'?" 
and,  with  the  word,  kicking  the  woman  with  his  heavy  cow- 
hide shoe,  he  struck  Tom  across  the  face  with  his  whip. 

Tom  silently  resumed  his  task ;  but  the  woman^  before  at 
the  last  point  of  exhaustion,  fainted. 

"I'll  bring  her  to !  "  said  the  driver,  with  a  brutal  grin. 
"I'll  give  her  something  better  than  camphire!"  and,  tak- 
ing a  pin  from  his  coat-sleeve,  he  buried  it  to  the  head  in  her 
flesh.  The  woman  groaned,  and  half  rose.  "  Get  up,  you 
beast,  and  work,  will  yer,  or  I  '11  show  yer  a  trick  more  !  " 

The  woman  seemed  stimulated,  for  a  few  moments,  to  an 
unnatural  strength,  and  worked  with  desperate  eagerness. 

"  See  that  you  keep  to  dat  ar,"  said  the  man,  "or  yer '11 
wish  yer 's  dead  to-night,  I  reckin  !  " 

"That  I  do  now!"  Tom  heard  her  say;  and  again  he 
heard  her  say,  "0,  Lord,  how  long!  0,  Lord,  why  don't 
you  help  us?" 

At  the  risk  of  all  that  he  might  suffer,  Tom  came  forward 
again,  and  put  all  the  cotton  in  his  sack  into  the  woman's. 

"  0,  you  mustn't!  you  donno  what  they'll  do  to  ye! " 
said  the  woman. 

"  I  can  bar  it !  "  said  Tom,  "  better  'n  you ;  "  and  he  was 
at  his  place  again.     It  passed  in  a  moment. 

Suddenly,  the  stranger  woman  whom  we  have  described,  and 


192  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

who  had,  in  the  course  of  her  work,  come  near  enough  to  hear 
Tom's  last  words,  raised  her  heavy  black  eyes,  and  fixed 
them,  for  a  second,  on  him ;  then,  taking  a  quantity  of  cotton 
from  he$  basket,  she  placed  it  in  his. 

"  You  know  nothing  about  this  place,"  she  said,  "or  you 
would  n't  have  done  that.  When  you  've  been  here  a  month, 
you'll  be  done  helping  anybody;  you'll  find  it  hard  enough 
to  take  care  of  your  own  skin ! " 

"The  Lord  forbid,  Missis! "  said  Tom,  using  instinctively 
to  his  field  companion  the  respectful  form  proper  to  the  high 
bred  with  whom  he  had  lived. 

'  "The  Lord  never  visits  these  parts,"  said  the  woman,  bit- 
terly, as  she  went  nimbly  forward  with  her  work ;  and  again 
the  scornful  smile  curled  her  lips. 

But  the  action  of  the  woman  had  been  seen  by  the  driver, 
across  the  field ;  and  flourishing  his  whip,  he  came  up  to 
her. 

"'What!  what!"  he  said  to  the  woman,  with  an  air  of 
triumph,  "  you  a  foolin"?  Go  along  !  yer  under  me  now, — 
mind  yourself,  or  yer  '11  cotch  it !  " 

A  glance  like  sheet-lightning  suddenly  flashed  from  those 
black  eyes ;  and,  facing  about,  with  quivering  lip  and  dilated 
nostrils,  she  drew  herself  up,  and  fixed  a  glance,  blazing  with 
rage  and  scorn,  on  the  driver. 

"  Dog !  "  she  said,  "  touch  me,  if  you  dare  !  I've  power 
enough,  yet,  to  have  you  torn  by  the  dogs,  burnt  alive,  cut  to 
inches  !     I  've  only  to  say  the  word !  " 

"What  de  devil  you  here  for,  den?"  said  the  man,  evi- 
dently cowed,  and  sullenly  retreating  a  step  or  two.  "Didn't 
mean  no  harm,  Misse  Cassy  ! " 

"Keep  your  distance,  then!  "  said  the  woman.     And,  in 


LIEE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  103 

truth,  the  man  seemed  greatly  inclined  to  attend  to  something 
at  the  other  end  of  the  field,  and  started  off  in  quick  time. 

The  woman  suddenly  turned  to  her  work,  and  labored  with 
a  despatch  that  was  perfectly  astonishing  to  Tom*.  She 
seemed  to  work  by  magic.  Before  the  day  was  through,  her 
basket  was  filled,  crowded  down,  and  piled,  and  she  had  sev- 
eral times  put  largely  into  Tom's.  Long  after  dusk,  the 
whole  weary  train,  with  their  baskets  on  their  heads,  defiled 
up  to  the  building  appropriated  to  the  storing  and  weighing 
the  cotton.  Legree  was  there,  busily  conversing  with  the 
two  drivers. 

"  Dat  ar  Tom 's  gwine  to  make  a  powerful  deal  o'  trouble . 
kept  a  puttin'  into  Lucy's  basket.  —  One  o'  these  yer  dat  will 
get  all  der  niggers  to  feelin'  'bused,  if  Mas'r  don't  wutch 
him !"  said  Sambo. 

"Hey-dey!  The  black  cuss!"  said  Legree.  "He'll 
have  to  get  a  breakin'  in,  won't  he,  boys?  " 

Both  negroes  grinned  a  horrid  grin,  at  this  intimation. 

"Ay,  ay!  let  Mas'r  Legree  alone,  for  breakin'  in!  De 
debil  heself  couldn't  beat  Mas'r  at  dat ! "  said  Quimbo. 

"  Wal,  boys,  the  best  way  is  to  give  him  the  flogging  to 
do,  till  he  gets  over  his  notions.     Break  him  in  ! " 

"  Lord,  Mas'r  '11  have  hard  work  to  get  dat  out  c'  him  !  " 

"  It  '11  have  to  come  out  of  him,  though !  "  said  Legree,  as 
he  rolled  his  tobacco  in  his  mouth. 

"Now,  tlar's  Lucy, —  de  aggravatinest,  ugliest  wench  on 
de  place!  "  pursued  Sambo.  * 

"  Take  care,  Sam  ;  I  shall  begin  to  think  what  '3  the  rea- 
son for  your  spite  agin  Lucy." 

"Well,  Mas'r  knows  she  sot  herself  up  agin  Mas'r,  and 
wouldn't  have  me,  when  he  telled  her  to." 

"I'd  a  flogged  her  into  't,"  said  Legree,  spitting,  "only 

vol.  it.  17 


194  "  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR 


there's  such  a  press  o'  work,  it  don't  seem  wuth  a  while  to 
upset  her  jist  now.  She 's  slender ;  but  these  yer  slender 
gals  will  bear  half  killin'  to  get  their  own  way  !  " 

"  Wal,  Lucy  was  real  aggravatin'  and  lazy,  sulkin'  round; 
wouldn't  do  nothin', —  and  Tom  he  tuck  up  for  her." 

"He  did,  eh!  Wal,  then,  Tom  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  flogging  her.  It  '11  be  a  good  practice  for  him,  and  he 
won't  put  it  on  to  the  gal  like  you  devils,  neither." 

"Ho,  ho!  haw!  haw!  haw!"  laughed  both  the  sooty 
wretches ;  and  the  diabolical  sounds  seemed,  in  truth,  a  not 
unapt  expression  of  the  fiendish  character  which  Legree  gave 
them. 

"Wal,  but,  Mas'r,  Tom  and  Misse  Oassy,  and  dey  among 
'em,  filled  Lucy's  basket.  I  ruther  guess  der  weight 's  in  it, 
Mas'r ! " 

"  /  do  the  weighing  !  "  said  Legree,  emphatically. 

Both  the  drivers  again  laughed  their  diabolical  laugh. 

"  So !  "  he  added,  "  Misse  Gassy  did  her  day's  work." 

"She  picks  like  de  debil  and  all  his  angels  !  " 

"  She  's  got  'em  all  in  her,  I  believe !  "  said  Legree;  and, 
growling  a  brutal  oath,  he  proceeded  to  the  weighing-room. 

*  *  *  *  %  # 

Slowly  the  weary,  dispirited  creatures,  wound  their  way 
into  the  room,  and,  with  crouching  reluctance,  presented  their 
baskets  to  be  weighed. 

Legree  noted  on  a  slate,  on  the  side  of  which  was  pasted 
a  list  of  names,  the  amount. 

Tom's  basket  was  weighed  and  approved ;  and  he  looked, 
with  an  anxious  glance,  for  the  success  of  the  woman  he  had 
befriended. 

Tottering  with  weakness,  she  came  forward,  and  delivered 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  195 

her  basket.  It  was  of  full  weight,  as  Legree  well  perceived; 
but,  affecting  anger,  he  said, 

"What,  you  lazy  beast!  short  again!  stand  aside,  you'll 
catch  it,  pretty  soon  !  " 

The  woman  gave  a  groan  of  utter  despair,  and  sat  down  on 
a  board. 

The  person  who  had  been  called  Misse  Cassy  now  came 
forward,  and,  with  a  haughty,  negligent  air,  delivered  her 
basket.  As  she  delivered  it,  Legree  looked  in  her  eyes  with 
a  sneering  yet  inquiring  glance. 

She  fixed  her  black  eyes  steadily  on  him,  her  lips  moved 
slightly,  and  she  said  something  in  French.  What  it  was,  no 
one  knew ;  but  Legree' s  face  became  perfectly  demoniacal  in 
its  expression,  as  she  spoke ;  he  half  raised  his  hand,  as  if  to 
strike, —  a  gesture  which  she  regarded  with  fierce  disdain,  as 
she  turned  and  walked  away. 

"And  now,"  said  Legree,  "  come  here,  you  Tom.  You  see, 
I  telled  ye  I  didn't  buy  ye  jest  for  the  common  work;  I 
mean  to  promote  ye,  and  make  a  driver  of  ye ;  and  to-night 
ye  may  jest  as  well  begin  to  get  yer  hand  in.  Now,  ye  jest 
take  this  yer  gal  and  flog  her;  ye've  seen  enough  on't  to 
know  how." 

"I  beg  Mas'r's  pardon,"  said  Tom;  "hopes  Mas' r  won't 
set  me  at  that.  It's  what  I  an't  used  to, —  never  did, — 
and  can't  do,  no  way  possible." 

"Ye '11  lam  a  pretty  smart  chance  of  things  ye  never 
did  know,  before  I  've  done  with  ye !  "  said  Legree,  taking 
up  a  cow-hide,  and  striking  Tom  a  heavy  blow  across  the 
cheek,  and  following  up  the  infliction  by  a  shower  of  blows. 

"There!"  he  said,  as  he  stopped  tc  rest;  "now,  will  ye 
tell  me  ye  can't  do  it?  " 

"Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  putting  up  his  hand,  to  wipe 


196  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR 


the  blood,  that  trickled  down  his  face.  "  I  'm  willin'  to  work, 
night  and  day,  and  work  while  there  's  life  and  breath  in  me  ; 
but  this  yer  thing  I  can't  feel  it  right  to  do ;  —  and,  Mas'r,  I 
never  shall  do  it, —  never!  " 

Tom  had  a  remarkably  smooth,  soft  voice,  and  a  habitually 
respectful  manner,  that  had  given  Legree  an  idea  that  he 
would  be  cowardly,  and  easily  subdued.  When  he  spoke 
these  last  words,  a  thrill  of  amazement  went  through  every 
one;  the  poor  woman  clasped  her  hands,  and  said,  uO 
Lord ! "  and  every  one  involuntarily  looked  at  each  other  and 
drew  in  their  breath,  as  if  to  prepare  for  the  storm  that  was 
about  to  burst. 

Legree  looked  stupefied  and  confounded;  but  at  last  burst 
forth,  — 

"What!  ye  blasted  black  beast !  tell  me  ye  don't  think  it 
right  to  do  what  I  tell  ye !  What  have  any  of  you  cussed 
cattle  to  do  with  thinking  what 's  right?  I  '11  put  a  stop  to 
it !  Why,  what  do  ye  think  ye  are  ?  May  be  ye  think  ye  'r 
a  gentleman,  master  Tom,  to  be  a  telling  your  master  what 's 
right,  and  what  an't !  So  you  pretend  it 's  wrong  to  flog  the 
gal !  » 

"I  think  so,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom;  "the  poor  crittur 's  sick 
and  feeble;  'twould  be  downright  cruel,  and  it's  what  I 
never  will  do,  nor  begin  to.  Mas'r,  if  you  mean  to  kill  me, 
kill  me ;  but,  as  to  my  raising  my  hand  agin  any  one  here, 
I  never  shall, —  I  '11  die  first !  " 

Tom  spoke  in  a  mild  voice,  but  with  a  decision  that  could 
not  be  mistaken.  Legree  shook  with  anger ;  his  greenish 
eyes  glared  fiercely,  and  his  very  whiskers  seemed  to  curl 
with  passion ;  but,  like  some  ferocious  beast,  that  plays  with 
its  victim  before  he  devours  it,  he  kept  back  his   strong 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  197 

impulse  to  proceed  to  immediate  violence,  and  broke  out  into 
bitter  raillery. 

"  Well,  here  's  a  pious  dog,  at  last,  let  down  among  us 
sinners !  —  a  saint,  a  gentleman,  and  no  less,  to  talk  to  us 
sinners  about  our  sins  !  Powerful  holy  critter,  he  must  be ! 
Here,  you  rascal,  you  make  believe  to  be  so  pious, —  did  nJi 
you  never  hear,  out  of  yer  Bible,  '  Servants,  obey  yer  mas- 
ters '  ?  An't  I  yer  master  ?  Did  n't  I  pay  down  twelve 
hundred  dollars,  cash,  for  all  there  is  inside  yer  old  cussed 
black  shell ?  An't  yer  mine,  now,  body  and  soul? "  he  said, 
giving  Tom  a  violent  kick  with  his  heavy  boot ;  "  tell  me !  " 

In  the  very  depth  of  physical  suffering,  bowed  by  brutal 
oppression,  this  question  shot  a  gleam  of  joy  and  triumph 
through  Tom's  soul.  He  suddenly  stretched  himself  up,  and, 
looking  earnestly  to  heaven,  while  the  tears  and  blood  that 
flowed  down  his  face  mingled,  he  exclaimed, 

"  No  !  no  !  no !  my  soul  an't  yours,  Mas'r  !  You  have  n't 
bought  it, —  ye  can't  buy  it !  It 's  been  bought  and  paid  for, 
by  one  that  is  able  to  keep  it ;  —  no  matter,  no  matter,  you 
can't  harm  me!" 

" 1  can't !  "  said  Legree,  with  a  sneer ;  " we'll  see, —  we'll 
see !  Here,  Sambo,  Quimbo,  give  this  dog  such  a  breakin' 
in  as  he  won't  get  over,  this  month !  " 

The  two  gigantic  negroes  that  now  laid  hold  of  Tom,  with 
fiendish  exultation  in  their  faces,  might  have  formed  no  unapt 
personification  of  powers  of  darkness.  The  poor  woman 
screamed  with  apprehension,  and  all  rose,  as  by  a  general 
impulse,  while  they  dragged  him  unresisting  from  the  place. 

VOL.   II.  17* 


198  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN;    OK, 


i 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

THE  QUADROON'S  STORT. 

And  behold  the  tears  of  such  as  are  oppressed;  and  on  the  side  of  their 
oppressors  there  was  power.  Wherefore  I  praised  the  dead  that  aie 
already  dead  more  than  the  living  that  are  yet  alive.  —  Eccl.  4:1. 

It  was  late  at  night,  and  Tom  lay  groaning  and  bleeding 
alone,  in  an  old  forsaken  room  of  the  gin-house,  among  pieces 
of  broken  machinery,  piles  of  damaged  cotton,  and  other 
rubbish  which  had  there  accumulated. 

The  night  was  damp  and  close,  and  the  thick  air  swarmed 
with  myriads  of  mosquitos,  which  increased  the  restless 
torture  of  his  wounds ;  whilst  a  burning  thirst  —  a  torture 
beyond  all  others — filled  up  the  uttermost  measure  of  physical 
anguish. 

"  0,  good  Lord !  Do  look  down, —  give  me  the  victory  !  — 
give  me  the  victory  over  all ! "  prayed  poor  Tom,  in  his 
anguish. 

A  footstep  entered  the  room,  behind  him,  and  the  light  of 
a  lantern  flashed  on  his  eyes. 

"  Who 's  there  ?  0,  for  the  Lord's  massy,  please  give 
me  some  water  !  " 

The  woman  Cassy — for  it  was  she — set- down  her  lantern, 
and,  pouring  water  from  a  bottle,  raised  his  head,  and  gave 
him  drink.  Another  and  another  cup  were  drained,  with 
feverish  eagerness. 

"  Drink  all  ye  want,"  she  said ;  "  I  knew  how  it  would  be 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  199 

It  is  n't  the  first  time  I  've  been  out  in  the  night,  carrying 
water  to  such  as  you." 

"  Thank  you.  Missis,"  said  Tom,  when  he  had  done 
drinking. 

"  Don't  call  me  Missis  !  I'ma  miserable  slave,  like  your- 
self,—  a  lower  one  than  you  can  ever  be  !  "  said  she,  bitterly; 
"but  now,"  said  she,  going  to  the  door,  and  dragging  in  a 
small  pallaise,  over  which  she  had  spread  linen  cloths  wet 
with  cold  water,  ' '  try,  my  poor  fellow,  to  roll  yourself  on  to 
this." 

Stiff  with  wounds  and  bruises,  Tom  was  a  long  time  in 
accomplishing  this  movement;  but,  when  done,  he  felt  a 
sensible  relief  from  the  cooling  application  to  his  wounds. 

The  woman,  whom  long  practice  with  the  victims  of 
brutality  had  made  familiar  with  many  healing  arts,  went  on 
to  make  many  applications  to  Tom's  wounds,  by  means  of 
which  he  was  soon  somewhat  relieved. 

"  Now,"  said  the  woman,  when  she  had  raised  his  head  on 
a  roll  of  damaged  cotton,  which  served  for  a  pillow,  "  there 's 
the  best  I  can  do  for  you." 

Tom  thanked  her;  and  the  woman,  sitting  down  on  the 
floor,  drew  up  her  knees,  and  embracing  them  with  her  arms, 
looked  fixedly  before  her,  with  a  bitter  and  painful  expression 
of  countenance.  Her  bonnet  fell  back,  and  long  wavy 
streams  of  black  hair  fell  around  her  singular  and  melan- 
choly face. 

''It's  no  use,  my  poor  fellow  !  "  she  broke  $>ut,  at  last. 
"  it 's  of  no  use,  this  you  've  been  trying  to  do.  You  were  a 
brave  fellow, —  you  had  the  right  on  your  side ;  but  it 's  all 
in  vain,  and  out  of  the  question,  for  you  to  struggle.  You 
are  in  the  devil's  hands ;  —  he  is  the  strongest,  and  you  must 
give  up ! " 


200  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

Give  up  !  and,  had  not  human  weakness  and  physical 
agony  whispered  that,  before  ?  Tom  started ;  for  the  bitter 
woman,  with  her  wild  eyes  and  melancholy  voice,  seemed  to 
him  an  embodiment  of  the  temptation  with  which  he  had 
been  wrestling. 

"  0  Lord!  0  Lord!"  he  groaned,  "how  can  I  give 
up]" 

"  There  's  no  use  calling  on  the  Lord, — he  never  hears," 
said  the  woman,  steadily  ;   "  there  is  n't  any  God,  I  believe ; 
or,  if  there  is,  he 's  taken  sides  against  us.     All  goes  against 
us,  heaven  and  earth.     Everything  is  pushing  us  into  hell 
Why  should  n't  we  go  1 " 

Tom  closed  his  eyes,  and  shuddered  at  the  dark,  atheistic 
words. 

"You  see,"  said  the  woman,  "you  don't  know  anything 
about  it;  —  I  do.  I've  been  on  this  place  five  years,  body 
and  soul,  under  this  man's  foot;  and  I  hate  him  as  I  do  the 
devil !  Here  you  are,  on  a  lone  plantation,  ten  miles  from 
any  other,  in  the  swamps  ;  not  a  white  person  here,  who  could 
testify,  if  you  were  burned  alive, —  if  you  were  scalded, 
cut  into  inch-pieces,  set  up  for  the  dogs  to  tear,  or  hung  up 
and  whipped  to  death.  There 's  no  law  here,  of  G<5d  or  man, 
that  can  do  you,  or  any  one  of  us,  the  least  good;  and,  this  man  ! 
there 's  no  earthly  thing  that  he 's  too  good  to  do.  I  could 
make  any  one's  hair  rise,  and  their  teeth  chatter,  if  I  should 
only  tell  what  I've  seen  and  been  knowing  to,  here, —  and 
it 's  no  use  resisting !  Did  I  want  to  live  with  him  ?  Was  n't 
I  a  woman  delicately  bred ;  and  he  —  God  in  heaven  !  what 
was  he,  and  is  he  ?  And  yet,  I  've  lived  with  him,  these 
five  years,  and  cursed  every  moment  of  my  life, —  night  and 
day !  And  now,  he 's  got  a  new  one, —  a  young  thing,  only 
fifteen,  and  she  brought  up,  she  says,  piously.    Her  good 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  £01 

mistress  taught  her  to  read  the  Bible ;  and  she  's  brought  her 
Bible  here  —  to  hell  with  her  ! "  — and  the  woman  laughed 
a  wild  and  doleful  laugh,  that  rung,  with  a  strange,  supernat- 
ural sound,  through  the  old  ruined  shed. 

Tom  folded  his  hands ;  all  was  darkness  and  horror. 

"  0  Jesus  !  Lord  Jesus  !  have  you  quite  forgot  us  poor 
eritturs  ?"  burst  forth,  at  last ;  —  "help,  Lord,  I  perish  ! " 

The  woman  sternly  continued  : 

"  And  what  are  these  miserable  low  dogs  you  work  with, 
that  you  should  suffer  on  their  account  ?  Every  one  of  them 
would  turn  against  you,  the  first  time  they  got  a  chance. 
They  are  all  of  'em  as  low  and  cruel  to  each  other  as  they 
can  be  ;  there  's  no  use  in  your  suffering  to  keep  from  hurt- 
ing them." 

"  Poor  eritturs  ! "  said  Tom,  —  "  what  made  'em  cruel  ?  — 
and,  if  I  give  out,  I  shall  get  used  to't,  and  grow,  little  by  little, 
just  like  'em  !  No,  no,  Missis  !  I  've  lost  everything, —  wife, 
and  children,  and  home,  and  a  kind  Mas'r, —  and  he  would 
have  set  me  free,  if  he  'd  only  lived  a  week  longer  ;  I  've  lost 
everything  in  this  world,  and  it 's  clean  gone,  forever,  —  and 
now  I  can't  lose  Heaven,  too ;  no,  I  can't  get  to  be  wicked, 
besides  all!" 

'•But  it  can't  be  that  the  Lord  will  lay  sin  to  our  account," 
said  the  woman;  "he  won't  charge  it  to  us,  when  we  're  forced 
to  it ;  he  '11  charge  it  to  them  that  drove  us  to  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom  j  "  but  that  won't  keep  us  from  growing 
wicked.  If  I  get  to  be  as  hard-hearted  as  that  ar'  Sambo, 
and  as  wicked,  it  won't  make  much  odds  to  me  how  I  come 
so  ;  it 's  the  bem'  so, — that  ar  's  what  I'ma  dreadin'." 

The  woman  fixed  a  wild  and  startled  look  on  Tom,  as  if 
a  new  thought  had  struck  her ;  and  then,  heavily  groaning 
said, 


202  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

a0  God  a'  mercy!  you  speak  the  truth!  0  —  0  — 
0 ! " — and,  with  groans,  she  fell  on  the  floor,  like  one  crushed 
and  writhing  under  the  extremity  of  mental  anguish. 

There  was  a  silence,  a  while,  in  which  the  breathing  of  both 
parties  could  be  heard,  when  Tom  faintly  said,  "0,  please, 
Missis!" 

The  woman  suddenly  rose  up,  with  her  face  composed  to 
its  usual  stern,  melancholy  expression. 

"  Please,  Missis,  I  saw  ?em  throw  my  coat  in  that  ar'  cor- 
ner,, and  in  my  coat-pocket  is  my  Bible ;  —  if  Missis  would 
please  get  it  for  me." 

Cassy  went  and  got  it.  Tom  opened,  at  once,  to  a  heavily 
marked  passage,  much  worn,  of  the  last  scenes  in  the  life  of 
Him  by  whose  stripes  we  are  healed. 

"  If  Missis  would  only  be  so  good  as  read  that  ar',  —  it 's 
better  than  water." 

Cassy  took  the  book,  with  a  dry,  proud  air,  and  looked  ovei 
the  passage.  She  then  read  aloud,  in  a  soft  voice,  and  with  a 
beauty  of  intonation  that  was  peculiar,  that  touching  account 
of  anguish  and  of  glory.  Often,  as  she  read,  her  voice  fal- 
tered, and  sometimes  failed  her  altogether,  when  she  would 
stop,  with  an  air  of  frigid  composure,  till  she  had  mastered 
herself.  When  she  came  to  the  touching  words,  c 'Father 
forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do,"  she  threw 
down  the  book,  and,  burying  her  face  in  the  heavy  masses  of 
her  hair,  she  sobbed  aloud,  with  a  convulsive  violence. 

Tom  was  weeping,  also,  and  occasionally  uttering  a  smoth- 
ered ejaculation. 

"  If  we  only  could  keep  up  to  that  ar' ! "  said  Tom ;  —  "ft 
seemed  to  come  so  natural  to  him,  and  we  have  to  fight  so 
hard  for 't !  0  Lord,  help  us  !  0  blessed  Lord  Jesus,  do 
help  us !" 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  203 

"Missis,"  said  Tom,  after  a  while,  "  I  can  see  that,  some 
how,  you  're  quite  'bove  me  in  everything ;  but  there  's  one 
thing  Missis  might  learn  even  from  poor  Tom.  Ye  said  the 
Lord  took  sides  against  us,  because  he  lets  us  be  'bused  and 
knocked  round ;  but  ye  see  what  come  on  his  own  Son, — ■  the 
blessed  Lord  of  Glory, —  wan't  he  allays  poor  ?  and  have  we, 
any  on  us,  yet  come  so  low  as  he  come?  The  Lord  han't 
forgot  us, — I  'm  sartin'  o'  that  ar'.  If  we  suffer  with  him,  we 
shall  also  reign,  Scripture  says ;  but,  if  we  deny  Him,  he  also 
will  deny  us.  Didn't  they  all  suffer?  —  the  Lord  and  all 
his  ?  It  tells  how  they  was  stoned  and  sawn  asunder,  and 
wandered  about  in  sheep-skins  and  goat-skins,  and  was  desti- 
tute, afflicted,  tormented.  Sufferin'  an't  no  reason  to  make 
us  think  the  Lord  's  turned  agin  us ;  but  jest  the  contrary, 
if  only  we  hold  on  to  him,  and  does  n't  give  up  to  sin.'7 

"  But  why  does  he  put  us  where  we  can't  help  but  sin  ?" 
said  the  woman. 

"  I  think  we  can  help  it,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  '11  see,"  said  Cassy ;  "what  '11  you  do?  To-morrow 
they  '11  be  at  you  again.  I  know  'em  ;  I  've  seen  all  their 
doings  ;  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  all  they  '11  bring  you  to  ;  — 
and  they  '11  make  you  give  out,  at  last ! " 

"Lord  Jesus!"  said  Tom,  "you  will  take  care  of  my 
soul  ?     0  Lord,  do !  —  don't  let  me  give  out ! " 

"  0  dear  ! "  said  Cassy ;  "  I  've  heard  all  this  crying  and 
praying  before ;  and  yet,  they  've  been  broken  down,  and 
brought  under.  There 's  Emmeline,  she  's  trying  to  hold 
on,  and  you  're  trying, —  but  what  use  ?  You  must  give  up, 
or  be  killed  by  inches." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  die ! "  said  Tom.  "  Spin  it  out  as  long 
as  they  can,  they  can't  help  my  dying,  some  time !  — and,  after 


204  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

that,  they  can't  do  no  more.  I'm  clar,  I'm  set!  I  know  the 
Lord  '11  help  me,  and  bring  me  through." 

The  woman  did  not  answer ;  she  sat  with  her  black  eyes 
intently  fixed  on  the  floor. 

"May  be  it 's  the  way,"  she  murmured  to  herself;  "but 
those  that  have  given  up,  there's  no  hope  for  them!  —  none! 
We  live  in  filth,  and  grow  loathsome,  till  we  loathe  ourselves ! 
And  we  long  to  die,  and  we  don't  dare  to  kill  ourselves  !  — 
No  hope  !  no  hope  !  no  hope  !  —  this  girl  now, — just  as  old 
as  I  was  ! 

"You  see  me  now,"  she  said,  speaking  to  Tom  very  rap- 
idly ;  "  see  what  Lam  !  Well,  I  was  brought  up  in  luxury  ; 
the  first  I  remember  is,  playing  about,  when  I  was  a  child,  in 
splendid  parlors  ;  —  when  I  was  kept  dressed  up  like  a  doll, 
and  company  and  visiters  used  to  praise  me.  There  was 
a  garden  opening  from  the  saloon  windows ;  and  there  I  used 
to  play  hide-and-go-seek,  under  the  orange-trees,  with  my 
brothers  and  sisters.  I  went  to  a  convent,  and  there  I 
learned  music,  French  and  embroidery,  and  what  not ;  and 
when  I  was  fourteen,  I  came  out  to  my  father's  funeral. 
He  died  very  suddenly,  and  when  the  property  came  to  be 
settled,  they  found  that  there  was  scarcely  enough  to  cover 
the  debts  ;  and  when  the  creditors  took  an  inventory  of  the 
property,  I  was  set  down  in  it.  My  mother  was  a  slave 
woman,  and  my  father  had  always  meant  to  set  me  free  ;  but 
he  had  not  done  it,  and  so. I  was  set  down  in  the  list.  I  ?d 
always  known  who  I  was,  but  never  thought  much  about  it. 
Nobody  ever  expects  that  a  strong,  healthy  man  is  a  going 
to  die.  My  father  was  a  well  man  only  four  hours  before  he 
died ;  —  it  was  one  of  the  first  cholera  cases  in  New  Orleans. 
The  day  after  the  funeral,  my  father's  wife  took  her  children, 
and  went  up  to  her  father's  plantation.      I  thought  they 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  205 

treated  me  strangely,  but  did  n't  know.  There  was  a  young 
lawyer  who  they  left  to  settle  the  business ;  and  he  came  every 
day,  and  was  about  the  house,  and  spoke  very  politely  to  me. 
He  brought  with  him,  one  day,  a  young  man,  whom  I  thought 
the  handsomest  I  had  ever  seen.  I  shall  never  forgot  that 
evening.  I  walked  with  him  in  the  garden.  I  was  lonesome 
and  full  of  sorrow,  and  he  was  so  kind  and  gentle  to  me  ;  and 
he  told  me  that  he  had  seen  me  before  I  went  to  the  convent, 
and  that  he  had  loved  me  a  great  while,  and  that  he  would 
be  my  friend  and  protector; — in  short,  though  he  did  n't  tell 
me,  he  had  paid  two  thousand  dollars  for  me,  and  I  was  his 
property, — I  became  his  willingly,  for  I  loved  him.  Xoved  ! " 
said  the  woman,  stopping.  "  0,  how  I  did  love  that  man  ! 
How  I  love  him  now,  —  and  always  shall,  while  I  breathe  ! 
He  was  so  beautiful,  so  high,  so  noble  !  He  put  me  into  a 
beautiful  house,  with  servants,  horses,  and  carriages,  and  fur- 
niture, and  dresses.  Everything  that  money  could  buy,  he 
gave  me  ;  but  I  did  n't  set  any  value  on  all  that, —  I  only 
cared  for  him.  I  loved  him  better  than  my  God  and  my  own 
soul ;  and,  u  I  tried,  I  could  n't  do  any  other  way  from  what 
he  wanted  me  to. 

"  I  wanted  only  one  thing —  I  did  want  him  to  many  me. 
I  thought,  if  he  loved  me  as  he  said  he  did,  and  if  I  was  what 
he  seemed  to  think  I  was,  he  would  be  willing  to  marry  me 
and  set  me  free.  But  he  convinced  me  that  it  would  be 
impossible ;  and  he  told  me  that,  if  we  were  only  faithful  to 
each  other,  it  was  marriage  before  God.  If  that  is  true, 
was  n't  I  that  man's  wife  ?  Was  n't  I  faithful  ?  For  seven 
years,  did  n't  I  study  every  look  and  motion,  and  only  live 
and  breathe  to  please  him  ?  He  had  the  yellow  fever,  and  for 
twenty  days  and  nights  I  watched  with  him.  I  alone, —  and 
gave  him  all  his  medicine,  and  did  everything  for  him ;  and 

VOL.   II.  18 


206  UNCLE  tom's  cabin  :    OR 


then  he  called  me  his  good  angel,  and  said  I  'd  saved  his  life 
We  had  two  beautiful  children.  The  first  was  a  boy,  and  we 
called  him  Henry.  He  was  the  image  of  his  father, — he  had 
such  beautiful  eyes,  such  a  forehead,  and  his  hair  hung  all  in 
curls  around  it ;  and  he  had  all  his  father's  spirit,  and  his  tal- 
ent, too.  Little  Elise,  he  said,  looked  like  me.  He  used  to 
tell  me  that  I  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Louisiana,  he 
was  so  proud  of  me  and  the  children.  He  used  to  love  to 
have  me  dress  them  up,  and  take  them  and  me  about  in  an 
open  carriage,  and  hear  the  remarks  that  people  would  make 
on  us ;  and  he  used  to  fill  my  ears  constantly  with  the  fine 
things  that  were  said  in  praise  of  me  and  the  children.  0, 
those  were  happy  days  !  I  thought  I  was  as  happy  as  any 
one  could  be ;  but  then  there  came  evil  times.  He  had  a 
cousin  come  to  New  Orleans,  who  was  his  particular  friend, — 
he  thought  all  the  world  of  him  ;  —  but,  from  the  first  time  I 
saw  him,  I  couldn't  tell  why,  I  dreaded  him;  for  I  felt  sure  he 
was  going  to  bring  misery  on  us.  He  got  Henry  to  going  out 
with  him,  and  often  he  would  not  come  home  nights  till  two  or 
three  o'clock.  I  did  not  dare  say  a  word ;  for  Henry  was  so 
high-spirited,  I  was  afraid  to.  He  got  him  to  the  gaming- 
houses ;  and  he  was  one  of  the  sort  that,  when  he  once  got  a 
going  there,  there  was  no  holding  back.  And  then  he  intro- 
duced him  to  another  lady,  and  I  saw  soon  that  his  heart 
was  gone  from  me.  He  never  told  me,  but  I  saw  it,  —  I 
knew  it,  day  after  day,  —  I  felt  my  heart  breaking,  but  I 
could  not  say  a  word  !  At  this,  the  wretch  offered  to  buy  me 
and  the  children  of  Henry,  to  clear  off  his  gambling  debts, 
which  stood  in  the  way  of  his  marrying  as  he  wished ;  —  and 
he  sold  vs.  He  told  me,  one  day,  that  he  had  business  in  the 
country,  and  should  be  gone  two  or  three  weeks.  He  spoke 
kinder  than  usual,  and  said  he  should  come  back;  but  it 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  207 


did  n't  deceive  me.  I  knew  that  the  time  had  come  ;  I  was 
just  like  one  turned  into  stone;  I  couldn't  speak,  nor  shed  a 
tear.  He  kissed  me  and  kissed  the  children,  a  good  many 
times,  and  went  out.  I  saw  him  get  on  his  horse,  and  I 
watched  him  till  he  was  quite  out  of  sight ;  and  then  I  fell 
down,  and  fainted. 

"Then  he  came,  the  cursed  wretch!  he  came  to  take 
possession.  He  told  me  that  he  had  bought  me  and  my 
children ;  and  showed  me  the  papers.  I  cursed  him  before 
God,  and  told  him  I  'd  die  sooner  than  live  with  him. 
^  ",'  Just  as  you  please,'"  said  he;  '  but,  if  you  don't  behave 
reasonably,  I  '11  sell  both  the  children,  where  you  shall  never 
see  them  again.'  He  told  me  that  he  always  had  meant  to 
have  me,  from  the  first  time  he  saw  me ;  and  that  he  had 
drawn*  Henry  on,  and  got  him  in  debt,  on  purpose  to  make 
him  -willing  to  sell  me.  That  he  got  him  in  love  with 
another  woman ;  and  that  I  might  know,  after  all  that,  that  he 
should  not  give  up  for  a  few  airs  and  tears,  and  things  of  that 
sort. 

"  I  gave  up,  for  my  hands  were  tied.  He  had  my  children ; 
—  whenever  I  resisted  his  will  anywhere,  he  would  talk  about 
selling  them,  and  he  made  me  as  submissive  as  he  desired. 
0,  what  a  life  it  was  !  to  live  with  my  heart  breaking,  every 
day, —  to  keep  on,  on,  on,  loving,  when  it  was  only  misery; 
and  to  be  bound,  body  and  soul,  to  one  I  hated.  I  used  to  love 
to  read  to  Henry,  to  play  to  him,  to  waltz  with  him,  and  sing  to 
him ;  but  everything  I  did  for  -this  one  was  a  perfect  drag, —  yet 
I  was  afraid  to  refuse  anything.  He  was  very  imperious,  and 
harsh  to  the  children.  Elise  was  a  timid  little  thing ;  but 
Henry  was  bold  and  high-spirited,  like  his  father,  and  he  had 
never  been  brought  under,  in  the  least,  by  any  one.  He  was 
always  finding  fault,  and  quarrelling  with  him  ;  and  I  used  to 


208  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN:    OR, 

live  in  daily  fear  and  dread.  I  tried  to  make  the  chil 
respectful ;  —  I  tried  to  keep  them  apart,  for  I  held  on  t 
those  children  like  death  ;  but  it  did  no  good.  He  sold  both 
those  children.  He  took  me  to  ride,  one  day,  and  when  I  cam^ 
home,  they  were  nowhere  to  be  found  !  He  told  me  he  had 
sold  them;  he  showed  me  the  money,  the  price  of  their 
blood.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  all  good  forsook  me.  I  raved 
and  cursed, —  cursed  God  and  man ;  and,  for  a  while,  I 
believe,  he  really  was  afraid  of  me.  But  he  did  n't  give  up  so. 
He  told  me  that  my  children  were  sold,  but  whether  I  ever 
saw  their  faces  again,  depended  on  him ;  and  that,  if  I  was  n't^ 
quiet,  they  should  smart  for  it.  Well,  you  can  do  anything 
with  a  woman,  when  you  've  got  her  children.  He  made  me 
submit;  he  made  me  be  peaceable;  he  flattered  me  with  hopes 
that,  perhaps,  he  would  buy  them  back ;  ,and  so  things  went 
on,  a  week  or  two.  One  day,  I  was  out  walking,  and  passed 
by  the  calaboose;  I  saw  a  crowd  about  the  gate,  and  heard  a 
child's  voice, —  and  suddenly  my  Henry  broke  away  from  two 
or  three  men  who  were  holding  him,  and  ran,  screaming,  and 
caught  my  dress.  They  came  up  to  him,  swearing  dreadfully ; 
and  one  man,  whose  face  I  shall  never  forget,  told  him  that 
he  would  n't  get  away  so;  that  he  was  going  with  him  into  the 
calaboose,  and  he  'd  get  a  lesson  there  he  'd  never  forget. 
I  tried  to  beg  and  plead, —  they  only  laughed ;  the  poor  boy 
screamed  and  looked  into  my  face,  and  held  on  to  me,  until,  in 
tearing  him  off,  they  tore  the  skirt  of  my  dress  half  away ;  and 
they  carried  him  in,  screaming  '  Mother !  mother  !  mother  ! ' 
There  was  one  man  stood  there  seemed  to  pity  me.  I  offered 
him  all  the  money  I  had,  if  he  'd  only  interfere.  He  shook 
his  head,  and  said  that  the  man  said  the  boy  had  been  impu- 
dent and  disobedient,  ever  since  he  bought  him ;  that  he  was 
going  to  break  him  in,  once  for  all.     I  turned  and  ran ;  and 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  200 

every  3tep  of  the  way,  I  thought  that  I  heard  him  scream. 
I  got  into  the  house;  ran,  all  out  of  breath,  to  the  parlor, 
where  I  found  Butler.  I  told  him,  and  begged  him  to  go  and 
interfere.  He  only  laughed,  and  told  me  the  boy  had  got  his 
deserts.  He  'd  got  to  be  broken  in, —  the  sooner  the  better ; 
'  what  did  I  expect  ? '  he  asked. 

"It  seemed  to  me  something  in  my  head  snapped,  at  that 
moment.  I  felt  dizzy  and  furious.  I  remember  seeing  a  great 
sharp  bowie-knife  on  the  table  ;  I  remember  something  about 
catching  it,  and  flying  upon  him;  and  then  all  grew  dark, 
and  I  did  n't  know  any  more  —  not  for  days  and  days. 

"  When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  in  a  nice  room, —  but  not 
mine.  An  old  black  woman  tended  me;  and  a  doctor  came  to 
see  me,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  care  taken  of  me. 
After  a  while,  I  found  that  he  had  gone  away,  and  left  me 
at  this  house  to  be  sold ;  and  that 's  why  they  took  such 
pains  with  me. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  get  well,  and  hoped  I  should  n't ;  but, 
in  spite  of  me,  the  fever  went  off,  and  I  grew  healthy,  and 
finally  got  up.  Then,  they  made  me  dress  up,  every  day ; 
and  gentlemen  used  to  come  in  and  stand  and  smoke  their 
cigars,  and  look  at  me,  and  ask  questions,  and  debate  my 
price.  I  was  so  gloomy  and  silent,  that  none  of  them  wanted 
me.  They  threatened  to  whip  me,  if  I  was  n't  gayer,  and 
didn't  take  some  pains  to  make  myself  agreeable.  At 
length,  one  day,  came  a  gentleman  named  Stuart.  He  seemed 
to  have  some  feeling  for  me ;  he  saw  that  something  dreadful 
was  on  my  heart,  and  he  came  to  see  me  alone,  a  great  many 
times,  and  finally  persuaded  me  to  tell  him.  He  bought  me, 
at  last,  and  promised  to  do  all  he  could  to  find  and  buy  back  my 
children.  He  went  to  the  hotel  where  my  Henry  was  ;  they 
told  him  he  had  been  sold  to  a  planter  up  on  Pearl  river  ;  that 

vol.  II.  18* 


210  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  ok, 

was  the  last  that  I  ever  heard.  Then  he  found  where  my 
daughter  was ;  an  old  woman  was  keeping  her.  He  offered  an 
immense  sum  for  her,  but  they  would  not  sell  her.  Butler 
found  out  that  it  was  for  me  he  wanted  her;  and  he  sent 
me  word  that  I  should  never  have  her.  Captain  Stuart  was 
very  kind  to  me ;  he  had  a  splendid  plantation,  and  took  me 
to  it.  In  the  course  of  a  year,  I  had  a  son  born.  0,  that 
child  !  —  how  I  loved  it !  How  just  like  my  poor  Henry  the 
little  thing  looked  !  But  I  had  made  up  my  mind, —  yes,  I 
had.  I  would  never  again  let  a  child  live  to  grow  up  !  I  took 
the  little  fellow  in  my  arms,  when  he  was  two  weeks  old,  and 
kissed  him,  and  cried  over  him ;  and  then  I  gave  him  lauda- 
num, and  held  him  close  to  my  bosom,  while  he  slept  to  death. 
How  I  mourned  and  cried  over  it !  and  who  ever  dreamed 
that  it  was  anything  but  a  mistake,  that  had  made  me  give  it 
the  laudanum  1  but  it 's  one  of  the  few  things  that  I  'm  slad 
of,  now.  I  am  not  sorry,  to  this  day ;  he,  at  least,  is  out  of 
pain.  What  better  than  death  could  I  give  him,  poor  child  ! 
After  a  while,  the  cholera  came,  and  Captain  Stuart  died ; 
everybody  died  that  wanted  to  live, —  and  I,  — I,  though  I 
went  down  to  death's  door, —  I  lived!  Then  I  was  sold,  and 
passed  from  hand  to  hand,  till  I  grew  faded  and  wrinkled, 
and  I  had  a  fever ;  and  then  this  wretch  bought  me,  and 
brought  me  here, —  and  here  I  am  !  " 

The  woman  stopped.  She  had  hurried  on  through  her 
story,  with  a  wild,  passionate  utterance ;  sometimes  seeming 
to  address  it  to  Tom,  and  sometimes  speaking  as  in  a  solilo- 
quy. So  vehement  and  overpowering  was  the  force  with 
which  she  spoke,  that,  for  a  season,  Tom  was  beguiled  even 
from  the  pain  of  his  wounds,  and,  raising  himself  on  one 
elbow,  watched  her  as  she  paced  restlessly  up  and  down,  her 
long  black  hair  swaying  heavily  about  her,  as  she  moved. 


LIEE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  211 

"  You  tell  me,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "that  there  is  a 
God, —  a  God  that  looks  down  and  sees  all  these  things.  May 
be  it 's  so.  The  sisters  in  the  convent  used  to  tell  me  of  a 
day  of  judgment,  when  everything  is  coming  to  light ;  —  won't 
there  be  vengeance,  then  ! 

"  They  think  it  's  nothing,  what  we  suffer, —  nothing,  what 
our  children  suffer  !  It 's  all  a  small  matter ;  yet  I  've  walked 
the  streets  when  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  misery  enough  in  my 
one  heart  to  sink  the  city.  I  've  wished  the  houses  would 
fall  on  me,  or  the  stones  sink  under  me.  Yes  !  and,  in  the 
judgment  day,  I  will  stand  up  before  God,  a  witness  against 
those  thh,t  have  ruined  me  and  my  children,  body  and 
soul ! 

"  When  I  was  a  girl,  I  thought  I  was  religious  ;  I  used  to 
love  God  and  prayer.  Now,  I  'm  a  lost  soul,  pursued  by 
devils  that  torment  me  day  and  night ;  they  keep  pushing  me 
on  and  on  —  and  I  '11  do  it,  too,  some  of  these  days !  "  she 
said,  clenching  her  hand,  while  an  insane  light  glanced  in  her 
heavy  black  eyes.  "I'll  send  him  where  he  belongs, —  a 
short  way,  too , —  one  of  these  nights,  if  they  burn  me  alive 
for  it ! "  A  wild,  long  laugh,  rang  through  the  deserted 
room,  and  ended  in  a  hysteric  sob  ;  she  threw  herself  on  the 
floor,  in  convulsive  sobbings  and  struggles. 

In  a  few  moments,  the  frenzy  fit  seemed  to  pass  off;  she 
rose  slowly,  and  seemed  to  collect  herself. 

"Can  I  do  anything  more  for  you,  my  poor  fellow'?" 
she  said,  approaching  where  Tom  lay:  "shall  I  give  you 
some  more  water  ?  " 

There  was  a  graceful  and  compassionate  sweetness  in  her 
voice  and  manner,  as  she  said  this,  that  formed  a  strange 
contrast  with  the  former  wildness. 


212  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

Tom  drank  the  water,  and  looked  earnestly  and  pitifully 
into  her  face. 

"  0,  Missis,  I  wish  you  'd  go  to  him  that  can  give  you 
living  waters ! " 

"  Go  to  him !     Where  is  he?    Who  is  he?"  said  Cassy. 

"  Him  that  you  read  of  to  me, —  the  Lord." 

"  I  used  to  sse  the  picture  of  him,  over  the  altar,  when  I 
was  a  girl,"  said  Cassy,  her  dark  eyes  fixing  themselves  in 
an  expression  of  mournful  reverie;  "but,  he  isn't  here! 
there 's  nothing  here,  but  sin  and  long,  long,  long  despair  ! 
0  ! "  She  laid  her  hand  on  her  breast  and  drew  in  her  breath, 
as  if  to  lift  a  heavy,  weight. 

Tom  looked  as  if  he  would  speak  again ;  but  she  cut  him 
short,  with  a  decided  gesture. 

"  Don't  talk,  my  poor  fellow.  Try  to  sleep,  if  you  can." 
And,  placing  water  in  his  reach,  and  making  whatever  little 
arrangements  for  his  comfort  she  could,  Cassy  left  the 
shed. 


LIFE  AMONG   TJIE  LOWLY.  213 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   TOKENS. 

"  And  slight,  withal,  may  be  the  things  that  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  forever;  it  may  be  a  sound, 
A  flower,  the  wind,  the  ocean,  which  shall  wound, — 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  're  darkly  bound.'* 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Can.  4. 

The  sitting-room  of  Legree's  establishment  was  a  large, 
long  room,  with  a  wide,  ample  fireplace.  It  had  once 
been  hung  with  a  showy  and  expensive  paper,  which  now 
hung  mouldering,  torn  and  discolored,  from  the  damp  walls. 
The  place  had  that  peculiar  sickening,  unwholesome  smell, 
compounded  of  mingled  damp,  dirt  and  decay,  which  one 
often  notices  in  close  old  houses.  The  wall-paper  was  defaced, 
in  spots,  by  slops  of  beer  and  wine  ;  or  garnished  with  chalk 
memorandums,  and  long  sums  footed  up,  as  if  somebody  had 
been  practising  arithmetic  there.  In  trie  fireplace  stood  a 
brazier  full  of  burning  charcoal ;  for,  though  the  weather  was 
not  cold,  the  evenings  always  seemed  damp  and  chilly  in  that 
great  room;  and  Legree,  moreover,  wanted  a  place  to  light 
his  cigars,  and  heat  his  water  for  punch.  The  ruddy  glare 
of  the  charcoal  displayed  the  confused  and  unpromising 
aspect  of  the  room, —  saddles,  bridles,  several  sorts  of  harness, 
riding- whips,  overcoats,  and  various  articles  of  clothing,  scat- 
tered up  and  down  the  room  in  confused  variety ;  and  the 


214  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

dogs;  of  whom  we  have  before  spoken,  had  encamped  them- 
selves among  them,  to  suit  their  own  taste  and  convenience. 

Legree  was  just  mixing  himself  a  tumbler  of  punch,  pour- 
ing his  hot  water  from  a  cracked  and  broken-nosed  pitcher, 
grumbling,  as  he  did  so, 

"  Plague  on  that  Sambo,  to  kick  up  this  yer  row  between 
me  and  the  new  hands  !  The  fellow  won't  be  fit  to  work  for 
a  week,  now, —  right  in  the  press  of  the  season  !  " 

"  Yes,  just  like  you,"  said  a  voice,  behind  his  chair.  It 
was  the  woman  Casey,  who  had  stolen  upon  his  soliloquy. 

"  Hah  !  you  she-devil !  you  've  come  back,  have  you?  " 

"Yes,  I  have,"  she  said,  coolly;  "come  to  have  my  own 
way,  too  !  " 

"You  lie,  you  jade!  I'll  be  up  to  my  word.  Either 
behave  yourself,  or  stay  down  to  the  quarters,  and  fare  and 
work  with  the  rest." 

"  I  'd  rather,  ten  thousand  times,"  said  the  woman,  "  live 
in  the  dirtiest  hole  at  the  quarters,  than  be  under  your 
hoof!" 

"  But  you  are  under  my  hoof,  for  all  that,"  said  he, 
turning  upon  her,  with  a  savage  grin;  "that's  one  comfort. 
So,  sit  down  here  on  my  knee,  my  clear,  and  hear  to  reason," 
said  he,  laying  hold  on  her  wrist. 

"Simon  Legree,  take  care!"  said  the  woman,  with  a 
sharp  flash  of  her  eye,  a  glance  so  wild  and  insane  in  its 
light  as  to  be  almost  appalling.  "  You  're  afraid  of  me, 
Simon,"  she  said,  deliberately  ;  "  and  you  've  reason  to  be  ! 
But  be  careful,  for  I  've  got  the  devil  in  me!  " 

The  last  words  she  whispered  in  a  hissing  tone,  close  to  his 
ear. 

"  Get  out !  I  believe,  to  my  soul,  you  have  ! "  said  Legree, 
pushing  her  from  him,  and  looking  uncomfortably  at  her, 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  215 

''After  all,  Cassy,"  he  said,  "  why  can't  you  be  friends  with 
me,  as  you  used  to  ?" 

"Used  to!"  said  she,  bitterly.  She  stopped  short,  —  a 
world  of  choking  feelings,  rising  in  her  heart,  kept  her  silent. 

Cassy  had  always  kept  over  Legree  the  kind  of  influence 
that  a  strong,  impassioned  woman  can  ever  keep  over  the 
most  brutal  man ;  but,  of  late,  she  had  grown  more  and  more 
irritable  and  restless,  under  the  hideous  yoke  of  her  servi- 
tude, and  her  irritability,  at  times,  broke  out  into  raving 
insanity ;  and  this  liability  made  her  a  solrt  of  object  of  dread 
to  Legree,  who  had  that  superstitious  ho*ror  of  insane  per- 
sons which  is  common  to  coarse  and  uninstructed  minds. 
When  Legree  brought  Emmeline  to  the  house,  all  the  smoul- 
dering embers  of  womanly  feeling  flashed  up  in  the  worn 
heart  of  Cassy,  and  she  took  part  with  the  girl ;  and  a  fierce 
quarrel  ensued  between  her  and  Legree.  Legree,  in  a  fury, 
swore  she  should  be  put  to  field  service,  if  she  would  not  bo 
peaceable.  Cassy,  with  proud  scorn,  declared  she  would  go 
to  the  field.  And  she  worked  there  one  day,  as  we  have 
described,  to  show  how  perfectly  she  scorned  the  threat. 

Legree  was  secretly  uneasy,  all  day ;  for  Cassy  had  an  influ- 
ence over  him  from  which  he  could  not  free  himself.  When 
she  presented  her  basket  at  the  scales,  he  had  hoped  for  some 
concession,  and  addressed  her  in  a  sort  of  half  conciliatory, 
half  scornful  tone ;  and  she  had  answered  with  the  bitterest 
contempt. 

The  outrageous  treatment  of  poor  Tom  had  roused  her  still 
more ;  and  she  had  followed  Legree  to  the  house,  with  no  par- 
ticular intention,  but  to  upbraid  him  for  his  brutality. 

"I  wish,  Cassy,"  said  Legree,  "you'd  behave  yourself 
decently.' 

"  You  talk  about  behaving  decently  !    And  what  have  you 


216  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OK, 

been  doing  ? —  you,  who  have  n't  even  sense  enough  to  keep 
from  spoiling  one  of  your  best  hands,  right  in  the  most  press- 
ing season,  just  for  your  devilish  temper  ! " 

"I  was  a  fool,  it 's  a  fact,  to  let  any  such  brangle  come 
up,"  said  Legree ;  "but,  when  the  boy  set  up  his  will,  he 
had  to  be  broke  in." 

"  I  reckon  you  won't  break  him  in  ! " 

"  Won't  I?"  said  Legree,  rising,  passionately.  "I  'd  like 
to  know  if  I  won't  ?  He  '11  be  the  first  nigger  that  ever  came 
it  round  me  !  I  '11  break  every  bone  in  his  body,  but  he  shall 
give  up!" 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  Sambo  entered.  He  came 
forward,  bowing,  and  holding  out  something  in  a  paper. 

"  What 's  that,  you  dog  ?"  said  Legree. 
i  "  It 's  a  witch  thing,  Mas'r  ! " 

" A  what?" 

"  Something  that  niggers  gets  from  witches.  Keeps  'em 
from  feelin'  when  they  's  flogged.  He  had  it  tied  round  his 
neck,  with  a  black  string." 

Legree,  like  most  godless  and  cruel  men,  was  superstitious. 
He  took  the  paper,  and  opened  it  uneasily. 

There  dropped  out  of  it  a  silver  dollar,  and  a  long,  shining 
curl  of  fair  hair,  —  hair  which,  like  a  living  thing,  twined 
itself  round  Legree' s  fingers. 

"Damnation  !"  he  screamed,  in  sudden  passion,  stamping 
on  the  floor,  and  pulling  furiously  at  the  hair,  as  if  it  burned 
him.  " Where  did  this  come  from  1  Take  it  off!  —  burn  it 
up  !  —  burn  it  up  !  "  he  screamed,  tearing  it  off,  and  throwing 
it  into  the  charcoal.     u  What  did  you  bring  it  to  me  for  ?  " 

Sambo  stood,  with  his  heavy  mouth  wide  open,  a\id  aghast 
with  wonder ;  and  Cassy,  who  was  preparing  to  leave  the 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  217 

apartment,  stopped,  and  looked  at  him  in  perfect  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Don't  you  bring  me  any  more  of  your  devilish  things  ! '; 
said  he,  shaking  his  fist  at  Sambo,  who  retreated  hastily 
towards  the  door ;  and,  picking  up  the  silver  dollar,  he  sent 
it  smashing  through  the  window-pane,  out  into  the  darkness. 

Sambo  was  glad  to  make  his  escape.  When  he  was  gone, 
Legree  seemed  a  little  ashamed  of  his  fit  of  alarm.  He  sat 
doggedly  down  in  his  chair,  and  began  sullenly  sipping  his 
tumbler  of  punch. 

Cassy  prepared  herself  for  going  out,  unobserved  by  him; 
and  slipped  away  to  minister  to  poor  Tom,  as  we  have  already 
related. 

And  what  was  the  matter  with  Legree  ?  and  what  was 
there  in  a  simple  curl  of  fair  hair  to  appall  that  brutal  man, 
familiar  with  every  form  of  cruelty  1  To  answer  this,  we 
must  carry  the  reader  backward  in  his  history.  Hard  and 
reprobate  as  the  godless  man  seemed  now,  there  had  been  a 
time  when  he  had  been  rocked  on  the  bosom  of  a  mother.  — 
cradled  with  prayers  and  pious  hymns,  —  his  now  seared 
brow  bedewed  with  the  waters  of  holy  baptism.  In  early 
childhood,  a  fair-haired  woman  had  led  him,  at  the  sound  of 
Sabbath  bell,  to  worship  and  to  pray.  Far  in  New  England 
that  mother  had  trained  her  only  son,  with  long,  unwearied 
love,  and  patient  prayers.  Born  of  a  hard-tempered.sire,  on 
whom  that  gentle  wToman  had  wrasted  a  world  of  unvalued 
love,  Legree  had  followed  in  the  steps  of  his  father.  Bois- 
terous, unruly,  and  tyrannical,  he  despised  all  her  counsel, 
and  would  none  of  her  reproof;  and,  at  an  early  age,  broke 
from  her,  to  seek  his  fortunes  at  sea.  ■  He  never  came  home 
but  once,  after  ;  and  then,  his  mother,  with  the  yearning  of  a 
heart  that  must  love  something,  and  has  nothing  else  to  love, 

VOL.   II.  19 


218  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

clung  to  him,  and  sought,  with  passionate  prayers  and  entrea- 
ties, to  win  him  from  a  life  of  sin,  to  his  soul's  eternal  good. 

That  was  Legree's  day  of  grace  ;  then  good  angels  called 
him ;  then  he  was  almost  persuaded,  and  mercy  held  him 
by  the  hand.  His  heart  inly  relented,  —  there  was  a  con- 
flict,— but  sin  got  the  victory,  and  he  set  all  the  force  of  his 
rough  nature  against  the  conviction  of  his  conscience.  He 
drank  and  swore,  —  was  wilder  and  more  brutal  than  ever. 
And,  one  night,  when  his  mother,  in  the  last  agony  of  her 
despair,  knelt  at  his  feet,  he  spurned  her  from  him, —  threw 
her  senseless  on  the  floor,  and,  with  brutal  curses,  fled  to  his 
ship.  The  next  Legree  heard  of  his  mother  was,  when,  one 
night,  as  he  was  carousing  among  drunken  companions,  a 
letter  was  put  into  his  hand.  He  opened  it,  and  a  lock  of 
long,  curling  hair  fell  from  it,  and  twined  about  his  fingers. 
The  letter  told  him  his  mother  was  dead,  and  that,  dying,  she 
blest  and  forgave  him. 

There  is  a  dread,  unhallowed  necromancy  of  evil,  that  turns 
things  sweetest  and  holiest  to  phantoms  of  horror  and  affright 
That  pale,  loving  mother,  —  her  dying  prayers,  her  forgiving 
love, —  wrought  in  that  demoniac  heart  of  sin  only  as  a  damn- 
ing sentence,  bringing  with  it  a  fearful  looking  for  of  judgment 
and  fiery  indignation.  Legree  burned  the  hair,  and  burned 
the  letter ;  and  when  he  saw  them  hissing  and  crackling  in 
the  flame,  inly  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  everlasting  fires. 
He  tried  to  drink,  and  revel,  and  swear  away  the  memory ; 
but  often,  in  the  deep  night,  whose  solemn  stillness  arraigns 
the  bad  soul  in  forced  communion  with  herself,  he  had  seen 
that  pale  mother  rising  by  his  bedside,  and  felt  the  soft  twin- 
ing of  that  hair  around  his  fingers,  till  the  cold  sweat  would 
roll  down  his  face,  and  he  would  spring  from  his  bed  in  hor- 
ror.     Ye  who  have  wondered  to  henr,  in  the  same  evangel, 


LIFE    AMONG-   THE   LOWLY.  219 

that  God  is  love,  and  that  God  is  a  consuming  fire,  see  ye  not 
how,  to  the  soul  resolved  in  evil,  perfect  love  is  the  most 
fearful  torture,  the  seal  and  sentence  of  the  direst  despair  ? 

"Blast  it!  "  said  Legree  to  himself,  as  he  sipped  his  liquor; 
"where  did  he  get  that?  If  it  didn't  look  just  like  — 
whoo !  I  thought  I  'd  forgot  that.  Curse  me,  if  I  think 
there  's  any  such  thing  as  forgetting  anything,  any  how,  — 
hang  it !  I  'm  lonesome  !  I  mean  to  call  Em.  She  hates 
me  —  the  monkey  !     I  don't  care, — I  '11  make  her  come  !  " 

Legree  stepped  out  into  a  large  entry,  which  went  up 
stairs,  by  what  had  formerly^been  a  superb  winding  stair- 
case ;  but  the  passage-way  was  dirty  and  dreary,  encumbered 
with  boxes  and  unsightly  litter.  The  stairs,  uncarpeted, 
seemed  winding  up,  in  the  gloom,  to  nobody  knew  where  ! 
The  pale  moonlight  streamed  through  a  shattered  fanlight 
over  the  door ;  the  air  was  unwholesome  and  chilly,  like  that 
of  a  vault. 

Legree  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  heard  a  voice 
singing.  It  seemed  strange  and  ghostlike  in  that  dreary  old 
house,  perhaps  because  of  the  already  tremulous  state  of  his 
nerves.     Hark  !  what  is  it  ? 

A  wild,  pathetic  voice,  chants  a  hymn  common  among  the 
slaves : 

"  0  there  '11  be  mourning,  mourning,  mourning, 
0  there  '11  be  mourning,  at  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ !  " 

"  Blast  the  girl ! "  said  Legree.  "  I  '11  choke  her. —  Em  ! 
Em  ! "  he  called,  harshly;  but  only  a  mocking  echo  from  the 
walls  answered  him.     The  sweet  voice  still  sung  on  : 


vo 


"  Parents  and  children  there  shall  part ! 
Parents  and  children  there  shall  part ! 
Shall  part  to  meet  no  more  !  " 


220  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 

And  clear  and  loud  swelled  through  the  empty  halls  the 
refrain, 

(<  0  there  '11  be  mourning,  mourning,  mourning, 

0  there  '11  be  mourning,  at  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ !  " 

Legree  stopped.  He  would  have  been  ashamed  to  tell  of 
it,  but  large  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead,  his  heart 
beat  heavy  and  thick  with  fear ;  he  even  thought  he  saw 
something  white  rising  and  glimmering  in  the  gloom  before 
him,  and  shuddered  to  think  -what  if  the  form  of  his  dead 
mother  should  suddenly  appear  to  him. 

"I  know  one  thing,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  stumbled 
back  in  the  sitting-room,  and  sat  down  ;  "  I  '11  let  that  fellow 
alone,  after  this !  What  did  I  want  of  his  cussed  paper  1  I 
b'lieve  I  am  bewitched,  sure  enough  !  I  've  been  shivering 
and  sweating,  ever  since  !  Where  did  he  get  that  hair  ?  It 
could  n't  have  been  that  !  I  burnt  that  up,  I  know  I  did  ! 
It  would  be  a  joke,  if  hair  could  rise  from  the  dead  ! " 

Ah,  Legree  !  that  golden  tress  ivas  charmed ;  each  hair 
had  in  it  a  spell  of  terror  and  remorse  for  thee,  and  was  used 
by  a  mightier  power  to  bind  thy  cruel  hands  from  inflicting 
uttermost  evil  on  the  helpless  ! 

"  I  say,"  said  Legree,  stamping  and  whistling  to  the  dogs, 
"  wake  up,  some  of  you,  and  keep  me  company  !"  but  the 
dogs  only  opened  one  eye  at  him,  sleepily,   and  closed  it 


again. 


"  I  '11  have  Sambo  and  Quimbo  up  here,  to  sing  and  dance 
one  of  their  hell  dances,  and  keep  off  these  horrid  notions," 
said  Legree ;  and,  putting  on  his  hat,  he  went  on  to  the 
verandah,  and  blew  a  horn,  with  which  he  commonly  sum- 
moned his  two  sable  drivers. 

Legree  was  often  "wont,  when  in  a  gracious  humor,  to  get 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  221 

these  two  worthies  into  his  sitting-room,  and,  after  warming 
them  up  with  whiskey,  amuse  himself  by  setting  them  to  sing- 
ing, dancing  or  fighting,  as  the  humor  took  him. 

It  was  between  one  and  two  o'clock  at  night,  as  Cassy  was 
returning  from  her  ministrations  to  poor  Tom,  that  she  heard 
the  sound  of  wild  shrieking,  whooping,  halloing,  and  singing, 
from  the  sitting-room,  mingled  with  the  barking  of  dogs,  and 
other  symptoms  of  general  uproar. 

She  came  up  on  the  verandah  steps,  and  looked  in.  Legree 
and  both  the  drivers,  in  a  state  of  furious  intoxication,  were 
singing,  whooping,  upsetting  chairs,  and  making  all  manner 
of  ludicrous  and  horrid  grimaces  at  each  other. 

She  rested  her  small,  slender  hand  on  the  window-blind, 
and  looked  fixedly  at  them  ;  —  there  was  a  world  of  anguish, 
scorn,  and  fierce  bitterness,  in  her  black  eyes,  as  she  did  so. 
i:  Would  it  be  a  sin  to  rid  the  world  of  such  a  wretch?" 
she  said  to  herself. 

She  turned  hurriedly  away,  and,  passing  round  to  a  back 
door,  glided  up  stairs,  and  tapped  at  Emmeline's  door. 

VOL.   II.  19* 


222  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 


EMMELINE   AND    CASST. 


Cassy  entered  the  room,  and  found  Erameline  sitting,  pale 
with  fear,  in  the  furthest  corner  of  it.  As  she  came  in,  the 
girl  started  up  nervously ;  but,  on  seeing  who  it  was,  rushed 
forward,  and  catching  her  arm,  said,  "  0,  Cassy,  is  it  you  1 
I'mso  glad  you  've  come  !  I  was  afraid  it  was  — .  0,  you 
don't  know  what  a  horrid  noise  there  has  been,  down  stairs, 
all  this  evening  ! " 

"I  ought  to  know,"  said  Cassy,. dryly.  "I've  heard  it 
often  enough." 

"  0  Cassy  !  do  tell  me, —  could  n't  we  get  away  from  this 
place  1  I  don't  care  where,  —  into  the  swamp  among  the 
snakes,  —  anywhere!  Couldn't  we  get  somewhere  away 
from  here  V 

"  Nowhere,  but  into  our  graves,"  said  Cassy. 

"  Did  you  ever  try  V 

"I've  seen  enough  of  trying,  and  what  comes  of  it,"  said 
Cassy. 

'  1  'd  be  willing  to  live  in  the  swamps,  and  gnaw  the  bark 
from  trees.  I  an't  afraid  of  snakes  !  I  'd  rather  have  one 
near  me  than  him,"  said  Emmeline,  eagerly. 

"There  have  been  a  good  many  here  of  your  opinion,"  said 
Cassy  ;  "  but  you  couldn't  stay  in  the  swamps, —  you  'd  be 
tracked  by  the  dogs,  and  brought  back,  and  then — -then — " 


LIFE    AMONG   THE    LOWLY.  223 

"  What  would  be  do  ?"  said  the  girl,  looking,  with  breath- 
less interest,  into  her  face. 

"What  wouldn't  he  do,  you'd  better  ask,"  said  Cassy. 
"  He 's  learned  his  trade  well,  among  the  pirates  in  the  West 
Indies.  You  would  n't  sleep  much,  if  I  should  tell  you 
things  I've  seen, — things  that  he  tells  of,  sometimes,  for  good 
jokes.  I  've  heard  screams  here  that  I  have  n't  been  able  to 
get  out  of  my  head  for  weeks  and  weeks.  There  's  a  place 
way  out  down  by  the  quarters,  where  you  can  see  a  black, 
blasted  tree,  and  the  ground  all  covered  with  black  ashes. 
Ask  any  one  what  was  done  there,  and  see  if  they  will  dare 
to  tell  you." 

"  0  !  what  do  you  mean  V9 

" 1  won't  tell  you.  I  hate  to  think  of  it.  And  I  tell  you, 
the  Lord  only  knows  what  we  may  see  to-morrow,  if  that 
poor  fellow  holds  out  as  he  's  begun." 

"Horrid!"  said  Emmeline,  every  drop  of  blood  reced- 
ing from  her  cheeks.  "0,  Cassy,  do  tell  me  what  I  shall 
do  ! " 

"What  I've  done.  Do  the  best  you  can, —  do  what  you 
must, —  and  make  it  up  in  hating  and  cursing." 

"He  wanted  to  make  me  drink  some  of  his  hateful  brandy," 
said  Emmeline  ;   "  and  I  hate  it  so  — " 

"  You  'd  better  drink,"  said  Cassy.  "  I  hated  it,  too;  and 
now  I  can't  live  without  it.  One  must  have  something  ;  — 
things  don't  look  so  dreadful,  when  you  take  that." 

"  Mother  used  to  tell  me  never  to  touch  any  such  thing," 
said  Emmeline. 

" Mother  told  you  ! "  said  Cassy,  with  a  thrilling  and  bit- 
ter emphasis  on  the  word  mother.  "What  use  is  it  for 
mothers  to  say  anything  ?  You  are  all  to  be  bought  and  paid 
for,  and  your  souls  belong  to  whoever  gets  you.     That 's  the 


224  uncle  roM:s  cabin:  or, 

.  . .» — . — 

way  it  goes.  I  say,  drink  brandy ;  drink  all  you  can,  and 
it  '11  make  things  come  easier." 

"  0,  Cassy  !  do  pity  me!" 

"  Pity  you  !  —  don't  I  ?  Have  n't  I  a  daughter,  —  Lord 
knows  where  she  is,  and  whose  she  is,  now,  —  going  the  way 
her  mother  went,  before  her,  I  suppose,  and  that  her  children 
must  go,  after  her  !    There 's  no  end  to  the  curse — forever  !" 

"  I  wish  I  'd  never  been  born  !,"•  said  Emmeline,  wringing 
her  hands. 

"That's  an  old  wish  with  me,"  said  Cassy.  "I've  got 
used  to  wishing  that.  I  'd  die,  if  I  dared  to,"  she  said,  look- 
ing out  into  the  darkness,  with  that  still,  fixed  despair  which 
was  the  habitual  expression  of  her  face  when  at  rest. 

"It  would  be  wicked  to  kill  one's  self,"  said  Emmeline. 

"I  don't  know  why, — no  wickeder  than  things  we  live  and 
do,  day  after  day.  But  the  sisters  told  me  things,  when  I  was 
in  the  convent,  that  make  me  afraid  to  die.  If  it  would  only 
be  the  end  of  us,  why,  then  — " 

Emmeline  turned  away,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

While  this  conversation  was  passing  in  the  chamber,  Legree, 
overcome  with  his  carouse,  had  sank  to  sleep  in  the  room 
below.  Legree  was  not  an  habitual  drunkard.  -His  coarse, 
strong  nature  craved,  and  could  endure,  a  continual  stimula- 
tion, that  would  have  utterly  wrecked  and  crazed  a  finer  one. 
But  a  deep,  underlying  spirit  of  cautiousness  prevented  his 
often  yielding  to  appetite  in  such  measure  as  to  lose  control 
of  himself. 

This  night,  however,  in  his  feverish  efforts  to  banish  from 
his  mind  those  fearful  elements  of  woe  and  remorse  which 
woke  within  him,  he  had  indulged  more  than  common  ;  so 
that,  when  he  had  discharged  his  sable  attendants,  he  fell 
heavily  on  a  settle  in  the  room,  and  was  sound  asleep. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  225 


0  !  how  dares  the  bad  soul  to  enter  the  shadowy  world  of 
sleep  ?  —  that  land  whose  dim  outlines  lie  so  fearfully  near  to 
the  mystic  scene  of  retribution  !  Legree  dreamed.  In  his 
heavy  and  feverish  sleep,  a  veiled  form  stood  beside  him,  and 
laid  a  cold,  soft  hand  upon  him.  He  thought  he  knew  who 
it  was ;  and  shuddered,  with  creeping  horror,  though  the  face 
was  veiled.  Then  he  thought  he  felt  that  hair  twining 
round  his  fingers ;  and  then,  that  it  slid  smoothly  round  his 
neck,  and  tightened  and  tightened,  and  he  could  not  draw  his 
breath ;  and  then  he  thought  voices  ichispered  to  him,  — 
whispers  that  chilled  him  with  horror.  Then  it  seemed  to 
him  he  was  on  the  edge  of  a  frightful  abyss,  holding  on  and 
struggling  in  mortal  fear,  while  dark  hands  stretched  up,  and 
were  pulling  him  over  ;  and  Cassy  came  behind  him  laughing, 
and  pushed  him.  And  then  rose  up  that  solemn  veiled  figure, 
and  drew  aside  the  veil.  It  was  his  mother  ;  and  she  turned 
away  from  him,  and  he  fell  down,  down,  down,  amid  a  con- 
fused noise  of  shrieks,  and  groans,  and  shouts  of  demon 
laughter,  —  and  Legree  awoke. 

Calmly  the  rosy  hue  of  dawn  was  stealing  into  the  room. 
The  morning  star  stood,  with  its  solemn,  holy  eye  of  light, 
looking  down  on  the  man  of  sin,  from  out  the  brightening 
sky.  0;  with  what  freshness,  what  solemnity  and  beauty,  is 
each  new  day  born  ;  as  if  to  say  to  insensate  man,  "  Behold  ! 
thou  hast  one  more  chance  f  Strive  for  immortal  glory  !  " 
There  is  no  speech  nor  language  where  this  voice  is  not 
heard ;  but  the  bold,  bad  man  heard  it  not.  He  woke  with 
an  oath  and  a  curse.  What  to  him  was  the  gold  and  purple, 
the  daily  miracle  of  morning  !  What  to  him  the  sanctity 
of  that  star  which  the  Son  of  God  has  hallowed  as  his  own 
emblem  1    Brute-like,  he  saw  without  perceiving ;  and,  stum 


226  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

bling  forward,  poured  out  a  tumbler  of  brandy,  and  drank 
half  of  it. 

"  I  've  bad  a  h — 1  of  a  night ! "  he  said  to  Cassy,  who  just 
then  entered  from  an  opposite  door. 

"You'll  get  plenty  of  the  same  sort,  by  and  by,"  said  she, 
dryly. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  minx  V- 

"You'll  find  out,  one  of  these  days,"  returned  Cassy,  in 
the  same  tone.  "Now,  Simon,  I've  one  piece  of  advice  to 
give  you." 

"The  devil,  you  have  !  " 

"My  advice  is,"  said  Cassy,  steadily,  as  she  began  adjust- 
ing some  things  about  the  room,   "that  you  let  Tom  alone." 

"  What  business  is  't  of  yours  ?  " 

"What?  To  be  sure,  I  don't  know  what  it  should  be. 
If  you  want  to  pay  twelve  hundred  for  a  fellow,  and  use  him 
right  up  in  the  press  of  the  season,  just  to  serve  your  own 
spite,  it's  no  business  of  mine.  I  've  done  what  I  could  for 
him." 

"  You  have  ?  What  business  have  you  meddling  in  my 
matters?" 

"None,  to  be  sure.  I've  saved  you  some  thousands  of 
dollars,  at  diiferent  times,  by  taking  care  of  your  hands,  — 
that 's  all  the  thanks  I  get.  If  your  crop  comes  shorter  into 
market  than  any  of  theirs,  you  won't  lose  your  bet,  I  sup- 
pose? Tompkins  won't  lord  it  over  you,  I  suppose, —  and 
you  '11  pay  down  your  money  like  a  lady,  won't  you  ?  I 
think  I  see  you  doing  it !  " 

Legree,  like  many  other  planters,  had  but  one  form  of 
ambition, —  to  have  in  the  heaviest  crop  of  the  season, —  and 
tie  had  several  bets  on  this  very  present  season  pending  in 


LIFE   AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  227 

the  next  town.    Cassy,  therefore,  with  woman's  tact,  touched 
the  only  string  that  could  be  made  to  vibrate. 

"Well,  I  '11  let  him  off  at  what  he's  got,"  said  Legrce; 
'  but  he  shall  beg  my  pardon,  and  promise  better  fashions." 

"  That  he  won't  do,"  said  Cassy. 

"  Won't,—  eh?" 

"No,  he  won't,"  said  Cassy. 

"I'd  like  to  know  why,  Mistress,"  said  Legree,  in  the 
extreme  of  scorn. 

"Because  he  's  done  right,  and  he  knows  it,  and  won't  say 
he  ;s  done  wrons;." 

"  Who  a  cuss  cares  what  he  knows7  The  nigger  shall  say 
what  I  please,  or  — " 

"  Or,  you'll  lose  your  bet  on  the  cotton  crop,  by  keeping 
him  out  of  the  field,  just  at  this  very  press." 

"  But  he  will  give  up, —  course,  he  will ;  don't  I  know 
what  niggers  is  ?     He  '11  beg  like  a  dog,  this  morning." 

"  He  won't,  Simon  ;  you  don't  know  this  kind.  You  may 
kill  him  by  inches, —  you  won't  get  the  first  word  of  confes- 
sion out  of.him." 

"  We  '11  see ;  —  where  is  he  ?  "  said  Legree,  going  out. 

"  In  the  waste-room  of  the  gin-house,"  said  Cassy. 

Legree,  though  he  talked  so  stoutly  to  Cassy,  still  sallied 
forth  from  the  house  with  a  degree  of  misgiving  which  was 
not  common  with  him.  His  dreams  of  the  past  night,  min- 
gled with  Cassy' s  prudential  suggestions,  considerably  affected 
his  mind.  He  resolved  that  nobody  should  be  witness  of  his 
encounter  with  Tom ;  and  determined,  if  he  could  not  subdue 
him  by  bulljnng,  to  defer  his  vengeance,  to  be  wreaked  in  a 
more  convenient  season. 

The  solemn  light  of  dawn  —  the  angelic  glory  of  the  morn- 
ing-star —  had   looked  in  through  the  rude  window  of  the 


228  UNCLE   TOM;S   CABIN  :    OR 


shed  where  Tom  was  lying ;  and,  as  if  descending  on  that 
star-beam,  came  the  solemn  words,  "  I  am  the  root  and 
offspring  of  David,  and  the  bright  and  morning  star."  The 
mysterious  warnings  and  intimations  of  Cassy,  so  far  from 
discouraging  his  soul,  in  the  end  had  roused  it  as  with 
a  heavenly  call.  He  did  not  know  but  that  the  day  of 
his  death  was  dawning  in  the  sky ;  and  his  heart  throbbed 
with  solemn  throes  of  joy  and  desire,  as  he  thought  that 
the  wondrous  all,  of  which  he  had  often  pondered,  —  the 
great  white  throne,  with  its  ever  radiant  rainbow  ;  the  white- 
robed  multitude,  with  voices  as  many  waters;  the  crowns, 
the  palms,  the  harps, —  might  all  break  upon  his  vision  before 
that  sun  should  set  again.  And,  therefore,  without  shudder- 
ing or  trembling,  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  persecutor,  as  he 
drew  near. 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  said  Legree,  with  a  contemptuous  kick, 
"  how  do  you  find  yourself?  Did  n't  I  tell  yer  I  could  lam 
yer  a  thing  or  two  ?  How  do  yer  like  it, —  eh  ?  How  did  yer 
whaling  agree'  with  yer,  Tom  ?  An't  quite  so  crank  as  yo 
was  last  night.  Ye  could  n't  treat  a  poor  sinner,  now,  to  a 
bit  of  a  sermon,  could  ye, —  eh  ?  " 

Tom  answered  nothing.  • 

"  Get  up,  you  beast !  "  said  Legree,  kicking  him  again. 

This  was  a  difficult  matter  for  one  so  bruised  and  faint , 
and,  as  Tom  made  efforts  to  do  so,  Legree  laughed  brutally. 

"What  makes  ye  so  spry,  this  morning,  Tom?  Cotched 
cold,  may  be,  last  night." 

Tom  by  this  time  had  gained  his  feet,  and  was  confronting 
his  master  with  a  steady,  unmoved  front. 

"  The  devil,  you  can  !  "  said  Legree,  looking  him  over. 
" 1  believe  you  have  n't  got  enough  yet     Now,  Tom,  get 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   10WLY.  229 

right  down  on  yer  knees  and  beg  my  pardon,  for  yer  shines 
last  night." 

Tom  did  not  move. 

"  Down,  you  dog !  "  said  Legree,  striking  him  with  his 
riding-whip. 

"  Mas'r  Legree,"  said  Tom,  "  I  can't  do  it.  I  did  only 
what  I  thought  was  right.  I  shall  do  just  so  again,  if  ever 
the  time  comes.  I  never  will  do  a  cruel  thing,  come  what 
may." 

"  Yes,  but  ye  don't  know  what  may  come,  Master  Tom.  Ye 
think  what  you  've  got  is  something.  I  tell  you  't  an't  any- 
thing,—  nothing  't  all.  How  would  ye  like  to  be  tied  to  a  tree, 
and  have  a  slow  fire  lit  up  around  ye  0 —  would  n't  that  be 
pleasant, —  eh,  Tom  1 " 

"Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  "  I  know  ye  can  do  dreadful  things  ■ 
but,"  ■ — he  stretched  himself  upward  and  clasped  his  hands, 
—  "  but,  after  ye  've  killed  the  body,  there  an't  no  more  ye 
can  do.     And  0,  there  's  all  eternity  to  come,  after  that!  " 

Eternity, —  the  word  thrilled  through  the  black  man's 
soul  with  light  and  power,  as  he  spoke ;  it  thrilled  through 
the  sinner's  soul,  too,  like  the  bite  of  a  scorpion.  Legree 
gnashed  on'him  with  his  teeth,  but  rage  kept  him  silent ;  and 
Tom,  like  a  man  disenthralled,  spoke,  in  a  clear  and  cheerful 
voice, 

"  Mas'r  Legree,  as  ye  bought  me,  I  '11  be  a  true  and  faith- 
ful servant  to  ye.  I  '11  give  ye  all  the  work  of  my  hands, 
all  my  time,  all  my  strength  ;  but  my  soul  I  won't  give  up 
to  mortal  man.  I  will  hold  on  to  the  Lord,  and  put  his 
commands  before  all, —  die  or  live  ;  you  may  be  sure  on  't. 
Mas'r  Legree,  I  an't  a  grain  afeard  to  die.  I  'd  as  soon  die 
as  not.  Ye  may  whip  me,  starve  me,  burn  me,—  it  '11  only 
send  me  sooner  where  I  want  to  go." 

vol.  ii.  20 


230  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

"  I  '11  make  ye  give  out,  though,  'fore  I  've  done ! "  said 
Legree,  in  a  rage. 

"  I  shall  have  help"  said  Tom  ;  "  you  '11  never  do  it." 

"Who  the  devil's  going  to  help  you?"  said  Legree, 
scornfully. 

"The  Lord  Almighty,"  said  Tom. 

"D — n  you!  "  said  Legree,  as  with  one  blow  of  his  fist 
he  felled  Tom  to  the  earth. 

A  cold  soft  hand  fell  on  Legree' s,  at  this  moment.  He 
turned, — it  was  Cassy's  ;  but  the  cold  soft  touch  recalled  his 
dream  of  the  night  before,  and,  flashing  through  the  chambers 
of  his  brain,  came  all  the  fearful  images  of  the  night-watches, 
with  a  portion  of  the#iorror  that  accompanied  them. 

"  Will  you  be  a  fool  ?  "  said  Cassy,  in  French.  "  Let  him 
go !  Let  me  alone  to  get  him  fit  to  be  in  the  field  again. 
Is  n't  it  just  as  I  told  you  ?  " 

They  say  the  alligator,  the  rhinoceros,  though  enclosed 
in  bullet-proof  mail,  have  each  a  spot  where  they  are  vul- 
nerable ;  and  fierce,  reckless,  unbelieving  reprobates,  have 
commonly  this  point  in  superstitious  dread. 

Legree  turned  away,  determined  to  let  the  point  go  for  the 
time. 

"Well,  have  it  your  own  way,"  he  said,  doggedly,  to 
Cassy. 

"Hark,  ye!"  he  said  to  Tom;  "I  won't  deal  with  ye 
now,  because  the  business  is  pressing,  and  I  want  all  my 
hands ;  but  I  never  forget.  I  '11  score  it  against  ye,  and 
sometime  I  '11  have  my  pay  out  o'  yer  old  black  hide, —  mind 
ye!" 

Legree  turned,  and  went  out. 

"  There  you  go,"  said  Cassy,  looking  darkly  aftei  him  ; 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  231 

"your  reckoning's  to  come,  yet! — My  poor  fellow,  how 
are  you?  " 

"  The  Lord  God  hath  sent  his  angel,  and  shut  the  lion's 
mouth,  for  this  time,"  said  Tom. 

"For  this  time,  to  be  sure,"  said  Cassy;  "but  now  you've 
got  his  ill  will  upon  you,  to  follow  you  day  in,  clay  out,  hang- 
ing like  a  dog  on  your  throat, —  sucking  your  blood,  bleeding 
away  your  life,  drop  by  drop.     I  know  the  man." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

LIBERTY. 

"No  matter  with  what  solemnities  he  may  have  been  devoted  upon  the 
altar  of  slavery,  the  moment  he  touches  the  sacred  soil  of  Britain,  the  altar 
and  the  God  sink  together  in  the  dust,  and  he  stands  redeemed,  regener- 
ated, and  disenthralled,  by  the  irresistible  genius  of  universal  emancipa- 
tion."—  Cur  ran. 

A  while  we  must  leave  Tom  in  the  hands  of  his  perse- 
cutors, while  we  turn  to  pursue  the  fortunes  of  George  and 
his  wifej  whom  we  left  in  friendly  hands,  in  a  farm-house  on 
the  road-side. 

Tom  Loker  we  left  groaning  and  touzling  in  a  most  immac- 
ulately clean  Quaker  bed,  under  the  motherly  supervision  of 
Aunt  Dorcas,  who  found  him  to  the  full  as  tractable  a  patient 
as  a  sick  bison. 

Imagine  a  tall,  dignified,  spiritual  woman,  whose  clear  mus- 
lin cap  shades  waves  of  silvery  hair,  parted  on  a  broad,  clear 
forehead,  which  overarches  thoughtful  gray  eyes.  A  snowy 
handkerchief  of  lisse  crape  is  folded  neatly  across  her  bosom ; 


232  UNCLE  TOM  S   CABIN  :    OK 


her  glossy  brown  silk  dress  rustles  peacefully,  as  she  glides  up 
and  down  the  chamber. 

"The  devil !  "  says  Tom  Loker,  giving  a  great  throw  to 
the  bed-clothes. 

"  I  must  request  thee,  Thomas,  not  to  use  such  language," 
says  Aunt  Dorcas,  as  she  quietly  rearranged  the  bed. 

"Well,  I  won't,  granny,  if  I  can  help  it,"  says  Tom;  "but 
it  is  enough  to  make  a  fellow  swear,  —  so  cursedly  hot ! " 

Dorcas  removed  a  comforter  from  the  bed,  straightened  the 
clothes  again,  and  tucked  them  in  till  Tom  looked  something 
like  a  chrysalis  ;  remarking,  as  she  did  so, 

"  I  wish,  friend,  thee  would  leave  off  cursing  and  swearing, 
and  think  upon  thy  ways." 

"What  the  devil,"  said  Tom,  "should  I  think  of  them  for? 
Last  thing  ever  /  want  to  think  of — hang  it  all ! "  And  Tom 
flounced  over,  untucking  and  disarranging  everything,  in  a 
manner  frightful  to  behold. 

"  That  fellow  and  gal  are  here,  I  'spose,"  said  he,  sullenly, 
after  a  pause. 

"They  are  so,"  said  Dorcas. 

"  They  'd  better  be  off  up  to  the  lake,"  said  Tom  ;  "the 
quicker  the  better." 

"  Probably  they  will  do  so,"  said  Aunt  Dorcas,  knitting 
peacefully. 

"  And  hark  ye,"  said  Tom  ;  "  we've  got  correspondents  in 
Sandusky,  that  watch  the  boats  for  us.  I  don't  care  if  I  tell, 
now.  I  hope  they  will  get  away,  just  to  spite  Marks, —  the 
cursed  puppy  !  —  d — n  him  !  " 

"  Thomas  ! "  said  Dorcas. 

"I  tell  you,  granny,  if  you  bottle  a  fellow  up  too  tight,  I 
shall  split,"  said  Tom.     "But  about  the  gal,  —  tell  'em  tc 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  233 

dress  her  up  some  way,  so  's  to  alter  her.  Her  description 's 
out  in  Sandusky." 

"We  will  attend  to  that  matter,"  said  Dorcas,  with  char- 
acteristic composure. 

As  we  at  this  place  take  leave  of  Tom  Loker,  we  may  as 
well  say,  that,  having  lain  three  weeks  at  the  Quaker  dwel- 
ling, sick  with  a  rheumatic  fever,  which  set  in,  in  company 
with  his  other  afflictions,  Tom  arose  from  his  bed  a  somewhat 
sadder  and  wiser  man  ;  and,  in  place  of  slave-catching,  betook 
himself  to  life  in  one  of  the  new  settlements,  where  his  talents 
developed  themselves  more  happily  in  trapping  bears,  wolves, 
and  other  inhabitants  of  the  forest,  in  which  he  made  himself 
quite  a  name  in  the  land.  Tom  always  spoke  reverently  of 
the  Quakers.  "Nice  people,"  he  would  say;  "  wanted  to 
convert  me,  but  could  n't  come  it,  exactly.  But,  tell  ye  what, 
stranger,  they  do  fix  up  a  sick  fellow  first  rate, —  no  mistake. 
Make  jist  the  tallest  kind  o'  broth  and  knicknacks." 

As  Tom  had  informed  them  that  their  party  would  be 
looked  for  in  Sandusky,  it  was  thought  prudent  to  divide 
them.  Jim,  with  his  old  mother,  was  forwarded  separately; 
and  a  night  or  two  after,  George  and  Eliza,  with  their  child, 
were  driven  privately  into  Sandusky,  and  lodged  beneath  a 
hospitable  roof,  preparatory  to  taking  their  last  passage  on 
the  lake. 

Their  night  was  now  far  spent,  and  the  morning  star  of 
liberty  rose  fair  before  them.  Liberty  !  —  electric  word  ! 
What  is  it  ?  Is  there  anything  more  in  it  than  a  name  —  a 
rhetorical  flourish  ?  Why,  men  and  women  of  America,  does 
your  heart's  blood  thrill  at  that  word,  for  which  your  fathers 
bled,  and  your  braver  mothers  were  willing  that  their  noblest 
and  best  should  die  1 

Is  there  anything  in  it  glorious  and  dear  for  a  nation,  that 

vol.  II.  20* 


234  uncle  tom's  cabin:  ok, 

is  not  also  glorious  and  clear  for  a  man  1  What  is  freedom  to 
a  nation,  but  freedom  to  the  individuals  in  it  ?  What  is  free- 
dom to  that  young  man,  who  sits  there,  with  his  arms  folded 
over  his  broad  chest,  the  tint  of  African  blood  in  his  cheek, 
its  dark  fires  in  his  eye, — what  is  freedom  to  George  Harris? 
To  your  fathers,  freedom  was  the  right  of  a  nation  to  be  a 
nation.  To  him,  it  is  the  right  of  a  man  to  be  a  man.  and  not 
a  brute  ;  the  right  to  call  the  wife  of  his  bosom  his  wife,  and 
to  protect  her  from  lawless  violence ;  the  right  to  protect 
and  educate  his  child ;  the  right  to  have  a  home  of  his  own,  a 
religion  of  his  own,  a  character  of  his  own,  unsubject  to  the 
will  of  another.  All  these  thoughts  were  rolling  and  seething 
in  George's  breast,  as  he  was  pensively  leaning  his  head  on 
his  hand,  watching  his  wife,  as  she  was  adapting  to  her  slen- 
der and  pretty  form  the  articles  of  man's  attire,  in  which  it 
was  deemed  safest  she  should  make  her  escape. 

"  Now  for  it,"  said  she,  as  she  stood  before  the  glass,  and 
shook  down  her  silky  abundance  of  black  curly  hair.  "I  say, 
George,  it 's  almost  a  pity,  is  n't  it,"  she  said,  as  she  held  up 
some  of  it,  playfully,  —  "  pity  it 's  all  got  to  come  off?" 

George  smiled  sadly,  and  made  no  answer. 

Eliza  turned  to  the  glass,  and  the  scissors  glittered  as  one 
long  lock  after  another  was  detached  from  her  head. 

"There,  now,  that'll  do,"  she  said,  taking  up  a  hair-brush; 
"  now  for  a  few  fancy  touches." 

"  There,  an't  I  a  pretty  young  fellow  1 "  she  said,  turning 
around  to  her  husband,  laughing  and  blushing  at  the  same 
time. 

"You  always  will  be  pretty,  do  what  you  will,"  said 
George. 

"  What  does  make  you  so  sober  ?"  said  Eliza,  kneeling  on 
one  knee,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his.     tl  We  are  only  with- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  235 

m.  twenty-four  hours  of  Canada,  they  say.  Only  a  day  and 
a  night  on  the  lake,  and  then  —  oh,  then  !  — " 

"  0,  Eliza  !  "  said  George,  drawing  her  towards  him ; 
"  that  is  it !  Now  my  fate  is  all  narrowing  down  to  a  point. 
To  come  so  near,  to  be  almost  in  sight,  and  then  lose  all.  I 
should  never  live  under  it,  Eliza." 

''Don't  fear,"  said  his  wife,  hopefully.  "The  good  Lord 
would  not  have  brought  us  so  far,  if  he  did  n't  mean  to  earry 
us  through.     I  seem  to  feel  him  with  us,  George." 

"  You  are  a  blessed  woman,  Eliza  !  "  said  George,  clasping 
her  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  "  But, —  oh,  tell  me  !  can  this 
great  mercy  be  for  us  ?  Will  these  years  and  years  of  misery 
come  to  an  end  1  —  shall  we  be  free  7  " 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  George,"  said  Eliza,  looking  upward, 
while  tears  of  hope  and  enthusiasm  shone  on  her  long,  dark 
lashes.  "  I  feel  it  in  me,  that  God  is  going  to  bring  us  out 
of  bondage,  this  very  day." 

"I  will  believe  you,  Eliza,"  said  George,  rising  suddenly 
up.  " I  will  believe, —  come,  let's  be  off.  Well,  indeed," 
said  he,  holding  her  off  at  arm's  length,  and  looking  admir- 
ingly at  her,  "you  are  a  pretty  little  fellow.  That  crop  of 
little,  short  curls,  is  quite  becoming.  Put  on  your  cap.  So 
—  a  little  to  one  side.  I  never  saw  you  look  quite  so  pretty. 
But,  it 's  almost  time  for  the  carriage ;  —  I  wonder  if  Mrs. 
Smyth  has  got  Harry  rigged  ]  " 

The  door  opened,  and  a  respectable,  middle-aged  woman 
entered,  leading  little  Harry,  dressed  in  girl's  clothes. 

"What  a  pretty  girl  he  makes,"  said  Eliza,  turning  him 
round.  "We  call  him  Harriet,  you  see; — don't  the  name 
come  nicely?" 

The  child  stood  gravely  regarding .  his  mother  in  her  new 
and  strange  attire,  observing  a  profound  silence,  and  occa- 


236  uncle  tom's  cabin:  or, 


sionally  drawing  deep  sighs,  and  peeping  at  her  from  under 
his  dark  curls. 

"  Does  Harry  know  mamma  ?  "  said  Eliza,  stretching  her 
hands  toward  him. 

The  child  clung  shyly  to  the  woman. 

"  Come,  Eliza,  why  do  you  try  to  coax  him,  when  you 
know  that  he  has  got  to  be  kept  away  from  you  1 " 

"J  know  it's  foolish,"  said  Eliza;  "yet,  I  can't  hear  to 
have  him  turn  away  from  me.  But  come,  —  where  's  my 
cloak  1     Here,  — how  is  it  men  put  on  cloaks,  George  ?  " 

"  You  must  wear  it  so,"  said  her  husband,  throwing  it  over 
his  shoulders. 

"So,  then,"  said  Eliza,  imitating  the  motion,  —  "and  I 
must  stamp,  and  take  long  steps, t  and  try  to  look  saucy." 

"Don't  exert  yourself,"  said  George.  "  There  is,  now  and 
then,  a  modest  young  man;  and  I  think  it  would  be  easier  for 
you  to  act  that  character." 

"  And  these  gloves  !  mercy  upon  us  ! "  said  Eliza ;  "  why, 
my  hands  are  lost  in  them." 

"I  advise  you  to  keep  them  on  pretty  strictly,"  said 
George.  "Your  little  slender  paw  might  bring  us  all  out. 
Now,  Mrs.  Smyth,  you  are  to  go  under  our  chaijge,  and  be 
our  aunty, —  you  mind." 

"I've  heard,"  said  Mrs.  Smyth,  "that  there  have  been 
men  down,  warning  all  the  packet  captains  against  a  man  and 
woman,  with  a  little  boy." 

"  They  have  !"  said  George.  "  Well,  if  we  see  any  such 
people,  we  can  tell  them." 

A  hack  now  drove  to  the  door,  and  the  friendly  family  who 
had  received  the  fugitives  crowded  around  them  with  farewell 
greetings. 

The  disguises  the  party  had  assumed  were  in  accordance 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  23T 

with  the  hints  of  Tom  Loker.  Mrs.  Smyth,  a  respectable 
woman  from  the  settlement  in  Canada,  whither  they  were 
fleeing,  being  fortunately  about  crossing  the  lake  to  return 
thither,  had  consented  to  appear  as  the  aunt  of  little  Harry ; 
and,  in  order  to  attach  him  to  her,  he  had  been  allowed  to 
remain,  the  two  last  days,  under  her  sole  charge;  and  an  extra 
amount  of  petting,  joined  to  an  indefinite  amount  of  seed- 
cakes and  candy,  had  cemented  a  very  close  attachment  on 
the  part  of  the  young  gentleman. 

The  hack  drove  to  the  wharf.  The  two  young  men,  as 
they  appeared,  walked  up  the  plank  into  the  boat,  Eliza 
gallantly  giving  her  arm  to  Mrs.  Smyth,  and  George  attend- 
ing to  their  baggage. 

George  was  standing  at  the  captain's  office,  settling  for  hi3 
party,  when  he  overheard  two  men  talking  by  his  side. 

"  I  've  watched  every  one  that  came  on  board,"  said  one, 
11  and  I  know  they  're  not  on  this  boat." 

The  voice  was  that  of  the  clerk  of  the  boat.  The  speaker 
whom  he  addressed  was  our  sometime  friend  Marks,  who, 
with  that  valuable  perseverance  which  characterized  him,  had 
come  on  to  Sandusky,  seeking  whom  he  might  devour. 

"  You  -would  scarcely  know  the  woman  from  a  white  one," 
said  Marks.  "  The  man  is  a  very  light  mulatto  ;  he  has  a 
brand  in  one  of  his  hands." 

The  hand  with  which  George  was  taking  the  tickets  and 
change  trembled  a  little ;  but  he  turned  coolly  around,  fixed 
an  unconcerned  glance  on  the  face  of  the  speaker,  and  walked 
leisurely  toward  another  part  of  the  boat,  where  Eliza  stood 
waiting  for  him. 

Mrs.  Smyth,  with  little  Harry,  sought  the  seclusion  of  the 
ladies'  cabin,  where  the  dark  beauty  of  the  supposed  little 
girl  drew  many  flattering  comments  from  the  passengers. 


23B  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

George  had  the  satisfaction,  as  the  bell  rang  out  its  fare- 
well peal,  to  sep  Marks  walk  down  the  plank  to  the  shore , 
and  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  when  the  boat  had  put  a 
returnless  distance  between  them. 

It  was  a  superb  day.  The. blue  waves  of  Lake  Erie  danced, 
rippling  and  sparkling,  in  the  sun-light.  A  fresh  breeze  blew 
from  the  shore,  and  tho  lordly  boat  ploughed  her  way  right 
gallantly  onward. 

0,  what  an  untold  world  there  is  in  one  human  heart ! 
Who  thought,  as  George  walked  calmly  up  and  down  the 
deck  of  the  steamer,  with  his  shy  companion  at  his  side,  of 
all  that  was  burning  in  his  bosom  ?  The  mighty  good  that 
seemed  approaching  seemed  too  good,  too  fair,  even  to  be  a 
reality ;  and  he  felt  a  jealous  dread,  every  moment  of  the  day, 
that  something  would  rise  to  snatch  it  from  him. 

But  the  boat  swept  on.  Hours  fleeted,  and,  at  last,  clear 
and  full  rose  the  blessed  English  shores ;  shores  charmed  by 
a  mighty  spell, — with  one  touch  to  dissolve  every  incantation 
of  slavery,  no  matter  in  what  language  pronounced,  or  by 
what  national  power  confirmed. 

George  and  his  wife  stood  arm  in  arm,  as  the  boat  neared 
the  small  town  of  Amherstberg,  in  Canada.  His  breath  grew 
thick  and  short ;  a  mist  gathered  before  his  eyes ;  he  silently 
pressed  the  little  hand  that  lay  trembling  on  his  arm.  The 
bell  rang ;  the  boat  stopped.  Scarcely  seeing  what  he  did,  he 
looked  out  his  baggage,  and  gathered  his  little  party.  The 
little  company  were  landed  on  the  shore.  They  stood  still 
till  the  boat  had  cleared ;  and  then,  with  tears  and  embracings, 
the  husband  and  wife,  with  their  wondering  child  in  their 
arms,  knelt  down  and  lifted  up  their  hearts  to  God ! 


I 


LIIB   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  239 


"  'T  was  something  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life* 
From  the  grave's  cerements  to  the  robes  of  heaven; 
From  sin's  dominion,  and  from  passion's  strife, 
To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven ; 
"Where  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven, 
And  mortal  puts  on  immortality, 
When  Mercy's  hand  hath  turned  the  golden  key, 
And  Mercy's  voice  hath  said,  Rejoice,  thy  soul  is  free." 

The  little  party  were  soon  guided,  by  Mrs.  Smyth,  to  the 
.h/spitable  abode  of  a  good  missionary,  whom  Christian  charity 
las  placed  here  as  a  shepherd  to  the  out-cast  and  wandering; 
jyho  are  constantly  finding  an  asylum  on  this  shore. 

Who  can  speak  the  blessedness  of  that  first  day  of  freedom? 
Is  ot  the  sense  of  liberty  a  higher  and  a  finer  one  than  any 
Df  the  five  ?  To  move,  speak  and  breathe, — go  out  and  come 
in  unwatched,  and  free  from  danger  !  Who  can  speak  the 
blessings  of  that  rest  which  comes  down  on  the  free  man's 
pillow,  under  laws  which  insure  to  him  the  rights  that  God 
has  given  to  man  7  How  fair  and  precious  to  that  mother 
was  that  sleeping  child's  face,  endeared  by  the  memory  of  a 
thousand  dangers  !  How  impossible  was  it  to  sleep,  in  the 
exuberant  possession  of  such  blessedness  !  And  yet,  these 
two  had  not  one  acre  of  ground, —  not  a  roof  that  they  could 
call  their  own, —  they  had  spent  their  all,  to  the  last  dollar. 
They  had  nothing  more  than  the  birds  of  the  air,  or  the  flow- 
ers of  the  field, —  yet  they  could  not  sleep  for  joy.  "  0,  yo 
who  take  freedom  from  man,  with  what  words  shall  ye  answer 
it  to  God?" 


240  uncle  tom's  cabin:  ok, 


CHAPTER  XXXVILL 

THE    VICTORY. 

<e  Thanks  be  unto  God,  who  giveth  us  the  victory." 

Have  not  many  of  us,  in  the  weary  way  of  life,  felt,  in 
some  hours,  how  far  easier  it  were  to  die  than  to  live  ? 

The  martyr,  when  faced  even  by  a  death  of  bodily  anguish 
and  horror,  finds  in  the  very  terror  of  his  doom  a  strong  stim- 
ulant and  tonic.  There  is  a  vivid  excitement,  a  thrill  and 
fervor,  which  may  carry  through  any  crisis  of  suffering  that 
is  the  birth-hour  of  eternal  glory  and  rest. 

But  to  live, —  to  wear  on,  day  after  day,  of  mean,  bitter, 
low,  harassing  servitude,  every  nerve  dampened  and  depressed, 
every  power  of  feeling  gradually  smothered, —  this  long  and 
wasting  heart-martyrdom,  this  slow,  daily  bleeding  away  of 
the  inward  life,  drop  by  drop,  hour  after  hour, —  this  is  the 
true  searching  test  of  what  there  may  be  in  man  or  woman. 

When  Tom  stood  face  to  face  with  his  persecutor,  and  heard 
his  threats,  and  thought  in  his  very  soul  that  his  hour  was 
come,  his  heart  swelled  bravely  in  him,  and  he  thought  he 
could  bear  torture  and  fire,  bear  anything,  with  the  vision  of 
Jesus  and  heaven  but  just  a  step  beyond;  but,  when  he  was 
gone,  and  the  present  excitement  passed  off,  came  back  the 
pain  of  his  bruised  and  weary  limbs, —  came  back  the  sense  of 
his  utterly  degraded,  hopeless,  forlorn  estate;  and  the  day 
passed  wearily  enough. 

Long  before  his  wounds  were  healed,  Legrec  insisted  that 
he  should  be  put  to  the  regular  field-work ;  and  then  came 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  241 

day  after  day  of  pain  and  weariness,  aggravated  by  every  kind 
of  injustice  and  indignity  that  the  ill-will  of  a  mean  and  ma- 
licious mind  could  devise.  Whoever,  in  our  circumstances, 
has  made  trial  of  pain,  even  with  all  the  alleviations  which, 
for  us,  usually  attend  it,  must  know  the  irritation  that  comes 
with  it.  Tom  no  longer  wondered  at  the  habitual  surliness 
of  his  associates ;  nay,  he  found  the  placid,  sunny  temper, 
which  had  been  the  habitude  of  his  life,  broken  in  on,  and 
sorely  strained,  by  the  inroads  of  the  same  thing.  He 
had  flattered  himself  on  leisure  to  read  his  Bible ;  but  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  leisure  there.  In  the  height  of  the 
season,  Legree  did  not  hesitate  to  press  all  his  hands  through, 
Sundays  and  week-days  alike.  Why  should  n't  he ?  —  he  made 
more  cotton  by  it,  and  gained  his  wager ;  and  if  it  wore  out  a 
few  more  hands,  he  could  buy  better  ones.  At  first,  Tom 
used  to  read  a  verse  or  two  of  his  Bible,  by  the  flicker  of  the 
fire,  after  he  had  returned  from  his  daily  toil ;  but,  after  the 
cruel  treatment  he  received,  he  used  to  come  home  so 
exhausted,  that  his  head  swam  and  his  eyes  failed  when  he 
tried  to  read;  and  he  was  fain  to  stretch  himself  down,  with 
the  others,  in  utter  exhaustion. 

Is  it  strange  that  the  religious  peace  and  trust,  which  had 
upborne  him  hitherto,  should  give  way  to  tossings  of  soul  and 
despondent  darkness  1  The  gloomiest  problem  of  this  myste- 
rious life  was  constantly  before  his  eyes, —  souls  crushed  and 
ruined,  evil  triumphant,  and  God  silent.  It  was  weeks  and 
months  that  Tom  wrestled,  in  his  own  soul,  in  darkness  and 
sorrow.  He  thought  of  Miss  Ophelia's  letter  to  his  Kentucky 
friends,  and  would  pray  earnestly  that  God  would  send  him 
deliverance.  And  then  h§  would  watch,  day  after  day,  in  the 
vague  hope  of  seeing  somebody  sent  to  redeem  him ;  and, 
when  nobody  came,  he  would  crush  back  to  his  soul  bitter 

VOL.   II.  21 


242  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

thoughts, —  that  it  was  vain  to  serve  God,  that  God  had  for- 
gotten him.  He  sometimes  saw  Cassy ;  and  sometimes,  when 
summoned  to  the  house,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  dejected  form 
of  Emmeline,  but  held  very  little  communion  with  either ;  in 
fact,  there  was  no  time  for  him  to  commune  with  anybody. 

One  evening,  he  was  sitting,  in  utter  dejection  and  prostra- 
tion, by  a  few  decaying  brands,  where  his  coarse  supper  was 
baking.  He  put  a  few  bits  of  brushwood  on  the  fire,  and 
strove  to  raise  the  light,  and  then  drew  his  worn  Bible  from 
his  pocket.  There  were  all  the  marked  passages,  which  had 
thrilled  his  soul  so  often, —  words  of  patriarchs  and  seers, 
poets  and  sages,  who  from  early  time  had  spoken  courage  to 
man, —  voices  from  the  great  cloud  of  witnesses  who  ever  sur- 
round us  in  the  race  of  life.  Had  the  word  lost  its  power, 
or  could  the  failing  eye  and  weary  sense  no  longer  answer  to 
the  touch  of  that  mighty  inspiration  ?  Heavily  sighing,  he 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  A  coarse  laugh  roused  him  ;  he  looked 
up, — Legree  was  standing  opposite  to  him. 

"Well,  old  boy,"  he  said,  "you  find  your  religion  don't 
work,  it  seems !  I  thought  I  should  get  that  through  your 
wool,  at  last!" 

The  cruel  taunt  was  more  than  hunger  and  cold  and  naked- 
ness.    Tom  was  silent. 

"  You  were  a  fool,"  said  Legree ;  "  for  I  meant  to  do  well 
by  you,  when  I  bought  you.  You  might  have  been  better  off 
than  Sambo,  or  Quimbo  either,  and  had  easy  times;  and, 
instead  of  getting  cut  up  and  thrashed,  every  day  or  two,  ye 
might  have  had  liberty  to  lord  it  round,  and  cut  up  the  other 
niggers ;  and  ye  might  have  had,  now  and  then,  a  good  warm- 
ing of  whiskey  punch.  Come,  Tom,  don't  you  think  you  'd 
better  be  reasonable  ?  —  heave  that  ar  old  pack  of  trash  in  the 
fire,  and  join  my  church  ! " 


LIFE   AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  243 

"The  Lord  forbid  !"  said  Tom,  fervently. 

"You  see  the  Lord  an't  going  to  help  you;  if  he  had 
been,  he  wouldn't  have  let  me  get  you  !  This  yer  religion 
is  all  a  mess  of  lying  trumpery,  Tom.  I  know  all  about  it. 
Ye  'd  better  hold  to  me ;  I  'm  somebody,  and  can  do  some- 
thing !  " 

"No,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom;  "I'll  hold  on.  The  Lord  may 
help  me,  or  not  help ;  but  I  '11  hold  to  him,  and  believe  him 
to  the  last !  " 

"  The  more  fool  you  !"  said  Legree,  spitting  scornfully  at 
him,  and  spurning  him  with  his  foot.  "Never  mind;  I'll 
chase  you  down,  yet,  and  bring  you  under, —  you'll  see!" 
and  Legree  turned  away. 

When  a  heavy  weight  presses  the  soul  to  the  lowest  level  at 
which  endurance  is  possible,  there  is  an  instant  and  desperate 
effort  of  every  physical  and  moral  nerve  to  throw  off  the 
weight ;  and  hence  the  heaviest  anguish  often  precedes  a 
return  tide  of  joy  and  courage.  So  was  it  now  with  Tom. 
The  atheistic  taunts  of  his  cruel  master  sunk  his  before 
dejected  soul  to  the  lowest  ebb  ;  and,  though  the  hand  of  faith 
still  held  to  the  eternal  rock,  it  was  with  a  numb,  despairing 
grasp.  Tom  sat,  like  one  stunned,  at  the  fire.  Suddenly 
everything  around  him  seemed  to  fade,  and  a  vision  rose  before 
him  of  one  crowned  with  thorns,  buffeted  and  bleeding.  Tom 
gazed,  in  awe  and  wonder,  at  the  majestic  patience  of  the  face ; 
the  deep,  pathetic  eyes  thrilled  him  to  his  inmost  heart ;  his 
soul  woke,  as,  with  floods  of  emotion,  he  stretched  out  his 
hands  and  fell  upon  his  knees, —  when,  gradually,  the  vision 
changed :  the  sharp  thorns  became  rays  of  glory ;  and,  in 
splendor  inconceivable,  he«saw  that  same  face  bending  com- 
passionately towards  him,  and  a  voice  said,  "  He  that  over- 


244  uncle  tom's  cabin  :  or, 

cometh  shall  sit  down  with  me  on  my  throne,  even  as  I  alsc 
overcame,  and  am  set  down  with  mj  Father  on  his  throne." 

How  long  Tom  lay  there,  he  knew  not.  When  he  came  to 
himself,  the  fire  was  gone  out,  his  clothes  were  wet  with  the 
chill  and  drenching  dews ;  but  the  dread  soul-crisis  wTas  past, 
and,  in  the  joy  that  filled  him,  he  no  longer  felt  hunger,  cold, 
degradation,  disappointment,  wretchedness.  From  his  deep- 
est goul,  he  that  hour  loosed  and  parted  from  every  hope  in 
the  life  that  now  is,  and  offered  his  own  will  an  unquestioning 
sacrifice  to  the  Infinite.  Tom  looked  up  to  the  silent,  ever- 
living  stars, —  types  of  the  angelic  hosts  who  ever  look  down 
on  man ;  and  the  solitude  of  the  night  rung  with  the 
triumphant  words  of  a  hymn,  which  he  had  sung  often  in 
happier  days,  but  never  with  such  feeling  as  now : 

"  The  earth  shall  be  dissolved  like  snow, 
The  sun  shall  cease  to  shine  ; 
But  God,  who  called  me  here  below, 
Shall  be  forever  mine. 

■'  And  when  this  mortal  life  shall  fail, 
And  flesh  and  sense  shall  cease, 
I  shall  possess  within  the  veil 
A  life  of  joy  and  peace. 

"  When  we  've  been  there  ten  thousand  years, 
Bright  shining  like  the  sun, 
We  've  no  less  days  to  sing  God's  praise 
Than  when  we  first  begun." 

Those  who  have  been  familiar  with  the  religious  histories 
of  the  slave  population  know  that  relations  like  what  we 
have  narrated  are  very  common  among  them.  We  have 
heard  some  from  their  own  lips,  of  a  very  touching  and 
affecting  character.  The  psychologist  tells  us  of  a  state,  in 
which   the  affections   and   images  of  the   mind  become  so 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  245 

dominant  and  overpowering,  that  they  press  into  their  service 
the  outward  senses,  and  make  them  give  tangible  shape  to 
the  inward  imagining.  Who  shall  measure  what  an  all-per- 
vading Spirit  may  do  with  %ese  capabilities  of  our  mortality, 
or  the  ways  in  which  He  may  encourage  the  desponding 
souls  of  the  desolate?  If  the  poor  forgotten  slave  believes 
that  Jesus  hath  appeared  and  spoken  to  him,  who  shall  con- 
tradict him  ?  Did  He  not  say  that  his  mission,  in  all  ages, 
was  to  bind  up  the  broken-hearted,  and  set  at  liberty  them 
that  are  bruised  ? 

When  the  dim  gray  of  dawn  woke  the  slumberers  to  go 
forth  to  the  field,  there  was  among  those  tattered  and 
shivering  wretches  one  who  walked  with  an  exultant  tread ; 
for  firmer  than  the  ground  he  trod  on  was  his  strong  faith  in 
Almighty,  eternal  love.  Ah,  Legree,  try  all  your  forces 
now  i  Utmost  agony,  woe,  degradation,  want,  and  loss  of  all 
things,  shall  only  hasten  on  the  process  by  which  he  shall  be 
made  a  king  and  a  priest  unto  God  ! 

From  this  time,  an  inviolable  sphere  of  peace  encompassed 
the  lowly  heart  of  the  oppressed  one, —  an  ever-present 
Saviour  hallowed  it  as  a  temple.  Past  now  the  bleeding  of 
earthly  regrets ;  pu^x  its  fluctuations  of  hope,  and  fear,  and 
desire ;  the  human  will,  bent,  and  bleeding,  and  struggling 
long,  was  now  entirely  merged  in  the  Divine.  So  short  now 
seemed  the  remaining  voyage  of  life, —  so  near,  so  vivid, 
seemed  eternal  blessedness, —  that  life's  uttermost  woes  fell 
from  him  unharming. 

All  noticed  the  change  in  his  appearance.  Cheerfulness 
find  alertness  seemed  to  return  to  him,  and  a  quietness  which 
no  insult  or  injury  could  ruffle  seemed  to  possess  him. 

"  What  the  devil 's  got  into  Tom? "  Legree  said  to  Sambo. 

VOL.  II.  21* 


246  uncle  tom's  cabin  :  or, 

"  A  while  ago  lie  was  all  down  in  the  mouth,  and  now  he  's 
peart  as  a  cricket." 

"  Dunno,  Mas'r ;  gwine  to  run  off,  mebbe." 

"Like  to  see  him  try  that,"  said  Legree,  with  a  savage 
grin,  "  would  n't  we,  Sambo  ?  " 

"Guess  we  would!  Haw!  haw!  ho!"  said  the  sooty 
gnome,  laughing  obsequiously.  "  Lord,  de  fun!  To  see 
him  stickin'  in  de  mud, —  chasin'  and  tarin'  through  de  bushes, 
dogs  a  holdin'  on  to  him !  Lord,  I  laughed  fit  to  split,  dat 
ar  time  we  cotched  Molly.  I  thought  they  'd  a  had  her  all 
stripped  up  afore  I  could  get  'em  off.  She  car's  de  marks 
o'  dat  ar  spree  yet." 

"  I  reckon  she  will,  to  her  grave,"  said  Legree.  "  But 
now,  Sambo,  you  look  sharp.  If  the  nigger 's  got  anything 
of  this  sort  going,  trip  him  up." 

"  Mas'r,  let  me  lone  for  dat,"  said  Sambo.  "  I  '11  tree  de 
coon.     Ho,  ho,  ho  !  " 

This  was  spoken  as  Legree  was  getting  on  to  his  horse,  to 
go  to  the  neighboring  town.  That  night,  as  he  was  return- 
ing, he  thought  he  would  turn  his  horse  and  ride  round  the 
quarters,  and  see  if  all  was  safe. 

It  was  a  superb  moonlight  night,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
graceful  China  trees  lay  minutely  pencilled  on  the  turf  below, 
and  there  was  that  transparent  stillness  in  the  air  which  it 
seems  almost  unholy  to  disturb.  Legree  was  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  quarters,  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  some 
one  singing.  It  was  not  a  usual  sound  there,  and  he  paused 
to  listen.     A  musical  tenor  voice  sang, 

"  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear 
To  mansions  in  the  skies, 
I  '11  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 
And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  247 

"  Should  earth  against  ray  soul  engage, 
And  hellish  darts  be  hurled, 
Then  I  can  smile  at  Satan's  rage, 
And  face  a  frowning  world. 

"  Let  cares  like  a  wild  deluge  come, 
And  storms  of  sorrow  fall, 
May  I  but  safely  reach  my  home, 
My  God,  my  Heaven,  my  All." 

"  So  ho  ! "  said  Legree  to  himself,  "  he  thinks  so,  does  he  ? 
How  I  hate  these  cursed  Methodist  hymns  !  Here,  you 
nigger,"  said  he,  coming  suddenly  out  upon  Tom,  and  raising 
his  riding-whip,  "  how  dare  you  be  gettin'  up  this  yer  row, 
when  you  ought  to  be  in  bed  ?  Shut  yer  old  black  gash,  and 
get  along  in  with  you  !  " 

"  Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  with  ready  cheerfulness,  as  he 
rose  to  go  in. 

Legree  was  provoked  beyond  measure  by  Tom's  evident 
happiness ;  and,  riding  up  to  him,  belabored  him  ovei  his 
head  and  shoulders. 

"  There,  you  dog,"  he  said,  "  see  if  you  '11  feel  so  comfort- 
able, after  that !  " 

But  the  blows  fell  now  only  on  the  outer  man,  and  not,  as 
before,  on  the  heart.  Tom  stood  perfectly  submissive;  and 
yet  Legree  could  not  hide  from  himself  that  his  power  ovei 
his  bond  thrall  was  somehow  gone.  And,  as  Tom  disap- 
peared in  his  cabin,  and  he  wheeled  his  horse  suddenly 
round,  there  passed  through  his  mind  one  of  those  vivid 
flashes  that  often  send  the  lightning  of.  conscience  across  the 
dark  and  wicked  soul.  He  understood  full  well  that  it  was 
God  who  was  standing  between  him  and  his  victim,  and  he 
blasphemed  him.  That  submissive  and  silent  man,  whom 
taunts,  nor  threats,  nor  stripes,  nor  cruelties,  could  disturb, 


248  UNCLE  tom's  cabin:  or, 


roused  a  voice  within  him,  such  as  of  old  his  Master  roused  in 
the  demoniac  soul,  saying,  "  What  have  we  to  do  with  thee, 
thou  Jesus  of  Nazareth  ?  —  art  thou  come  to  torment  us  before 
the  time  ?  " 

Tom's  whole  soul  overflowed  with  compassion  and  sympathy 
for  the  poor  wretches  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  To  him  it 
seemed  as  if  his  life-sorrows  were  now  over,  and  as  if,  out  of 
that  strange  treasury  of  peace  and  joy,  with  which  he  had 
been  endowed  from  above,  he  longed  to  pour  out  something 
for  the  relief  of  their  woes.  It  is  true,  opportunities  were 
scanty;  but,  on  the  way  to  the  fields,  and  back  again,  and 
during  the  hours  of  labor,  chances  fell  in  his  way  of  extending 
a  helping-hand  to  the  weary,  the  disheartened  and  discour- 
aged. The  poor,  worn-down,  brutalized  creatures,  at  first, 
could  scarce  comprehend  this ;  but,  when  it  was  continued 
week  after  week,  and  month  after  month,  it  began  to  awaken 
long-silent  chords  in  their  benumbed  hearts.  Gradually  and 
imperceptibly  the  strange,  silent,  patient  man,  who  was  ready 
to  bear  every  one's  burden,  and  sought  help  from  none, —  who 
stood  aside  for  all,  and  came  last,  and  took  least,  yet  was 
foremost  to  share  his  little  all  with  any  who  needed, —  the 
man  who,  in  cold  nights,  would  give  up  his  tattered  blanket 
to  add  to  the  comfort  of  some  woman  who  shivered  with  sick- 
ness, and  who  filled  the  baskets  of  the  weaker  ones  in  the 
field,  at  the  terrible  risk  of  coming  short  in  his  own  measure, 
—  and  who,  though  pursued  with  unrelenting  cruelty  by  their 
common  tyrant,  never  joined  in  uttering  a  word  of  reviling  or 
cursing, —  this  man,  at  last,  began  to  have  a  strange  power 
over  them ;  and,  when  the  more  pressing  season  was  past,  and 
they  were  allowed  again  their  Sundays  for  their  own  use, 
many  would  gather  together  to  hear  from  him  of  Jesus.  They 
would  gladly  have  met  to  hear,  and  pray,  and  sing,  in  some 


LIFE    AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  249 

place,  together;  bin  Legree  would  not  permit  it,  and  more 
than  once  broke  up  such  attempts,  with  oaths  and  brutal  exe- 
crations,—  so  that  the  blessed  news  had  to  circulate  from  indi- 
vidual to  individual.  Yet  who  can  speak  the  simple  joy  with 
which  some  of  those  poor  outcasts,  to  whom  life  was  a  joyless 
journey  to  a  dark  unknown,  heard  of  a  compassionate  Re- 
deemer and  a  heavenly  home  ?  It  is  the  statement  of  mis- 
sionaries, that,  of  all  races  of  the  earth,  none  have  received 
the  Gospel  with  such  eager  docility  as  the  African.  The 
principle  of  reliance  and  unquestioning  faith,  which  is  its 
foundation,  is  more  a  native  element  in  this  race  than  any 
other ;  and  it  has  often  been  found  among  them,  that  a  stray 
seed  of  truth,  borne  on  some  breeze  of  accident  into  hearts  the 
most  ignorant,  has  sprung  up  into  fruit,  whose  abundance  has 
shamed  that  of  higher  and  more  skilful  culture. 

The  poor  mulatto  woman,  whose  simple  faith  had  been 
well-nigh  crushed  and  overwhelmed,  by  the  avalanche  of 
cruelty  and  wrong  which  had  fallen  upon  her,  felt  her  soul 
raised  up  by  the  hymns  and  passages  of  Holy  Writ,  which 
y„his  lowly  missionary  breathed  into  her  ear  in  intervals,  as 
they  were  going  to  and  returning  from  work  ;  and  even  the 
half-crazed  and  wandering  mind  of  Cassy  was  soothed  and 
calmed  by  his  simple  and  unobtrusive  influences. 

Stung  to  madness  and  despair  by  the  crushing  agonies  of  a 
life,  Cassy  had  often  resolved  in  her  soul  an  hour  of  retribu  - 
tion,  when  her  hand  should  avenge  on  her  oppressor  all  the 
injustice  and  cruelty  to  which  she  had  been  witness,  or  which 
she  had  in  her  own  person  suffered. 

One  night,  after  all  in  Tom's  cabin  were  sunk  in  sleep,  he 
was  suddenly  aroused  by  seeing  her  face  at  the  hole  between 
the  logs,  that  served  for  a  window.  She  made  a  silent  gesture 
for  him  to  come  out. 


250  uncle  tom's  cabin:  or, 


Tom  came  out  the  door.  It  was  between  one  and  two 
o'clock  at  night, —  broad,  calm,  still  moonlight.  Tom  re- 
marked, as  the  light  of  the  moon  fell  upon  Cassy's  large, 
black  eyes,  that  there  was  a  wild  and  peculiar  glare  in  them, 
unlike  their  wonted  fixed  despair. 

"  Come  here,  Father  Tom,"  she  said,  laying  her  small 
hand  on  his  wrist,  and  drawing  him  forward  with  a  force  as  if 
the  hand  were  of  steel ;   "  come  here, —  I  've  news  for  you." 

"What,  Misse  Cassy?"  said  Tom,  anxiously. 

"  Tom,  would  n't  you  like  your  liberty  ?" 

"  I  shall  have  it,  Misse,  in  God's  time,"  said  Tom. 

"Ay,  but  you  may  have  it  to-night,"  said  Cassy,  with  a 
flash  of  sudden  energy.     "  Come  on." 

Tom  hesitated. 

"  Come  ! "  said  she,  in  a  whisper,  fixing  her  black  eyes  on 
him.  "  Come  along  !  He 's  asleep  —  sound.  I  put  enough 
into  his  brandy  to  keep  him  so.  I  wish  I  'd  had  more, —  I 
should  n't  have  wanted  you.  But  come,  the  back  door  is 
unlocked;  there's  an  axe  there,  I  put  it  there, —  his  room 
door  is  open ;  I  '11  show  you  the  way.  I'da  done  it  myself, 
only  my  arms  are  so  weak.     Come  along  ! " 

"  Not  for  ten  thousand  worlds,  Misse  ! "  said  Tom,  firmly, 
stopping  and  holding  her  back,  as  she  was  pressing  forward. 

"But  think  of  all  these  poor  creatures,"  said  Cassy.  "We 
might  set  them  all  free,  and  go  somewhere  in  the  swamps,  and 
find  an  island,  and  live  by  ourselves  ;  I  've  heard  of  its  being 
done.     Any  life  is  better  than  this." 

"No!"  said  Tom,  firmly.  "  No  !  good  never  comes  of 
wickedness.     I  'd  sooner  chop  my  right  hand  off!  " 

"  Then  /shall  do  it,"  said  Cassy,  turning. 

"0,  Misse  Cassy!"  said  Tom,  throwing  himself  before 
her,  "for  the  dear  Lord's  sake  that  died  for  ye,  don't  sell 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  251 

your  precious  soul  to  the  devil,  that  way  !  Nothing  but  evil 
will  come  of  it.  The  Lord  has  n't  called  us  to  wrath.  We 
must  suffer,  and  wait  his  time." 

"  Wait ! "  said  Cassy.  "  Have  n't  I  waited  ?  —  waited  till 
my  head  is  dizzy  and  my  heart  sick  ?  What  has  he  made  me 
suffer  ?  What  has  he  made  hundreds  of  poor  creatures  suf- 
fer ?  Is  n't  he  wringing  the  life-blood  out  of  you  ?  I  'm 
called  on  ;  they  call  me  !  His  time  's  come,  and  I  '11  have 
his  heart's  blood  !" 

"No,  no,  no  !"  said  Tom,  holding  her  small  hands,  which 
were  clenched  with  spasmodic  violence.  "No,  ye  poor,  lost 
soul,  that  ye  must  n't  do.  The  dear,  blessed  Lord  never  shed 
no  blood  but  his  own,  and  that  he  poured  out  for  us  when  we 
was  enemies.  Lord,  help  us  to  follow  his  steps,  and  love  our 
enemies." 

"Love  ! "  said  Cassy,  with  a  fierce  glare ;  "love  such  ene- 
mies !     It  is  n't  in  flesh  and  blood." 

"No,  Misse,  it  isn't,"  said  Tom,  looking  up;  "butiJe 
gives  it  to  us,  and  that 's  the  victory.  When  we  can  love 
and  pray  over  all  and  through  all,  the  battle 's  past,  and  the 
victory  's  come, —  glory  be  to  Go- . ! "  And,  with  streaming 
eyes  and  choking  voice,  the  black  man  looked  up  to  heaven. 

And  this,  oh  Africa  !  latest  oalled  of  nations,  —  called  to 
the  crown  of  thorns,  the  scourr  e,  the  bloody  sweat,  the  cross 
of  agony, — this  is  to  be  thy  v  otory;  by  this  shalt  thou  reign 
with  Christ  when  his  kingdor _  shall  come  on  earth. 

The  deep  fervor  of  Tom's  feelings,  the  softness  of  his  voice, 
his  tears,  fell  like  dew  on  the  wild,  unsettled  spirit  of  the  poor 
woman.  A  softness  gathered  over  the  lurid  fires  of  her  eye  ; 
she  looked  down,  and  Tom  could  feel  the  relaxing  muscles  of 
her  hands,  as  she  said, 

"  Bid  n't  I  tell  you  that  evil  spirits  followed  me '?    0 ' 


252  uncle  tom's  cabin:  or. 

Father  Tom,  I  can't  pray, —  I  wish  I  could.  I  never  have 
prayed  since  my  children  were  sold  !  What  you  say  must 
be  right,  I  know  it  must ;  but  when  I  try  to  pray,  I  can  only 
hate  and  curse.     I  can't  pray  ! " 

"  Poor  soul ! "  said  Tom,  compassionately.  "  Satan  desires 
to  have  ye,  and  sift  ye  as  wheat.  I  pray  the  Lord  for  ye.  0 ! 
Misse  Cassy,  turn  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus.  He  came  to  bind 
up  the  broken-hearted,  and  comfort  all  that  mourn." 

Cassy  stood  silent,  while  large,  heavy  tears  dropped  from 
her  downcast  eyes. 

"Misse  Cassy,"  said  Tom,  in  a  hesitating  tone,  after  sur 
veying  her  a  moment  in  silence,  "if  ye  only  could  get  away 
from  here, —  if  the  thing  was  possible, —  I 'd 'vise  ye  and 
Emmeline  to  do  it ;  that  is,  if  ye  could  go  without  blood- 
guiltiness, —  not  otherwise." 

"Would  you  try  it  with  us,  Father  Tom?" 

"No,"  said  Tom;  "time  was  when  I  would;  but  the 
Lord's  given  me  a  work  among  these  yer  poor  souls,  and  I  '11 
stay  with  'em  and  bear  my  cross  with  'em  till  the  end.  It 's 
different  with  you  ;  it 's  a  snare  to  you,  —  it 's  more  'n  you 
can  stand, —  and  you  'd  bo  ter  go,  if  you  can." 

"I  know  no  way  but  tnrough  the  grave,"  said  Cassy. 
"There  's  no  beast  or  bird  rut  can  find  a  home  somewhere  ; 
even  the  snakes  and  the  all  gators  have  their  places  to  lie 
down  and  be  quiet ;  but  there  1s  no  place  for  us.  Down  in 
the  darkest  swamps,  their  dogs  will  hunt  us  out,  and  find  us. 
Everybody  and  everything  is  against  us ;  even  the  very  beasts 
side  against  us, —  and  where  shall  we  go?" 

Tom  stood  silent ;  at  length  he  said, 

"  Him  that  saved  Daniel  in  the  den  of  lions, —  that  saved 
the  children  in  the  fiery  furnace, —  Him  that  walked  on  the 
gea,  and  bade  the  winds  be  still, —  He  's  alive  yet ;  and  I  've 


LIFE   AMONC*   THE   LOWLY.  263 

faith  to  believe  he  can  deliver  you.  Try  it,  and  I  '11  pray, 
with  all  my  might,  for  you." 

By  what  strange  law  of  mind  is  it  that  an  idea  long  over- 
looked, and  trodden  under  foot  as  a  useless  stone,  suddenly 
sparkles  out  in  new  light,  as  a  discovered  diamond  ? 

Cassy  had  often  revolved,  for  hours,  all  possible  or  probable 
schemes  of  escape,  and  dismissed  them  all,  as  hopeless  and 
impracticable ;  but  at  this  moment  there  flashed  through  her 
mind  a  plan,  so  simple  and  feasible  in  all  its  details,  as  to 
awaken  an  instant  hope. 

" Father  Tom,  I'll  try  it ! "  she  said,  suddenly 

"  Amen  ! "  said  Tom ;  "the  Lord  help  ye  ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


THE   STEATAGEM. 


"  The  way  of  the  wicked  is  as  darkness  ;  he  knoweth  not  at  what  he 

etumbleth." 

The  garret  of  the  house  that  Legree  occupied,  like  most 
other  garrets,  was  a  great,  desolate  space,  dusty,  hung  with 
cobwebs,  and  littered  with  cast-off  lumber.  The  opulent 
family  that  had  inhabited  the  house  in  the  days  of  its  splen- 
dor had  imported  a  great  deal  of  splendid  furniture,  some  of 
which  they  had  taken  away  with  them,  while  some  remained 
standing  desolate  in  mouldering,  unoccupied  rooms,  or  stored 
away  in  this  place.  One  or  two  immense  packing-boxes,  in 
which  this  furniture  was  brought,  stood  against  the  sides  of 
the  garret.      There  was  a  small  window  there,  which  let  in, 

vol.  ii.  22 


254  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

through  its  clingy,  dusty  panes,  a  scanty,  uncertain  light  on 
the  tall,  high-backed  chairs  and  dusty  tables,  that  had  once 
seen  better  days.  Altogether,  it  was  a  weird  and  ghostly 
place ;  but,  ghostly  as  it  was,  it  wanted  not  in  legends  among 
the  superstitious  negroes,  to  increase  its  terrors.  Some  few 
years  before,  a  negro  woman,  who  had  incurred  Legree's  dis- 
pleasure, was  confined  there  for  several  weeks.  What  passed 
there,  we  do  not  say  ;  the  negroes  used  to  whisper  darkly  to 
each  other ;  but  it  was  known  that  the  body  of  the  unfortu- 
nate creature  was  one  day  taken  down  from  there,  and 
buried ;  and,  after  that,  it  was  said  that  oaths  and  cursings 
and  the  sound  of  violent  blows,  used  to  ring  through  that  old 
garret,  and  mingled  with  wailings  and  groans  of  despair. 
Once,  when  Legree  chanced  to  overhear  something  of  this 
kind,  he  flew  into  a  violent  passion,  and  swore  that  the  next 
one  that  told  stories  about  that  garret  should  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  knowing  what  was  there,  for  he  would  chain  them 
up  there  for  a  week.  This  hint  was  enough  to  repress  talk- 
ing, though,  of  course,  it  did  not  disturb  the  credit  of  the 
story  in  the  least. 

Gradually,  the  staircase  that  led  to  the  garret,  and  even 
the  passage-way  to  the  staircase,  were  avoided  by  every  one 
in  the  house,  from  every  one  fearing  to  speak  of  it,  and  the 
legend  was  gradually  falling  into  desuetude.  It  had  suddenly 
occurred  to  Cassy  to  make  use  of  the  superstitious  excitabil- 
ity, which  was  so  great  in  Legree,  for  the  purpose  of  her 
liberation,  and  that  of  her  fellow-sufferer. 

The  sleeping-room  of  Cassy  was  directly  under  the  garret. 
One  day,  without  consulting  Legree,  she  suddenly  took  it 
upon  her,  with  some  considerable  ostentation,  to  change  all 
the  furniture  and  appurtenances  of  the  room  to  one  at  some 
considerable  distance.     The  under-servante,  who  were  called 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  255 


on  to  effect  this  movement,  were  running  and  bustling  about 

with  great  zeal  and  confusion,  when  Legree  returned  from  a 

ride. 

"  Hallo !  you  Cass  ! "  said  Legree,  "  what 's  in  the  wind 

now?" 

" Nothing;   only  I  choose  to  have  another  room,"  said 

Cussy,  doggedly. 

"  And  what  for,  pray  ?"  said  Legree. 

'•'I  choose  to,"  said  Cassy. 

"  The  devil  you  do  !  and  what  for  ?  " 

"  I  'd  like  to  get  some  sleep,  now  and  then." 

"  Sleep  !  well,  what  hinders  your  sleeping  ?" 

"  I  could  tell,  I  suppose,  if  you  want  to  hear,"  said  Cassy, 

"  Speak  out,  you  minx  ! "  said  Legree. 

"  0  !  nothing.  I  suppose  it  would  n't  disturb  you  !  Only 
groans,  and  people  scuffling.,  and  rolling  round  on  the  garret 
floor,  half  the  night,  from  twelve  to  morning  ! " 

"  People  up  garret ! "  said  Legree,  uneasily,  but  forcing  a 
laugh ;  "  who  are  they,  Cassy  ?" 

Cassy  raised  her  sharp,  black  eyes,  and  looked  in  the  face 
of  Legree,  with  an  expression  that  went  through  his  bones,  as 
she  said,  "To  be  sure,  Simon,  who  are  they?  I  'd  like  to 
have  you  tell  me.     You  don't  know,  I  suppose  ! " 

With  an  oath,  Legree  struck  at  her  with  his  riding-whip ; 
but  she  glided  to  one  side,  and  passed  through  the  door,  and 
cooling  back,  said,  "If  you'll  sleep  in  that  room,  you'll 
know  all  about  it.  Perhaps  you'd  better  try  it!"  and  then 
immediately  she  shut  and  locked  the  door. 

Legree  blustered  and  swore,  and  threatened  to  break  down 
the  door ;  but  apparently  thought  better  of  it,  and  walked 
uneasily  into  the  sitting-room.      Cassy  perceived  that  her 


256  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

shaft  had  struck  home ;  and,  from  that  hour,  with  the  most 
exquisite  address,  she  never  ceased  to  continue  the  train  of 
influences  she  had  begun. 

In  a  knot-hole  in  the  garret  she  had  inserted  the  neck  of 
an  old  bottle,  in  such  a  manner  that  when  there  was  the  least 
wind,  most  doleful  and  lugubrious  wailing  sounds  proceeded 
from  it,  which,  in  a  high  wind,  increased  to  a  perfect  shriek, 
such  as  to  credulous  and  superstitious  ears  might  easily  seem 
to  be  that  of  horror  and  despair. 

These  sounds  were,  from  time  to  time,  heard  by  the  ser- 
vants, and  revived  in  full  force  the  memory  of  the  old  ghost 
legend.  A  superstitious  creeping  horror  seemed  to  fill  the 
house  ;  and  though  no  one  dared  to  breathe  it  to  Legree,  he 
found  himself  encompassed  by  it,  as  by  an  atmosphere. 

No  one  is  so  thoroughly  superstitious  as  the  godless  man. 
The  Christian  is  composed  by  the  -belief  of  a  wise,  all-ruling 
Father,  whose  presence  fills  the  void  unknown  with  light  and 
order  ;  but  to  the  man  who  has  dethroned  God,  the  spirit-land 
is,  indeed,  in  the  words  of  the  Hebrew  poet,  "a  land  of  dark- 
ness and  the  shadow  of  death,"  without  any  order,  where  the 
light  is  as  darkness.  Life  and  death  to  him  are  haunted 
grounds,  filled  with  goblin  forms  of  vague  and  shadowy 
dread. 

Legree  had  had  the  slumbering  moral  element  in  him 
roused  by  his  encounters  with  Tom,  —  roused,  only  to  be 
resisted  by  the  determinate  force  of  evil ;  but  still  there  was 
a  thrill  and  commotion  of  the  dark,  inner  world,  produced  by 
every  word,  or  prayer,  or  hymn,  that  reacted  in  superstitious 
dread. 

The  influence  of  Cassy  over  him  was  of  a  strange  and  sin- 
gular kind.     He  was  her  owner,  her  tyrant  and  tormentor 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  257 

She  was,  as  he  knew,  wholly,  and  without  any  possibility  of 
help  or  redress,  in  his  hands  ;  and  yet  so  it  is,  that  the  most 
brutal  man  cannot  live  in  constant  association  with  a  strong 
female  influence,  and  not  be  greatly  controlled  by  it.  When 
he  first  bought  her,  she  was,  as  she  had  said,  a  woman  deli- 
cately bred ;  and  then  he  crushed  her,  without  scruple,  beneath 
the  foot  of  his  brutality.  But,  as  time,  and  debasing  influences, 
and  despair,  hardened  womanhood  within  her,  and  waked  the 
fires  of  fiercer  passions,  she  had  become  in  a  measure  his  mis- 
tress, and  he  alternately  tyrannized  over  and  dreaded  her. 

This  influence  had  become  more  harassing  and  decided, 
since  partial  insanity  had  given  a  strange,  weird,  unsettled 
cast  to  all  her  words  and  language. 

A  night  or  two  after  this,  Legree  was  sitting  in  the  old 
sitting-room,  by  the  side  of  a  flickering  wood  fire,  that  threw 
uncertain  glances  round  the  room.  It  was  a  stormy,  windy 
night,  such  as  raises  whole  squadrons  of  nondescript  noises  in 
rickety  old  houses.  Windows  were  rattling,  shutters  flapping, 
the  wind  carousing,  rumbling,  and  tumbling  down  the  chim- 
ney, and,  every  once  in  a  while,  puffing  out  smoke  and  ashes, 
as  if  a  legion  of  spirits  were  coming  after  them.  Legree  had 
been  casting  up  accounts  and  reading  newspapers  for  some 
hours,  while  Cassy  sat  in  the  corner,  sullenly  looking  into  the 
fire.  Legree  laid  down  his  paper,  and  seeing  an  old  book 
lying  on  the  table,  which  he  had  noticed  Cassy  reading,  the 
first  part  of  the  evening,  took  it  up,  and  began  to  turn  it  over. 
It  was  one  of  those  collections  of  stories  of  bloody  murders, 
ghostly  legends,  and  supernatural  visitations,  which,  coarsely 
got  up  and  illustrated,  have  a  strange  fascination  for  one  who 
once  begins  to  read  them. 

Legree  poohed  and  pished,  but  read,  turning  page  after 

vol.  ii.  22* 


258  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN:    OR, 

page,  till,  finally,  after  reading  some  way,  he  threw  down  the 
book,  with  an  oath. 

"You  don't  believe  in  ghosts,  do  you,  Cass?"  said  he, 
taking  the  tongs  and  settling  the  fire.  "  I  thought  you'd 
more  sense  than  to  let  noises  scare  youP 

lt  No  matter  what  I  believe,"  said  Cassy,  sullenly. 

"  Fellows  used  to  try  to  frighten  me  with  their  yarns  at 
sea,"  said  Legree.  "  Never  come  it  round  me  that  way. 
I'm  too  tough  for  any  such  trash,  tell  ye." 

Cassy  sat  looking  intensely  at  him  in  the  shadow  of  the 
corner.  There  was  that  strange  light  in  her  eyes  that  always 
impressed  Legree  with  uneasiness. 

"  Them  noises  was  nothing  but  rats  and  the  wind,"  said 
Legree.  "  Eats  will  make  a  devil  of  a  noise.  I  used  to 
hear  'em  sometimes  down  in  the  hold  of  the  ship ;  and  wind, 
—  Lord's  sake  !  ye  can  make  anything  out  o'  wind." 

Cassy  knew  Legree  was  uneasy  under  her  eyes,  and,  there- 
fore, she  made  no  answer,  but  sat  fixing  them  on  him,  with 
that  strange,  unearthly  expression,  as  before. 

"Come,  speak  out,  woman, —  don't  you  think  so?"  said 
Legree.     . 

"  Can  rats  walk  down  stairs,  and  come  walking  through 
the  entry,  and  open  a  door  when  you  've  locked  it  and  set  a 
chair  against  it  ?  "  said  Cassy;  "  and  come  walk,  walk,  walk- 
ing right  up  to  your  bed,  and  put  out  their  hand,  so  ?  " 

Cassy  kept  her  glittering  eyes  fixed  on  Legree,  as  she 
spoke,  and  he  stared  at  her  like  a  man  in  the  nightmare,  till, 
when  she  finished  by  laying  her  hand,  icy  cold,  on  his,  he 
sprung  back,  with  an  oath. 

"  Woman !  what  do  you  mean ?     Nobody  did?  "  — 

"  0,  no, —  of  course  not, —  did  I  say  they  did  ?  "  said 
Cassy,  with  a  smile  of  chilling  derision. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  259 


"  But  —  did  —  have  you  really  seen  ?  —  Come,  Cass,  what 
is  it,  now, —  speak  out !  " 

"  You  may  sleep  there,  yourself,"  said  Cassy,  "  if  you 
want  to  know." 

"  Did  it  come  from  the  garret,  Cassy  ?  " 

"  It,—  what?  "  said  Cassy. 

11  Why,  what  you  told  of — " 

"I  didn't  tell  you  anything,"  said  Cassy,  with  dogged 
sullenness. 

Legree  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  uneasily. 

"  I  '11  have  this  yer  thing  examined.  I  '11  look  into  it,  this 
very  night.     I  '11  take  my  pistols  — " 

"  Do,"  said  Cassy  ;  "  sleep  in  that  room.  I'd  like  to  see 
you  doing  it.     Fire  your  pistols, —  do !  " 

Legree  stamped  his  foot,  and  swore  violently. 

"  Don't  swear,"  said  Cassy;  "  nobody  knows  who  may  be 
hearing  you.     Hark  !     What  was  that  1 " 

"What?"  said  Legree,  starting. 

A  heavy  old  Dutch  clock,  that  stood  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  began,  and  slowly  struck  twelve. 

For  some  reason  or  other,  Legree  neither  spoke  nor  moved ; 
a  vague  horror  fell  on  him ;  while  Cassy,  with  a  keen,  sneer- 
ing glitter  in  her  eyes,  stood  looking  at  him,  counting  the 
strokes. 

"  Twelve  o'clock  ;  well,  now  we  '11  see,"  said  she,  turning, 
and  opening  the  door  into  the  passage-way,  and  standing  as 
if  listening. 

"  Hark  !     What 's  that?"  said  she,  raising  her  finger. 

"It's  only  the  wind,"  said  Legree.  "Don't  you  hear 
how  cursedly  it  blows  ?" 

"  Simon,  come  here,"  said  Cassy,  in  a  whisper,  laying  her 


260  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OK, 

hand  on  his.  and  leading  him  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs:  "do 
you  know  what  that  is  1     Hark  !  " 

A  wild  shriek  came  pealing  down  the  stairway.  It  came 
from  the  garret.  Legree's  knees  knocked  together;  his  face 
grew  white  with  fear. 

"  Had  n't  you  better  get  your  pistols  ?"  said  Cassy,  with  a 
sneer  that  froze  Legree's  blood.  "  It 's  time  this  thing  was 
looked  into,  you  know.  I  'd  like  to  have  you  go  up  now ; 
they're  at  it." 

"  I  won't  go  ! "  said  Legree,  with  an  oath. 

"Why  not?  There  an't  any  such  thing  as  ghosts,  you 
know  !  Come  ! "  and  Cassy  flitted  up  the  winding  stairway, 
laughing,  and  looking  back  after  him.     "  Come  on." 

"  I  believe  you  are  the  devil ! "  said  Legree.  "Come  back, 
you  hag, — come  back,  Cass  !     You  shan't  go  ! " 

But  Cassy  laughed  wildly,  and  -  fled  on.  He  heard  her 
open  the  entry  doors  that  led  to  the  garret.  A  wild  gust  of 
wind  swept  dowTn,  extinguishing  the  candle  he  held  in  his 
hand,  and  with  it  the  fearful,  unearthly  screams ;  they  seemed 
to  be  shrieked  in  his  very  ear. 

Legree  fled  frantically  into  the  parlor,  whither,  in  a  few 
moments,  he  was  followed  by  Cassy,  pale,  calm,  cold  as  an 
avenging  spirit,  and  with  that  same  fearful  light  in  her  eye. 

"  I  hope  you  are  satisfied,"  said  she. 

"  Blast  you,  Cass  !  "  said  Legree. 

"  What  for  ?"  said  Cassy.  "  I  only  went  up  and  shut  the 
doors.  What  's  the  matter  with  that  garret,  Simon,  do 
you  suppose?"  said  she. 

"  None  of  your  business  ! "  said  Legree. 

"0,  it  an't?  Well/'  said  Cassy,  "  at  any  rate,  1 'm  glad 
/"don't  sleep  under  it." 

Anticipating  the  rising  of  the  wind,  that  very  evening, 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  261 

Cassy  had  been  up  and  opened  the  garret  window.  Of  course, 
the  moment  the  doors  were  opened,  the  wind  had  drafted 
down,  and  extinguished  the  light. 

This  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  game  that  Cassy 
played  with  Legree,  until  he  would  sooner  have  put  his  head 
into  a  lion's  mouth  than  to  have  explored  that  garret.  Mean- 
while; in  the  night,  when  everybody  else  was  asleep,  Cassy 
slowly  and  carefully  accumulated  there  a  stock  of  provisions 
sufficient  to  afford  subsistence  for  some  time ;  she  transferred, 
article  by  article,  a  greater  part  of  her  own  and  Emmeline's 
wardrobe.  All  things  being  arranged,  they  only  waited  a 
fitting  opportunity  to  put  their  plan  in  execution. 

By  cajoling  Legree,  and  taking  advantage  of  a  good- 
natured  interval,  Cassy  had  got  him  to  take  her  with  him  to 
the  neighboring  town,  which  was  situated  directly  on  the  Red 
river.  With  a  memory  sharpened  to  almost  preternatural 
clearness,  she  remarked  every  turn  in  the  road,  and  formed 
a  mental  estimate  of  the  time  to  be  occupied  in  traversing  it. 

At  the  time  when  all  was  matured  for  action,  our  readers 
may,  perhaps,  like  to  look  behind  the  scenes,  and  see  the  final 
coup  oVitat. 

It  was  now  near  evening.  Legree  had  been  absent,  on  a 
ride  to  a  neighboring  farm.  For  many  days  Cassy  had  been 
unusually  gracious  and  accommodating  in  her  humors ;  and 
Legree  and  she  had  been,  apparently,  on  the  best  of  terms.- 
At  present,  we  may  behold  her  and  Emmeline  in  the  room  of 
the  latter,  busy  in  sorting  and  arranging  two  small  bundles. 

"  There,  these  will  be  large  enough,"  said  Cassy.  "  Now 
put  on  your  bonnet,  and  let 's  start :  it 's  just  about  the  right 
time." 

"Why,  they  can  see  us  yet,"  said  Emmeline. 

"I  mean  they  shall,"  said  Cassy,  coolly.     "Don't  you 


262  uncle  tom's  cabin  :  or, 

know  that  they  must  have  their  chase  after  us,  at  any  rate  ? 
The  way  of  the  thing  is  to  be  just  this :  — We  will  steal  out 
of  the  back  door,  and  run  down  by  the  quarters.  Sambo  or 
Quimbo  will  be  sure  to  see  us.  They  will  give  chase,  and  we 
will  get  into  the  swamp ;  then,  they  can't  follow  us  any  fur- 
ther till  they  go  up  and  give  the  alarm,  and  turn  out  the 
dogs,  and  so  on;  and,  while  they  are  blundering  round,  and 
tumbling  over  each  other,  as  they  always  do,  you  and  I  will 
just  slip  along  to  the  creek,  that  runs  back  of  the  house,  and 
wade  along  in  it,  till  we  get  opposite  the  back  door.  That 
will  put  the  dogs  all  at  fault ;  for  scent  won't  lie  in  the  water. 
Every  one  will  run  out  of  tne  house  to  look  after  us,  and 
then  we  '11  whip  in  at  the  back  door,  and  up  into  the  garret, 
where  I  've  got  a  nice  bed  made  up  in  one  of  the  great  boxes. 
We  must  stay  in  that  garret  a  good  while ;  for,  I  tell  you,  he 
will  raise  heaven  and  earth  after  us.  He  '11  muster  some  of 
those  old  overseers  on  the  other  plantations,  and  have  a  great 
hunt ;  and  they  '11  go  over  every  inch  of  ground  in  that 
swamp.  He  makes  it  his  boast  that  nobody  ever  got  away 
from  him.     So  let  him  hunt  at  his  leisure." 

"  Cassy,  how  well  you  have  planned  it !  "  said  Emmeline. 
"  Who  ever  would  have  thought  of  it,  but  you  ?  " 

There  was  neither  pleasure  nor  exultation  in  Cassy' s  eyes, 
—  only  a  despairing  firmness. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  reaching  her  hand  to  Emmeline. 

The  two  fugitives  glided  noiselessly  from  the  house,  and 
flitted,  through  the  gathering  shadows  of  evening,  along  by 
the  quarters.  The  crescent  moon,  set  like  a  silver  signet 
in  the  western  sky,  delayed  a  little  the  approach  of  night.  As 
Cassy  expected,  when  quite  near  the  verge  of  the  swamps  that 
encircled  the  plantation,  they  heard  a  voice  calling  to  them  to 
stop.     It  was  not  Sambo,  however,  but  Legree,  who  was  pur- 


LIFE    AMONG    THE   LOWLY.  263 

suing  them  with  violent  execrations.  At  the  sound,  the  feebler 
spirit  of  Emmeline  gave  way;  and,  laying  hold  of*  Cassy's 
arm,  she  said,   "  0,  Cassy,  I  'm  going  to  faint ! " 

"  If  you  do,  I  '11  kill  you !  "  said  Cassy,  drawing  a  small, 
glittering  stiletto,  and  flashing  it  before  the  eyes  of  the  girl. 

The  diversion  accomplished  the  purpose.  Emmeline  did 
not  faint,  and  succeeded  in  plunging,  with  Cassy,  into  a  part 
of  the  labyrinth  of  swamp,  so  deep  and  dark  that  it  was  per- 
fectly hopeless  for  Legree  to  think  of  following  them,  without 
assistance. 

u  Well,"  said  he,  chuckling  brutally ;  Ci  at  any  rate,  they  've 
got  themselves  into  a  trap  now  —  the  baggages  !  They  're 
safe  enough.     They  shall  sweat  for  it ! " 

"  Hulloa,  there  !  Sambo!  Quimbo!  All  hands !"  called 
Legree,  coming  to  the  quarters,  when  the  men  and  women 
were  just  returning  from  work.  "There's  two  runaways  in 
the  swamps.  I  '11  give  five  dollars  to  any  nigger  as  catches 
'em.  Turn  out  the  dogs  !  Turn  out  Tiger,  and  Fury,  and 
the  rest !" 

The  sensation  produced  by  this  news  was  immediate.  Many 
of  the  men  sprang  forward,  officiously,  to  offer  their  services, 
either  from  the  hope  of  the  reward,  or  from  that  cringing  sub- 
serviency which  is  one  of  the  most  baleful  effects  of  slavery. 
Some  ran  one  way,  and  some  another.  Some  were  for  getting 
flambeaux  of  pine-knots.  Some  were  uncoupling  the  dogs, 
whose  hoarse,  savage  bay  added  not  a  little  to  the  animation 
of  the  scene. 

"  Mas'r,  shall  we  shoot  'em,  if  we  can't  cotch  'em?"  said 
Sambo,  to  whom  his  master  brought  out  a  rifle. 

"  You  may  fire  on  Cass,  if  you  like ;  it 's  time  she  was 
gone  to  the  devil,  where  she  belongs;  but  the  gal,  not."  said 
Legree.     "  And  now,  boys,  be  spry  and  smart.     Five  dollars 


264  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 


for  him  that  gets  'em ;  and  a  glass  of  spirits  to  every  one  of 
you,  anyhow." 

The  whole  band,  with  the  glare  of  blazing  torches,  and 
whoop,  and  shout,  and  savage  yell,  of  man  and  beast,  pro- 
ceeded down  to  the  swamp,  followed,  at  some  distance,  by 
every  servant  in  the  house.  The  establishment  was,  of  a 
consequence,  wholly  deserted,  when  Cassy  and  Emmeline 
glided  into  it  the  back  way.  The  whooping  and  shouts  of 
their  pursuers  were  still  filling  the  air ;  and,  looking  from  tho 
sitting-room  windows,  Cassy  and  Emmeline  could  see  the 
troop,  with  their  flambeaux,  just  dispersing  themselves  along 
the  edge  of  the  swamp. 

"See  there!"  said  Emmeline,  pointing  to  Cassy;  "the 
hunt  is  begun  !  Look  how  those  lights  dance  about!  Hark! 
the  dogs  !  Don't  you  hear  ?  If  we  were  only  there,  our 
chance  would  n't  be  worth  a  picayune.  0,  for  pity's  sake, 
do  let 's  hide  ourselves.     Quick  ! " 

"There's  no  occasion  for  hurry,"  said  Cassy,  coolly;  "they 
are  all  out  after  the  hunt,  —  that  \|  the  amusement  of  the 
evening  !  We  '11  go  up  stairs,  by  and  by.  Meanwhile,"  said 
she,  deliberately  taking  a  key  from  the  pocket  of  a  coat  that 
Legree  had  thrown  down  in  his  hurry,  "meanwhile  I  shall 
take  something  to  pay  our  passage." 

She  unlocked  the  desk,  took  from  it  a  roll  of  bills,  which 
she  counted  over  rapidly. 

"0,  don't  let 's  do  that ! "  said  Emmeline. 

"Don't!"  said  Cassy;  "why  not?  Would  you  have  us 
starve  in  the  swamps,  or  have  that  that  will  pay  our  way  to 
the  free  states  ?  Money  w^ll  do  anything,  girl."  And,  as 
she  spoke,  she  put  the  money  in  her  bosom. 

"It  would  be  stealing,"  said  Emmeline,  in  a  distressed 
whisper. 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  2tf5 

"  Stealing  ! "  said  Cassy,  with  a  scornful  laugh.  "They 
who  steal  body  and  soul  need  n't  talk  to  us.  Every  one  of 
these  bills  is  stolen,  —  stolen  from  poor,  starving,  sweating 
creatures,  who  must  go  to  the  devil  at  last,  for  his  profit.  Let 
him  talk  about  stealing  !  But  come,  we  may  as  well  go  up 
garret ;  I  've  got  a  stock  of  candles  there,  and  some  books  to 
pass  away  the  time.  You  may  be  pretty  sure  they  won't 
come  there  to  inquire  after  us.  If  they  do,  I  '11  play  ghost 
for  them." 

When  Emmeline  reached  the  garret,  she  found  an  immense 
box,  in  which  some  heavy  pieces  of  furniture  had  once  been 
brought,  turned  on  its  side,  so  that  the  opening  faced  the 
wall,  or  rather  the  eaves.  Cassy  lit  a  small  lamp,  and,  creep- 
ing round  under  the  eaves,  they  established  themselves  in  it. 
It  was  spread  with  a  couple  of  small  mattresses  and  some 
pillows ;  a  box  near  by  was  plentifully  stored  with  candles, 
provisions,  and  all  the  clothing  necessary  to  their  journey, 
which  Cassy  had  arranged  into  bundles  of  an  astonishingly 
small  compass. 

"There,"  said  Cassy,  as  she  fixed  the  lamp  into  a  small 
hook,  which  she  had  driven  into  the  side  of  "he  box  for  that 
purpose ;  "  this  is  to  be  our  home  for  the  present.  How  do 
you  like  it?" 

"  Are  you  sure  they  won't  come  and  search  tfce  garret  ?" 

"I'd  like  to  see  Simon  Legree  doing  that,';  said  Cassy, 
"No,  indeed;  he  will  be  too  glad  to  keep  away.  As  to  the 
servants,  they  would  any  of  them  stand  and  be  shot,  sooner 
than  show  their  faces  here." 

Somewhat  reassured,  Emmeline  settled  herself  back  on  her 
pillow. 

"  What  did  you  mean,  Cassy,  by  saying  you  would  kill 
me?"  she  said,  simply. 

vol.  ii.  23 


266  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

" I  meant  to  stop  your  fainting,"  said  Cassy,  "and  I  did 
do  itl  And  now  I  tell  you,  Emmeline,  you  must  make  up 
your  mind  not  to  faint,  let  what  will  come  ;  there  's  no  sort 
of  need  of  it.  If  I  had  not  stopped  you,  that  wretch  might 
have  had  his  hands  on  you  now." 

Emmeline  shuddered. 

The  two  remained  some  time  in  silence.  Cassy  busied 
herself  with  a  French  book ;  Emmeline,  overcome  with  the 
exhaustion,  fell  into  a  doze,  and  slept  some  time.  She  was 
awakened  by  loud  shouts  and  outcries,  the  tramp  of  horses' 
feet,  and  the  baying  of  dogs.  She  started  up,  with  a  faint 
shriek. 

"Only  the  hunt  coming  back,"  said  Cassy,  coolly;  "never 
fear.  Look  out  of  this  knot-hole.  Don't  you  see  'em  all 
down  there  ?  Simon  has  to  give  it  up,  for  this  night.  Look, 
how  muddy  his  horse  is,  flouncing  about  in  the  swamp  ;  the 
dogs,  too,  look  rather  crest-fallen.  Ah,  my  good  sir,  you  '11 
have  to  try  the  race  again  and  again, —  the  game  isn't  there." 

"  0,  don't  speak  a  word  ! "  said  Emmeline ;  "  what  if  they 
should  hear  you  ?'< 

"If  they  do  ^ear  anything,  it  will  make  them  very  partic- 
ular to  keep  away,"  said  Cassy.  "No  danger;  we  may 
make  any  noiie  we  please,  and  it  will  only  add  to  the  effect." 

At  length  the  stillness  of  midnight  settled  down  over  the 
house.  Lcgree,  cursing  his  ill  luck,  and  vowing  dire  ven- 
geance on  the  morrow,  went  to  bed. 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  267 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE  MARTYB. 

"  Deem  not  the  just  by  Heaven  forgot ! 

Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny,  — 
Though,  with  a  crushed  and  bleeding  heart, 

And  spurned  of  man,  he  goes  to  die  ! 
For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day, 

And  numbered  every  bitter  tear  ; 
And  heaven's  long  years  of  bliss  shall  pay 

For  all  his  children  suffer  here."        Bryant. 

The  longest  way  must  have  its  close, —  the  gloomiest  night 
will  wear  on  to  a  morning.  An  eternal,  inexorable  lapse  of 
moments  is  ever  hurrying  the  day  of  the  evil  to  an  eternal 
night,  and  the  night  of  the  just  to  an  eternal  day.  We  have 
walked  with  our  humble  friend  thus  far  in  the  valley  of  slav- 
ery ;  first  through  flowery  fields  of  ease  and  indulgence,  then 
through  heart-breaking  separations  from  all  that  man  holds 
dear.  Again,  we  have  waited  with  him  in  a  sunny  island, 
where  generous  hands  concealed  his  chains  with  flowers ;  and, 
lastly,  we  have  followed  him  when  the  last  ray  of  earthly 
hope  went  out  in  night,  and  seen  how,  in  the  blackness  of 
earthly  darkness,  the  firmament  of  the  unseen  has  blazed  with 
stars  of  new  and  significant  lustre. 

The  morning-star  now  stands  over  the  tops  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  gales  and  breezes,  not  of  earth,  show  that  the  gates 
of  day  are  unclosing. 

The  escape  of  Cassy  and  Emmeline  irritated  the  before 


268  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN:    OH, 

surly  temper  of  Legree  to  the  last  degree ;  and  his  fury,  as 
was  to  be  expected,  fell  upon  the  defenceless  head  of  Tom. 
When  he  hurriedly  announced  the  tidings  among  his  hands, 
there  was  a  sudden  light  in  Tom's  eye,  a  sudden  upraising 
of  his  hands,  that  did  not  escape  him.  He  saw  that  he  did 
not  join  the  muster  of  the  pursuers.  He  thought  of  forcing 
him  to  do  it ;  but,  having  had,  of  old,  experience  of  his  inflex- 
ibility when  commanded  to  take  part  in  any  deed  of  inhuman- 
ity, he  would  not,  in  his  hurry,  stop  to  enter  into  any  conflict 
with  him. 

Tom,  therefore,  remained  behind,  with  a  few  who  had 
learned  of  him  to  pray,  and  offered  up  prayers  for  the  escape 
of  the  fugitives. 

When  Legree  returned,  baffled  and  disappointed,  all  the 
long-working  hatred  of  his  soul  towards  his  slave  began  to 
gather  in  a  deadly  and  desperate  form.  Had  not  this  man 
braved  him, —  steadily,  powerfully,  resistlessly, —  ever  since 
he  bought  him  ?  Was  there  not  a  spirit  in  him  which,  silent 
as  it  was,  burned  on  him  like  the  fires  of  perdition  ? 

"  I  hate  him ! "  said  Legree,  that  night,  as  he  sat  up  in  his 
bed ;  "  I  hate  him  !  And  is  n't  he  mine  ?  Can't  I  do  what 
I  like  with  him?  Who's  to  hinder,  I  wonder?"  And 
Legree  clenched  his  fist,  and  shook  it,  as  if  he  had  something 
in  his  hands  that  he  could  rend  in  pieces. 

But,  then,  Tom  was  a  faithful,  valuable  servant;  and, 
although  Legree  hated  him  the  more  for  that,  yet  the  consid- 
eration was  still  somewhat  of  a  restraint  to  him. 

The  next  morning,  he  determined  to  say  nothing,  as  yet ;  to 
assemble  a  party,  from  some  neighboring  plantations,  with  dogs 
and  guns ;  to  surround  the  swamp,  and  go  about  the  hunt  sys- 
tematically. If  it  succeeded,  well  and  good ;  if  not,  he  would 
summon  Tom  befcre  him,  and  —  his  teeth  clenched  and  his 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  269 


blood  boiled  —  then  he  would  break  that  fellow  down,  or 


there  was  a  dire  inward  whisper,  to  which  his  soul  assented- 

Ye  say  that  the  interest  of  the  master  is  a  sufficient  safe- 
guard for  the  slave.  In  the  fury  of  man's  mad  will,  he  will 
wittingly,  and  with  open  eye,  sell  his  own  soul  to  the  devil  to 
gain  his  ends ;  and  will  he  be  more  careful  of  his  neighbor's 
body? 

"  Well,"  said  Cassy,  the  next  day,  from  the  garret,  as  she 
reconnoitred  through  the  knot-hole,  "  the  hunt's  going  to 
begin  again,  to-day  ! " 

Three  or  four  mounted  horsemen  were  curvetting  about,  on 
the  space  front  of  the  house ;  and  one  or  two  leashes  of  strange 
dogs  were  struggling  with  the  negroes  who  held  them,  baying 
and  barking  at  each  other. 

The  men  are,  two  of  them,  overseers  of  plantations  in  the 
vicinity ;  and  others  were  some  of  Legree's  associates  at  the 
tavern-bar  of  a  neighboring  city,  who  had  come  for  the  inter- 
est of  the  sport.  A  more  hard-favored  set,  perhaps,  could 
not  be  imagined.  Legree  was  serving  brandy,  profusely, 
round  among  them,  as  also  among  the  negroes,  who  had  been 
detailed  from  the  various  plantations  for  this  service ;  for  it 
was  an  object  to  make  every  service  of  this  kind,  among  the 
negroes,  as  much  of  a  holiday  as  possible. 

Cassy  placed  her  ear  at  the  knot-hole ;  and,  as  the  morning 
air  blew  directly  towards  the  house,  she  could  overhear  a 
good  deal  of  the  conversation.  A  grave  sneer  overcast  the 
dark,  severe  gravity  of  her  face,  as  she  listened,  and  heard 
them  divide  out  the  ground,  discuss  the  rival  merits  of  the 
dogs,  give  orders  about  firing,  and  the  treatment  of  each,  in 
case  of  capture. 

Cassy  drew  back ;  and,  clasping  her  hands,  looked  upward, 
and  said,  "  0,  great  Almighty  God  !  we  are  all  sinners ;  but 

vol.  ii.  28* 


270  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

what  have  we  done,  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  that 
we  should  be  treated  so?" 

There  was  a  terrible  earnestness  in  her  face  and  voice,  as 
she  spoke. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  you,  child,"  she  said,  looking  at  Emme- 
line,  '-'I'd  go  out  to  them;  and  I'd  thank  any  one  of  them 
that  would  shoot  me  down ;  for  what  use  will  freedom  be  to 
me  ?  Can  it  give  me  back  my  children,  or  make  me  what  I 
used  to  be?" 

Emmeline,  in  her  child-like  simplicity,  was  half  afraid  of 
the  dark  moods  of  Cassy.  She  looked  perplexed,  but  made 
no  answer.  She  only  took  her  hand,  with  a  gentle,  caressing 
movement. 

" Don't!"  said  Cassy,  trying  to  draw  it  away;  "you'll 
get  me  to  loving  you ;  and  I  never  mean  to"  love  anything, 
again ! " 

"Poor  Cassy!"  said  Emmeline,  "don't  feel  so!  If  the 
Lord  gives  us  liberty,  perhaps  he'H  give  you  back  your 
daughter;  at  any  rate,  I'll  be  like  a  daughter  to  you.  I 
know  I  '11  never  see  my  poor  old  mother  again !  I  shall  love 
you,  Cassy,  whether  you  love  me  or  not !" 

The  gentle,  child-like  spirit  conquered.  Cassy  sat  down 
by  her,  put  her  arm  round  her  neck,  stroked  her  soft,  brown 
hair;  and  Emmeline  then  wondered  at  the  beauty  of  her 
magnificent  eyes,  now  soft  with  tears. 

"0,  Em!"  said  Cassy,  "I've  hungered  for  my  children, 
and  thirsted  for  them,  and  my  eyes  fail  with  longing  for 
them!  Here!  here!"  she  said,  striking  her  breast,  "it's 
all  desolate,  all  empty !  If  God  would  give  me  back  my 
children,  then  I  could  pray." 

"  You  must  trust  him,  Cassy,"  said  Emmeline ;  "he  is  our 
Father!" 


LIEE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  271 

"  His  wrath  is  upon  us,"  said  Cassj ;  "  he  has  turned  away 
in  anger." 

"No,  Cassy!  He  w^ll  be  good  to  us!  Let  us  hope  in 
Him,"  said  Emmeline, —  "  I  always  have  had  hope." 

■xk  ^l.  Ats  Jt*  oj>  4t* 

TV"  TV*  *3v  TV  *JV"  iP 

The  hunt  was  long,  animated,  and  thorough,  but  unsuccess- 
ful;  and,  with  grave,  ironic  exultation,  Cassy  looked  down  on 
Legree,  as,  weary  and  dispirited,  he  alighted  from  his  horse. 

"  Now,  Quimbo,"  said  Legree,  as  he  stretched  himself 
down  in  the  sitting-room,  "you  jest  go  and  walk  that  Tom 
up  here,  right  away !  The  old  cuss  is  at  the  bottom  of  this 
yer  whole  matter ;  and  I  '11  have  it  out  of  his  old  black  hide, 
or  I  '11  know  the  reason  why  ! " 

Sambo  and  Quimbo,  both,  though  hating  each  other,  were 
joined  in  one  mrind  by  a  no  less  cordial  hatred  of  Tom.  Legree 
had  told  them,  at  first,  that  he  had  bought  him  for  a  general 
overseer,  in  his  absence ;  and  this  had  begun  an  ill  will,  on 
their  part,  which  had  increased,  in  their  debased  and  servile 
natures,  as  they  saw  him  becoming  obnoxious  to  their  mas- 
ter's displeasure.  Quimbo,  therefore,  departed,  with  a  will,  to 
execute  his  orders. 

Tom  heard  the  message  with  a  forewarning  heart ;  for  he 
knew  all  the  plan  of  the  fugitives'  escape,  and  the  place  of 
their  present  concealment ;  —  he  knew  the  deadly  character 
of  the  man  he  had  to  deal  with,  and  his  despotic  power.  But 
he  felt  strong  in  God  to  meet  death,  rather  than  betray  the 
helpless. 

He  sat  his  basket  down  by  the  row,  and,  looking  up,  said, 
"  Into  thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit !  Thou  hast  redeemed 
me,  oh  Lord  God  of  truth!"  and  then  quietly  yielded  him- 
self to  the  rough,  brutal  grasp  with  which  Quimbo  seized  him. 

"Ay,  ay!"  said  the   giant,  as  he  dragged   him   along; 


272  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIJT:    OR 


"  ye  '11  cotch  it,  now !  I  '11  boun'  Mas'r's  back 's  up  high  ! 
No  sneaking  out,  now  !  Tell  ye,  ye  '11  get  it,  and  no  mis- 
take !  See  how  ye  '11  look,  now,  helpin'  Mas'r's  niggers  to 
run  away !     See  what  ye  '11  get ! " 

The  savage  words  none  of  them  reached  that  ear!  —  a 
higher  voice  there  was  saying,  "Fear  not  them  that  kill  the 
body,  and,  after  that,  have  no  more  that  they  can  do." 
Nerve  and  bone  of  that  poor  man's  body  vibrated  to  those 
words,  as  if  touched  by  the  finger  of  God ;  and  he  felt  the 
strength  of  a  thousand  souls  in  one.  As  he  passed  along,  the 
trees  and  bushes,  the  huts  of  his  servitude,  the  whole  scene 
of  his  degradation,  seemed  to  whirl  by  him  as  the  landscape 
by  the  rushing  car.  His  soul  throbbed, —  his  home  was  in 
sight, —  and  the  hour  of  release  seemed  at  hand. 

"Well,  Tom!"  said  Legree,  walking  up,  arid  seizing  him 
grimly  by  the  collar  of  his  coat;  and  speaking  through  his 
teeth,  in  a  paroxysm  of  determined  rage,  "  do  you  know  I  've 
made  up  my  mind  to  kill  you  ?" 

"It's  very  likely,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  calmly. 

"I  have"  said  Legree,  with  grim,  terrible  calmness, 
" done — just — that  —  thing,  Tom,  unless  you'll  tell  me 
what  you  know  about  these  yer  gals  ! " 

Tom  stood  silent. 

"D'ye  hear?"  said  Legree,  stamping,  with  a  roar  like 
that  of  an  incensed  lion.     "  Speak ! " 

"I han't  got  nothing  to  tell,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  with  a 
slow,  firm,  deliberate  utterance. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  tell  me,  ye  old  black  Christian,  ye  don't 
know?"  said  Legree. 


Tom  was  silent. 

"  Speak ! "  thundered  Legree,  striking  him  furiously.    "Do 
y$u  know  anything  V 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  273 

"  I  know,  Mas'r ;  but  I  can't  tell  anything.     I  can  die  !  " 

Legree  drew  in  a  long  breath ;  and,  suppressing  his  rage, 
took  Tom  by  the  arm,  and,  approaching  his  face  almost  to  his, 
said,  in  a  terrible  voice,  "Hark'e,  Tom!  —  ye  think,  'cause 
I've  let  you  off  before,  I  do&'t  mean  what  I  say;  but,  this 
time,  I  've  made  ujj  my  mind,  and  counted  the  cost.  You  've 
always  stood  it  out  agin'  me  :  now,  I  '11  conquer  ye,  or  kill 
ye! —  one  or  t'  other.  I'll  count  every  drop  of  blood  there 
is  in  you,  and  take  'em,  one  by  one,  till  ye  give  up  ! " 

Tom  looked  up  to  his  master,  and  answered,  "Mas'r,  if 
you  was  sick,  or  in  trouble,  or  dying,  and  I  could  save  ye, 
I  'd  give  ye  my  heart's  blood ;  and,  if  taking  every  drop  of 
blood  in  this  poor  old  body  would  save  your  precious  soul, 
I  'd  give  'em  freely,  as  the  Lord  gave  his  for  me.  0,  Mas'r ! 
don't  bring  this  great  sin  on  your  soul !  It  will  hurt  you 
more  than  't  will  me  !  Do  the  worst  you  can,  my  troubles  '11 
be  over  soon;  but,  if  ye  don't  repent,  yours  won't  never  end ! " 

Like  a  strange  snatch  of  heavenly  music,  heard  in  the  lull 
of  a  tempest,  this  burst  of  feeling  made  a  moment's  blank 
pause.  Legree  stood  aghast,  and  looked  at  Tom ;  and  there 
was  such  a  silence,  that  the  tick  of  the  old  clock  could  be 
heard,  measuring,  with  silent  touch,  the  last  moments  of 
mercy  and  probation  to  that  hardened  heart. 

It  was  but  a  moment.  There  was  one  hesitating  pause, — - 
one  irresolute,  relenting  thrill, —  and  the  spirit  of  evil  came 
back,  with  seven-fold  vehemence ;  and  Legree,  foaming  with 
rage,  smote  his  victim  to  the  ground. 

•&•  4f>  -JE«  .it*  -ifc  4k 

TV*  "TV-  *7T  TV*  TV"  **** 

Scenes  of  blood  and  cruelty  are  shocking  to  our  ear  and 
heart.  What  man  has  nerve  to  do,  man  has  not  nerve  to 
hear.  What  brother-man  and  brother- Christian  must  suffer, 
cannot  be  told  us,  even  in  our  secret  chamber,  it  so  harrows 


274  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

up  the  soul !  And  yet,  oh  my  country !  these  things  are  done 
under  the  shadow  of  thy  laws  !  0,  Christ !  thy  church  sees 
them,  almost  in  silence  ! 

But,  of  old,  there  was  One  whose  suffering  changed  an 
instrument  of  torture,  degradation  and  shame,  into  a  symbol 
of  glory,  honor,  and  immortal  life ;  and,  where  His  spirit  is, 
neither  degrading  stripes,  nor  blood,  nor  insults,  can  make 
the  Christian's  last  struggle  less  than  glorious. 

Was  he  alone,  that  long  night,  whose  brave,  loving  spirit 
was  bearing  up,  in  that  old  shed,  against  buffeting  and  brutal 
stripes  ? 

Nay !  There  stood  by  him  One, —  seen  by  him  alone, — 
"  like  unto  the  Son  of  God." 

The  tempter  stood  by  him,  too, — blinded  by  furious,  des- 
potic will, —  every  moment  pressing  him  to  shun  that  agony 
by  the  betrayal  of  the  innocent.-  But  the  brave,  true  heart 
was  firm  on  the  Eternal  Rock.  Like  his  Master,  he  knew 
that,  if  he  saved  others,  himself  he  could  not  save  ;  nor  could 
utmost  extremity  wring  from  him  words,  save  of  prayer  and 
holy  trust. 

"He's  most  gone,  Mas'r,"  said  Sambo,  touched,  in  spite 
of  himself,  by  the  patience  of  his  victim. 

"  Pay  away,  till  he  gives  up  !  Give  it  to  him !  —  give  it 
to  him!"  shouted  Legree.  "I'll  take  every  drop  of  blood 
he  has,  unless  he  confesses  ! " 

Tom  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  upon  his  master.  "  Ye 
poor  miserable  critter  ! "  he  said,  "  there  an't  no  more  ye  can 
do!  I  forgive  ye,  with  all  my  soul!"  and  he  fainted 
entirely  away. 

"I  b'lieve,  my  soul,  he's  done  for,  finally,"  said  Legree, 
stepping  forward,  to  look  at  him.  "Yes,  he  is !  Well,  his 
mouth 's  shut  up,  at  last, —  that 's  one  comfort ! " 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  275 

Yes,  Legree ;  but  who  shall  shut  up  that  voice  in  thy  soul  ? 
that  soul,  past  repentance,  past  prayer,  past  hope,  in  whom 
the  fire  that  never  shall  be  quenched  is  already  burning ! 

Yet  Tom  was  not  quite  gone.  His  wondrous  words  .and 
pious  prayers  had  struck  upon  the  hearts  of  the  imbruted 
blacks,  who  had  been  the  instruments  of  cruelty  upon  him ; 
and,  the  instant  Legree  withdrew,  they  took  him  down,  and., 
in  their  ignorance,  sought  to  call  him  back  to  life, —  as  if  that 
were  any  favor  to  him. 

"  Sartin,  we's  been  doin'  a  drefful  wicked  thing!"  said 
Sambo;  "hopes  Mas'r  '11  have  to  'count  for  it,  and  not  we." 

They  washed  his  wounds, —  they  provided  a  rude  bed,  of 
some  refuse  cotton,  for  him  to  lie  down  on ;  and  one  of  them, 
stealing  up  to  the  house,  begged  a  drink  of  brandy  of  Legree, 
pretending  that  he  was  tired,  and  wanted  it  for  himself.  He 
brought  it  back,  and  poured  it  down  Tom's  throat. 

"  0,  Tom ! "  said  Quimbo,  "  we 's  been  awful  wicked  to  ye ! " 

" I  forgive  ye,  with  all  my  heart ! "  said  Tom,  faintly. 

"  0,  Tom !  do  tell  us  who  is  Jesus,  anyhow  V1  said  Sambo ; 
—  "  Jesus,  that 's  been  a  standin'  by  you  so,  all  this  night !  — 
Who  is  he?" 

The  word  roused  the  failing,  fainting  spirit.  He  poured 
forth  a  few  energetic  sentences  of  that  wondrous  One, —  his 
life,  his  death,  his  everlasting  presence,  and  power  to  save. 

They  wept, —  both  the  two  savage  men. 

"  Why  did  n't  I  never  hear  this  before  ?  "  said  Sambo ;  "  but 
I  do  believe !  —  I  can't  help  it !  Lord  Jesus,  have  mercy  on 
us!" 

"  Poor  critters  ! "  said  Tom,  "  I  'd  be  willing,  to  bar'  all  I 
have,  if  it  '11  only  bring  ye  to  Christ !  0,  Lord !  give  me 
these  two  more  souls,  I  pray ! " 

That  prayer  was  answered ! 


276  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


THE  YOUNG  MASTER. 


Two  days  after,  a  young  man  drove  a  light  wagon  up 
through  the  avenue  of  china-trees,  and,  throwing  the  reins 
hastily  on  the  horses'  neck,  sprang  out  and  inquired  for  the 
owner  of  the  place. 

It  was  George  Shelby ;  and,  to  show  how  he  came  to  be 
there,  we  must  go  back  in  our  story. 

The  letter  of  Miss  Ophelia  to  Mrs.  Shelby  had,  by  some 
unfortunate  accident,  been  detained,  for  a  month  or  two,  at 
some  remote  post-office,  before  it  reached  its  destination ;  and, 
of  course,  before  it  was  received,  Tom  was  already  lost  to 
view  among  the  distant  swamps  of  the  Red  river. 

Mrs.  Shelby  read  the  intelligence  with  the  deepest  con- 
cern ;  but  any  immediate  action  upon  it  was  an  impossibility. 
She  was  then  in  attendance  on  the  sick-bed  of  her  husband, 
who  lay  delirious  in  the  crisis  of  a  fever.  Master  George 
Shelby,  who,  in  the  interval,  had  changed  from  a  boy  to  a  tall 
young  man,  was  her  constant  and  faithful  assistant,  and  her  only 
reliance  in  superintending  his  father's  affairs.  Miss  Ophelia 
had  taken  the  precaution  to  send  them  the  name  of  the  lawyer 
who  did  business  for  the  St.  Clares ;  and  the  most  that,  in  the 
emergency, .  could  be  done,  was  to  address  a  letter  of  inquiry 
to  him.  The  sudden  death  of  Mr.  Shelby,  a  few  days  after, 
brought,  of  course,  an  absorbing  pressure  of  other  interests, 
for  a  season. 


LIFE   AMONG    THE    LOWLY.  277 


Mr.  Shelby  showed  his  confidence  in  his  wife's  ability,  by 
appointing  her  sole  executrix  upon  his  estates ;  and  thus 
immediately  a  large  and  complicated  amount  of  business  was 
brought  upon  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Shelby,  with  characteristic  energy,  applied  herself  to 
the  work  of  straightening  the  entangled  web  of  affairs ;  and 
she  and  George  were  for  some  time  occupied  with  collect" 
ing  and  examining  accounts,  selling  property  and  settling 
debts ;  for  Mrs.  Shelby  was  determined  that  everything 
should  be  brought  into  tangible  and  recognizable  shape,  let 
the  consequences  to  her  prove -what  they  might.  In  the 
mean  time,  they  received  a  letter  from  the  lawyer  to  whom 
Miss  Ophelia  had  referred  them,  saying  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  matter  ;  that  the  man  was  sold  at  a  public  auction,  and 
that,  beyond  receiving  the  money,  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
affair. 

Neither  George  nor  Mrs.  Shelby  could  be  easy  at  this 
result ;  and,  accordingly,  some  six  months  after,  the  latter, 
having  business  for  his  mother,  down  the  river,  resolved  to 
visit  New  Orleans,  in  person,  and  push  his  inquiries,  in  hopes 
of  discovering  Tom's  whereabouts,  and  restoring  him. 

After  some  months  of  unsuccessful  search,  by  the  merest 
accident,  George  fell  in  with  a  man,  in  New  Orleans,  who 
happened  to  be  possessed  of  the  desired  information ;  and 
with  his  money  in  his  pocket,  our  hero  took  steamboat  for 
Red  river,  resolving  to  find  out  and  re-purchase  his  old  friend. 

He  was  soon  introduced  into  the  house,  where  he  found 
Legree  in  the  sitting-room. 

Legree  received  the  stranger  with  a  kind  of  surly  hospi- 
tality. 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  young  man,  "  that  you  bought, 
in  New  Orleans,  a  boy,  named  Tom.  He  used  to  be  on  my 
vol.  ii.  24 


278  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN:    OR 


father's  place,  and  I  came  to  see  if  I  couldn't  buy  him 
back." 

Legree's  brow  grew  dark,  and  he  broke  out,  passionately  : 
"  Yes,  I  did  buy  such  a  fellow, —  and  a  h — 1  of  a  bargain 
I  had  of  it,  too !  The  most  rebellious,  saucy,  impudent  clog  ! 
Set  up  my  niggers  to  run  away  ;  got  off  two  gals,  worth  eight 
hundred  or  a  thousand  dollars  apiece.  He  owned  to  that, 
and,  when  I  bid  him  tell  me  where  they  was,  he  up  and  said 
he  knew,  but  he  wouldn't  tell;  and  stood  to  it,  though  1 
gave  him  the  cussedest  flogging  I  ever  gave  nigger  yet.  I 
b'lieve  he 's  trying  to  die ;  but  I  don't  know  as  he  '11  make  it 
out." 

"  Where  is  he?"  said  George,  impetuously.  "Let  me  see 
him."  The  cheeks  of  the  young  man  were  crimson,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  fire ;  but  he  prudently  said  nothing,  as  yet. 

"  He's  in  dat  ar  shed,"  said  a  little  fellow,  who  stood  hold- 
ing George's  horse. 

Legree  kicked  the  boy,  and  swore  at  him ;  but  George, 
without  saying  another  word,  turned  and  strode  to  the  spot. 

Tom  had  been  lying  two  days  since  the  fatal  night ;  not 
suffering,  for  every  nerve  of  suffering  was  blunted  and 
destroyed.  He  lay,  for  the  most  part,  in  a  quiet  stupor ;  for 
the  laws  of  a  powerful  and  well-knit  frame  would  not  at  once 
release  the  imprisoned  spirit.  By  stealth,  there  had  been 
there,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  poor  desolated  creatures, 
who  stole  from  their  scanty  hours'  rest,  that  they  might 
repay  to  him  some  of  those  ministrations  of  love  in  which  he 
had  always  been  so  abundant.  Truly,  those  poor  disciples 
had  little  to  give,— only  the  cup  of  cold  water;  but  it  was 
given  with  full  hearts. 

Tears  had  fallen  on  that  honest,  insensible  face, —  tears  of 
late  repentance  in  the  poor,  ignorant  heathen,  whom  his  dying 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  279 

love  and  patience  had  awakened  to  repentance,  and  bitter 
prayers,  breathed  over  him  to  a  late-found  Saviour,  of 
whom  they  scarce  knew  more  than  the  name,  but  whom  the 
yearning  ignorant  heart  of  man  never  implores  in  vain. 

Cassy,  who  had  glided  out  of  her  place  of  concealment, 
and;  by  over- hearing,  learned  the  sacrifice  that  had  been  made 
for  her  and  Emmeline,  had  been  there,  the  night  before, 
defying  the  danger  of  detection ;  and,  moved  by  the  few  last 
words  which  the  affectionate  soul  had  yet  strength  to 
breathe,  the  long  winter  of  despair,  the  ice  of  years,  had 
given  way,  and  the  dark,  despairing  woman  had  wept  and 
prayed. 

When  George  entered  the  shed,  he  felt  his  head  giddy  and 
his  heart  sick. 

"Is  it  possible, —  is  it  possible?  "  said  he,  kneeling  down 
by  him.     "  Uncle  Tom,  my  poor,  poor  old  friend  !  " 

Something  in  the  voice  penetrated  to  the  ear  of  the  dying. 
He  moved  his  head  gently,  smiled,  and  said, 

"  Jesus  can  make  a  dying-bed 
Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are." 

Tears  which  did  honor  to  his  manly  heart  fell  from  the 
young  man's  eyes,  as  he  bent  over  his  poor  friend. 

"0,  dear  Uncle  Tom!  do  wake, —  do  speak  once  more! 
Look  up  !  Here  's  Mas'r  George, —  your  own  little  Mas'r 
George.     Don't  you  know  me?" 

"  Mas'r  George  !  "  said  Tom,  opening  his  eyes,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  feeble  voice  ;  "Mas'r  George  !  "  He  looked  bewil- 
dered. 

Slowly  tne  idea  seemed  to  fill  his  soul ;  and  the  vacant  eye 
became  fixed  and  brightened,  the  whole  face  lighted  up,  the 
hard  hands  clasped,  and  tears  ran  down  the  cheeks. 

"  Bless  the  Lord !  it  is, —  it  is, —  it 's  all  I  wanted  !    They 


280  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN:    OR, 

have  n't  forgot  me.  It  warms  my  soul ;  it  does  my  old  heart 
good  !  IN  ow  I  shall  die  content !  Bless  the  Lord,  oh  my 
soul !  » 

u  You  shan't  die  !  you  must  n't  die,  nor  think  of  it !  I  've 
come  to  buy  you,  and  take  you  home,"  said  George,  with 
impetuous  vehemence. 

"  0,  Mas'r  George,  ye 're  too  late.  The  Lord's  bought 
me,  and  is  going  to  take  me  home, —  and  I  long  to  go. 
Heaven  is  better  than  Kintuck." 

"  0,  don't  die  !  It  '11  kill  me  !  —  it  '11  break  my  heart  to 
think  what  you  've  suffered, — and  lying  in  this  old  shed,  here ! 
Poor,  poor  fellow  I" 

"Don't  call  me  poor  fellow!"  said  Tom,  solemnly.     "I 

Jtave  been  poor  fellow;  but  that's  all  past  and  gone,  now. 

I  'm  right  in  the  door,  going  into  glory !     0,  Mas'r  George  ! 

Heaven  has  come!    I've  got  the  viotory!  —  the  Lord  Jesus 

has  given  it  to  me  !     Glory  be  to  His  name  ! " 

George  was  awe-struck  at  the  force,  the  vehemence,  the 
power,  with  which  these  broken  sentences  were  uttered.  He 
sat  gazing  in  silence. 

Tom  grasped  his  hand,  and  continued, —  "  Ye  must  n't,  now, 
tell  Chloe,  poor  soul !  how  ye  found  me ;  —  't  would  be  so 
drefful  to  her.  Only  tell  her  ye  found  me  going  into  glory ; 
and  that  I  could  n't  stay  for  no  one.  And  tell  her  the  Lord 's 
stood  by  me  everywhere  and  al'ays,  and  made  everything 
light  and  easy.  And  oh,  the  poor  chil'en,  and  the  baby  !  — 
my  old  heart 's  been  most  broke  for  'em,  time  and  agin  !  Tell 
'em  all  to  follow  me  ■ —  follow  me  !  Give  my  love  to  Mas'r, 
and  dear  good  Missis,  and  everybody  in  the  place  !  Ye  don't 
know  !  '^Pears  like  I  loves  'em  all !  I  loves  every  creatur' 
cverywhar  !  —  it 's  nothing  but  love  !  0,  Mas'r  George  i 
what  a  thing  'tis  to  be  a  Christian ! " 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  281 

At  this  moment,  Legree  sauntered  up  to  the  door  of  the 
shed,  looked  in,  with  a  dogged  air  of  affected  carelessness,  and 
turned  away. 

"  The  old  satan  ! "  said  George,  in  his  indignation.  "  It 's 
a  comfort  to  think  the  devil  will  pay  him  for  this,  some  of 
these  days  ! " 

"0,  don't!  —  oh,  ye  mustn't!"  said  Tom,  grasping  his 
hand;  "he's  a  poor  mis'able  critter!  it's  awful  to  think 
on't!  0,  if  he  only  could  repent,  the  Lord  would  forgive 
him  now  ;  but  I  'm  'feared  he  never  will ! " 

"  I  hope  he  won't !  "  said  George;  "  I  never  want  to  see 
him  in  heaven !" 

"  Hush,  Mas'r  George !  —  it  worries  me  !  Don't  feel  so ! 
He  an't  done  me  no  real  harm, — only  opened  the  gate  of  the 
kingdom  for  me  ;  that 's  all ! " 

At  thi3  moment,  the  sudden  flush  of  strength  which  the  joy 
of  meeting  his  young  master  had  infused  into  the  dying  man 
gave  way.  A  sudden  sinking  fell  upon  him ;  he  closed  his 
eyes ;  and  that  mysterious  and  sublime  change  passed  over 
his  face,  that  told  the  approach  of  other  worlds. 

He  began  to  draw  his  breath  with  long,  deep  inspirations  ; 
and  his  broad  chest  rose  and  fell,  heavily.  The  expression  of 
his  face  was  that  of  a  conqueror. 

"Who,— who, —  who  shall  separate  us  from  the  love  of 
Christ  1 "  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  contended  with  mortal  weak- 
ness ;  and,  with  a  smile,  he  fell  asleep. 

George  sat  fixed  with  solemn  awe.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  place  was  holy ;  and,  as  he  closed  the  lifeless  eyes,  and 
rose  up  from  the  dead,  only  one  thought  possessed  him, —  that 
expressed  by  his  simple  old  friend, —  "  What  a  thing  it  is  to 
be  a  Christian  !  " 

He  turned:  Legree  was  standing,  sullenly,  behind  him. 

vol.  ii.  24* 


282  UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN:    OK, 

Something  in  that  dying  scene  had  checked  the  natural 
fierceness  of  youthful  passion.  The  presence  of  the  man  was 
simply  loathsome  to  George  ;  and  he  felt  only  an  impulse  to 
get  away  from  him,  with  as  few  words  as  possible. 

Fixing  his  keen  dark  eyes  on  Legree,  he  simply  said, 
pointing  to  the  dead,  "  You  have  got  all  you  ever  can  of 
him.  What  shall  I  pay  you  for  the  body  1  I  will  take  it 
away,  and  bury  it  decently." 

"  I  don't  sell  dead  niggers,"  said  Legree,  doggedly.  "  You 
are  welcome  to  bury  him  where  and  when  you  like." 

"  Boys,"  said  George,  in  an  authoritative  tone,  to  two  or 
three  negroes,  who  wTere  looking  at  the  body,  "help  me  lift 
him  up,  and  carry  him  to  my  wagon ;  and  get  me  a  spade." 

One  of  them  ran  for  a  spade;  the  other  two  assisted  George 
^o  carry  the  body  to  the  wagon. 

George  neither  spoke  to  nor  looked  at  Legree,  who  did  not 
countermand  his  orders,  but  stood,  whistling,  with  an  air  of 
forced  unconcern.  He  sulkily  followed  them  to  where  the 
wagon  stood  at  the  door. 

George  spread  his  cloak  in  the  wagon,  and  had  the  body 
carefully  disposed  of  in  it, —  moving  the  seat,  so  as  to  give  it 
room.  Then  he  turned,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Legree,  and  said, 
with  forced  composure, 

"  I  have  not,  as  yet,  said  to  you  what  I  think  of  this  most 
atrocious  affair ;  —  this  is  not  the  time  and  place.  But,  sir, 
this  innocent  blood  shall  have  justice.  I  will  proclaim  this 
murder.  I  will  go  to  the  very  first  magistrate,  and  expose 
you." 

"  Do  ! "  said  Legree,  snapping  his  fingers,  scornfully.  "  I  'd 
like  to  see  you  doing  it.  Where  you  going  to  get  witnesses  9 
— how  you  going  to  prove  it?  —  Come,  now  ! " 

George  saw,  at  once,  the  force  of  this  defiance.     There  was 


LIFE  AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  283 


not  a  white  person  on  the  place ;  and,  in  all  southern  courts, 
the  testimony  of  colored  blood  is  nothing.  He  felt,  at  that 
moment,  as  if  he  could  have  rent  the  heavens  with  his  heart's 
indignant  cry  for  justice  ;  but  in  vain. 

"  After  all,  what  a  fuss,  for  a  dead  nigger  ! "  said  Legree. 

The  word  was  as  a  spark  to  a  powder  magazine.  Prudence 
was  never  a  cardinal  virtue  of  the  Kentucky  boy.  George 
turned,  and,  with  one  indignant  blow,  knocked  Legree  flat 
upon  his  face ;  and,  as  he  stood  over  him,  blazing  with  wrath 
and  defiance,  he  would  have  formed  no  bad  personification  of 
his  great  namesake  triumphing  over  the  dragon. 

Some  men,  however,  are  decidedly  bettered  by  being 
knocked  down.  If  a  man  lays  them  fairly  flat  in  the  dust, 
they  seem  immediately  to  conceive  a  respect  for  him ;  and 
Legree  was  one  of  this  sort.  As  he  rose,  therefore,  an3 
brushed  the  dust  from  his  clothes,  he  eyed  the  slowly-retreat- 
ing wagon  with  some  evident  consideration ;  nor  did  he  open 
his  mouth  till  it  was  out  of  sight.   ' 

Beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  plantation,  George  had  noticed 
a  dry,  sandy  knoll,  shaded  by  a  few  trees :  there  they  made 
the  grave. 

"Shall  we  take  off  the  cloak,  Mas'r?"  said  the  negroes, 
when  the  grave  was  ready. 

"  No,  no, —  bury  it  with  him  !  It 's  all  I  can  give  you, 
now,  poor  Tom,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

They  laid  him  in ;  and  the  men  shovelled  away,  silently. 
They  banked  it  up,  and  laid  green  turf  over  it. 

"  You  may  go,  boys,"  said  George,  slipping  a  quarter  into 
the  hand  of  each.     They  lingered  about,  however. 

"  If  young  Mas'r  would  please  buy  us—"  said  one. 

"We  'd  serve  him  so  faithful ! "  said  the  other. 


284  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

"  Hard  times  here,  Mas'r  !  "  said  the  first.  "  Do,  Mas'r, 
buy  us,  please  !" 

"  I  can't !  —  I  can't ! "  said  George,  with  difficulty,  motion- 
ing them  off;   "  it 's  impossible  ! " 

The  poor  fellows  looked  dejected,  and  walked  off  in  silence. 

"Witness,  eternal  God!"  said  George,  kneeling  on  the 
grave  of  his  poor  friend ;  "oh,  witness,  that,  from  this  hour, 
I  will  do  what  one  man  can  to  drive  out  this  curse  of  slav- 
ery from  my  land  ! " 

Thore  is  no  monument  to  mark  the  last  resting-place  of 
our  friend.  He  needs  none  !  His  Lord  knows  where  he  lies, 
and  will  raise  him  up,  immortal,  to  appear  with  him  when  he 
shall  appear  in  his  glory. 

Pity  him  not !  Such  a  life  and  death  is  not  for  pity  ! 
jTot  in  the  riches  of  omnipotence  is  the  chief  glory  of  God ; 
but  in  self-denying,  suffering  love  !  And  blessed  are  the  men 
whom  he  calls  to  fellowship  with  him,  bearing  their  cross 
after  him  with  patience.  Of  such  it  is  written,  "  Blessed  are 
they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted." 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  285 


CHAPTER  XLH. 


AN  AUTHENTIC   GHOST  STORY. 


For  some  remarkable  reason,  ghostly  legends  were  uncom- 
monly rife,  about  this  time,  among  the  servants  on  l^gree's 
place. 

It  was  whisperingly  asserted  that  -footsteps,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  had  been  heard  descending  the  garret  stairs,  and  patrol- 
ling the  house.  In  vain  the.  doors  of  the  upper  entry  had  been 
locked  ;  the  ghost  either  carried  a  duplicate  key  in  its  pocket, 
or  availed  itself  of  a  ghost's  immemorial  privilege  of  coming 
through  the  keyhole,  and  promenaded  as  before,  with  a  free- 
dom that  was  alarming. 

Authorities  were  somewhat  divided,  as  to  the  outward  form 
of  the  spirit,  owing  to  a  custom  quite  prevalent  among  negroes, 
— and,  for  aught  we  know,  among  whites,  too, — of  invariably 
shutting  the  eyes,  and  covering  up  heads  under  blankets,  petti- 
coats, or  whatever  else  might  come  in  use  for  a  shelter,  on  these 
occasions*.  Of  course,  as  everybody  knows,  when  the  bodily 
eyes  are  thus  out  of  the  lists,  the  spiritual  eyes  are  uncommonly 
vivacious  and  perspicuous ;  and,  therefore,  there  were  abun- 
dance of  full-length  portraits  of  the  ghost,  abundantly  sworn 
and  testified  to,  which,  as  is  often  the  case  with  portraits, 
agreed  with  each  other  in  no  particular,  except  the  common 
family  peculiarity  of  the  ghost  tribe, —  the  wearing  of  a  white 
sheet.      The  poor  souls  were  not  versed  in  ancient  history 


286  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN:   016, 

and  did  not  know  that  Shakspeare  had  authenticated  this 
costume,  by  telling  how 

"  The  sheeted  dead 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  streets  of  Rome." 

And  j  therefore,  their  all  hitting  upon  this  is  a  striking  fact 
in  pneumatology,  which  we  recommend  to  the  attention  of 
spiritual  media  generally. 

Be  it  as  it  may,  we  have  private  reasons  for  knowing  that 
a  tall  figure  in  a  white  sheet  did  walk,  at  the  most  approved 
ghostly  hoursr  around  the  Legree  premises,  —  pass  out  the 
doors,  glide  about  the  house, —  disappear  at  intervals,  and, 
reappearing,  pass  up  tfoe  silent  stair-way,  into  that  fatal 
garret ;  and  that,  in  the  morning,  the  entry  doors  were  all 
found  shut  and  locked  as  firm  as  ever. 

Legree  could  not  help  overhearing  this  whispering ;  and  it 
was  all  the  more  exciting  to  him,  from  the  pains  that  were 
taken  to  conceal  it  from  him.  He  drank  more  brandy  thai 
usual ;  held  up  his  head  briskly,  and  swore  louder  than  eve* 
in  the  day-time;  but  he  had  bad  dreams,  and  the  visions  of  h?«* 
head  on  his  bed  were  anything  but  agreeable.  The  nigh* 
after  Tom's  body  had  been  carried  away,  he  rode  to  the  next 
town  for  a  carouse,  and  had  a  high  one.  Got  home  late  an<* 
tired  ;  locked  his  door,  took  out  the  key,  and  went  to  bed. 

After  all,  let  a  man  take  what  pains  he  may  to  hush  it 
down,  a  human  soul  is  an  awful  ghostly,  unquiet  possession 
for  a  bad  man  to  have.  Who  knows  the  metes  and  bounds 
of  it  ?  Who  knows  all  its  awful  perhapses, —  those  shudder- 
ings  and  tremblings,  which  it  can  no  more  live  down  than  it 
can  outlive  its  own  eternity !  What  a  fool  is  he  who  locks 
his  door  to  keep  out  spirits,  who  has  in  his  own  bosom  a  spirit  j 
he  dares  not  meet  alone, —  whose  voice,  smothered  far  down, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE  LOWLY.  287 

and  piled  over  with  mountains  of  earthliness,  is  yet  like  the 
forewarning  trumpet  of  doom  ! 

But  Legree  locked  his  door  and  set  a  chair  against  it ; 
he  set  a  night-lamp  at  the  head  of  his  bed ;  and  he  put  his 
pistols  there.  He  examined  the  catches  and  fastenings  of  the 
windows,  and  then  swore  he  "  did  n't  care  for  the  devil  and  all 
his  angels,"  and  went  to  sleep. 

Well,  he  slept,  for  he  was  tired, —  slept  soundly.  But, 
finally,  there  came  over  his  sleep  a  shadow,  a  horror,  an 
apprehension  of  something  dreadful  hanging  over  him.  It 
was  his  mother's  shroud,  he  thought ;  but  Cassy  had  it,  hold- 
ing it  up,  and  showing  it  to  him.  He  heard  a  confused 
noise  of  screams  and  groanings ;  »d,  with  it  all,  he  knew 
he  was  asleep,  and  he  struggled  to  wake  himself.  He  was 
half  awake.  He  was  sure  something  was  coming  into  his 
room.  He  knew  the  door  was  opening,  but  he  could  not 
stir  hand  or  foot.  At  last  he  turned,  with  a  start ;  the  door 
was  open,  and  he  saw  a  hand  putting  out  his  light. 

It  was  a  cloudy,  misty  moonlight,  and  there  he  saw  it !  — 
something  white,  gliding  in  !  He  heard  the  still  rustle  of  its 
ghostly  garments.  It  stood  still  by  his  bed  ;  —  a  cold  hand 
touched  his  ;  a  voice  said,  three  times,  in  a  low,  fearful  wnis- 
per,  "Come!  come!  come!"  And,  while  he  lay  sweating 
with  terror,  he  knew  not  when  or  how,  the  thing  was  gone- 
He  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  pulled  at  the  door.  It  was  shut 
and  locked,  and  the  man  fell  down  in  a  swoon. 

After  this,  Legree  became  a  harder  drinker  than  ever 
before.  He  no  longer  drank  cautiously,  prudently,  but 
imprudently  and  recklessly. 

There  were  reports  around  the  country,  soon  after,  that  he 
was  sick  and  dying.  Excess  had  brought  on  that  frightful 
disease  that  seems  to  throw  the  lurid  shadows  of  a  coming 


288  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR 


retribution  back  into  the  present  life.  None  could  bear  the 
horrors  of  that  sick  room,  when  he  raved  and  screamed,  and 
spoke  of  sights  which  almost  stopped  the  blood  of  those  who 
heard  him;  and,  at  his  dying  bed,  stood  a  stern,  white,  inexor- 
able figure,  saying,  "  Come  !  come  !  come  ! " 

By  a  singular  coincidence,  on  the  very  night  that  this 
vision  appeared  to  Legree,  the  house-door  was  found  open  in 
the  morning,  and  some  of  the  negroes  had  seen  two  white 
figures  gliding  down  the  avenue  towards  the  high-road. 

It  was  near  sunrise  when  Gassy  and  Emmeline  paused,  for 
a  moment,  in  a  little  knot  of  trees  near  the  town. 

Cassy  was  dressed  after  the  manner  of  the  Creole  Spanish 
ladies, —  wholly  in  blaclj|  A  small  black  bonnet  on  her  head, 
covered  by  a  veil  thick  with  embroidery,  concealed  her  face. 
It  had  been  agreed  that,  in  their  escape,  she  was  to  personate 
the  character  of  a  Creole  lady,  and  Emmeline  that  of  her 
servant. 

Brought  up,  from  early  life,  in  connection  with  the  highest 
society,  the  language,  movements  and  air  of  Cassy,  were  all 
in  agreement  with  this  idea;  and  she  had  still  enough  remain- 
ing with  her,  of  a  once  splendid  wardrobe,  and  sets  of  jewels, 
to  Enable  her  to  personate  the  thing  to  advantage. 

She  stopped  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  where  she  had 
noticed  trunks  for  sale,  and  purchased  a  handsome  one.  This 
she  requested  the  man  to  send  along  with  her.  And,  accord- 
ingly, thus  escorted  by  a  boy  wheeling  her  trunk,  and  Emme- 
line behind  her,  carrying  her  carpet-bag  and  sundry  bundles, 
she  made  her  appearance  at  the  small  tavern,  like  a  lady  of 
consideration. 

The  first  person  that  struck  her,  after  her  arrival,  was 
George  Shelby,  who  was  staying  there,  awaiting  the  next 
boat 


LITE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  289 

Casxy  had  remarked  the  young  man  from  her  loop-hole  in 
the  garret,  and  seen  him  bear  away  the  body  of  Tom,  and 
observed,  with  secret  exultation,  his  rencontre  with  Legree. 
Subsequently,  she  had  gathered,  from  the  conversations  she 
had  overheard  among  the  negroes,  as  she  glided  about  in  her 
ghostly  disguise,  after  nightfall,  who  he  was,  and  in  what 
relation  he  stood  to  Tom.  She,  therefore,  felt  an  immediate 
accession  of  confidence,  when  she  found  that  he  was,  like 
herself,  awaiting  the  next  boat. 

Cassy's  air  and  manner,  address,  and  evident  command  of 
money,  prevented  any  rising  disposition  to  suspicion  in  tho 
hotel.  People  never  inquire  too  closely  into  those  who  are 
fair  on  the  main  point,  of  paying  well, —  a  thing  which  Gassy 
had  foreseen  when  she  provided  herself  with  money. 

In  the  edge  of  the  evening,  a  boat  was  heard  coming  along, 
and  George  Shelby  handed  Cassy  aboard,  with  the  politeness 
which  comes  naturally  to  every  Kentuckian,  and  exerted  him- 
self to  provide  her  with  a  good  state-room. 

Cassy  kept  her  room  and  bed,  on  pretext  of  illness,  during 
the  whole  time  they  were  on  Red  river ;  and  was  waited  on, 
with  obsequious  devotion,  by  her  attendant. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Mississippi  river,  George,  having 
learned  that  the  course  of  the  strange  lady  was  upward,  like 
his  own,  proposed  to  take  a  state-room  for  her  on  the  same 
boat  with  himself, —  good-naturedly  compassionating  her  fee- 
ble health,  and  desirous  to  do  what  he  could  to  assist  her. 

Behold,  therefore,  the  whole  party  safely  transferred  to  the 
good  steamer  Cincinnati,  and  sweeping  up  the  river  under  a 
powerful  head  of  steam. 

Cassy's  health  was  much  better.  She  sat  upon  the  guards, 
came  to  the  table,  and  was  remarked  upon  in  the  boat  as  a 
lady  that  must  have  been  very  handsome. 

vol.  II.  25 


290  uncle  tom's  cabin  :  or, 

From  the  moment  that  George  got  the  first  glimpse  of  her 
face,  he  was  troubled  with  one  of  those  fleeting  and  indefinite 
likenesses,  which  almost  everybody  can  remember,  and  has 
been,  at  times,  perplexed  with.  He  could  not  keep  himself 
from  looking  at  her,  and  watching  her  perpetually.  At  table, 
or  sitting  at  her  state-room  door,  still  she  would  encounter 
the  young  man's  eyes  fixed  on  her,  and  politely  withdrawn, 
when  she  showed,  by  her  countenance,  that  she  was  sensible 
of  the  observation. 

Cassy  became  uneasy.  She  began  to  think  that  he  sus- 
pected something;  and  finally  resolved  to  throw  herself 
entirely  on  his  generosity,  and  intrusted  him  with  her  whole 
history. 

George  was  heartily  disposed  to  sympathize  with  any  one 
who  had  escaped  from  Legree's  plantation, —  a  place  that  he 
could  not  remember  or  speak  of  with  patience,  —  and,  with 
the  courageous  disregard  of  consequences  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  his  age  and  state,  he  assured  her  that  he  would  do 
all  in  his  power  to  protect  and  bring  them  through. 

The  next  state-room  to  Cassy' s  was  occupied  by  a  French 
lady,  named  De  Thoux,  who  was  accompanied  by  a  fine  little 
daughter,  a  child  of  some  twelve  summers. 

This  lady,  having  gathered,  from  George's  conversation, 
that  he  was  from  Kentucky,  seemed  evidently  disposed  to 
cultivate  his  acquaintance ';  in  which  design  she  was  seconded 
by  the  graces  of  her  little  girl,  who  was  about  as  pretty  a 
plaything  as  ever  diverted  the  weariness  of  a  fortnight's  trip 
on  a  steamboat. 

George's  chair  was  often  placed  at  her  state-room  door;  and 
Cassy,  as  she  sat  upon  the  guards,  could  hear  their  conver- 
sation. 

Madam©  de  Thoux  was  very  minute  in  her  inquiries  as  to 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  291 

Kentucky,  where  she  said  she  had  resided  in  a  former  period 
of  her  life.  George  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that  her  for- 
mer residence  must  have  been  in  his  own  vicinity ;  and  her 
inquiries  showed  a  knowledge  of  people  and  things  in  his 
region,  that  was  perfectly  surprising  to  him. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Madame  de  Thoux  to  him,  one  day 
"  of  any  man,  in  your  neighborhood,  of  the  name  of  Harris  1  " 

"  There  is  an  old  fellow,  of  that  name,  lives  not  far  from 
my  father's  place,"  said  George.  "We  never  have  had  much 
intercourse  with  him,  though." 

"He  is  a  large  slave-owner,  I  believe,"  said  Madame  de 
Thoux,  with  a  manner  which  seemed  to  betray  more  interest 
than  she  was  exactly  willing  to  show. 

"He  is,"  said  George,  looking  rather  surprised  at  her 
manner. 

"Did  you  ever  know  of  his  having  —  perhaps,  you  may 
have  heart?  of  his  having  a  mulatto  boy,  named  George  ?" 

"0,  certainly, —  George  Harris, —  I  know  him  well;  he 
married  a  servant  of  my  mother's,  but  has  escaped,  now,  to 
Canada." 

"  He  has  ?  "  said  Madame  de  Thoux,  quickly.  "  Thank 
God ! " 

George  looked  a  surprised  inquiry,  but  said  nothing. 

Madame  de  Thoux  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  He  is  my  brother,"  she  said. 

"  Madame  !  "  said  George,  with  a  strong  accent  of  sur- 
prise. 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  de  Thoux,  lifting  her  head,  proudly, 
and  wiping  her  tears;  "Mr.  Shelby,  George  Harris  is  my 
brother ! " 


292  UNCLE  tom's  cabin  :    OR, 

"I  am  perfectly  astonished,"  said  George,  pushing  back 
Lis  chair  a  pace  or  two,  and  looking  at  Madame  de  Thoux. 

"I  was  sold  to  the  South  when  he  was  a  boy,"  said  she. 
"I  was  bought  by  a  good  and  generous  man.  Ho  took  me 
with  him  to  the  West  Indies,  set  me  free,  and  married  me. 
It  is  but  lately  that  he  died ;  and  I  was  coming  up  to  Ken- 
tucky, to  see  if  I  could  find  and  redeem  my  brother." 

"I  have  heard  him  speak  of  a  sister  Emily,  that  was  sold 
South,"  said  George. 

"Yes,  indeed  !  I  am  the  one,"  said  Madame  de  Thoux;  — 
"  tell  me  what  sort  of  a  — " 

"A  very  fine  young  man,"  said  George,  "notwithstand- 
ing the  curse  of  slavery  that  lay  on  him.  He  sustained  a 
first  rate  character,  both  for  intelligence  and  principle.  I 
know,  you  see,"  he  said;  "because  he  married  in  our 
family." 

"  What  sort  of  a  girl  ?  "  said  Madame  de  Thoux,  eagerly. 

"A  treasure,"  said  George;  "a  beautiful,  intelligent,  amia- 
ble girl.  Very  pious.  My  mother  had  brought  her  up,  and 
trained  her  as  carefully,  almost,  as  a  daughter.  She  could 
read  and  write,  embroider  and  sew,  beautifully ;  and  was  a 
beautiful  singer." 

"  Was  she  born  in  your  house  ?  "  said  Madame  de  Thoux. 

"  No.  Father  bought  her  once,  in  one  of  his  trips  to  New 
Orleans,  and  brought  her  up  as  a  present  to  mother.  She 
was  about  eight  or  nine  years  old,  then.  Father  would  never 
tell  mother  what  he  gave  for  her;  but,  the  other  day,  in  look- 
ing over  his  old  papers,  we  came  across  the  bill  of  sale.  He 
paid  an  extravagant  sum  for  her,  to  be  sure.  I  suppose,  on 
account  of  her  extraordinary  beauty." 

George  sat  with  his  back  to  Cassy,  and  did  not  see  the 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  293 

•        '  *'  '  '  ■— •  >  " ' 

absorbed  expression  of  her  countenance,  as  he  was  giving 
these  details. 

At  this  point  in  the  story,  she  touched  his  arm,  and,  with  a 
face  perfectly  white  with  interest,  said,  "Do  you  know  tho 
names  of  the  people  he  bought  her  of  ?  " 

"  A  man  of  the  name  of  Simmons,  I  think,  was  the  princi- 
pal in  the  transaction.  At  least,  I  think  that  was  the  name 
on  the  bill  of  sale." 

"0,  my  God! "  said  Cassy,  and  fell  insensible  on  the  floor 
of  the  cabin. 

George  was  wide  awake  now,  and  so  was  Madame  de 
Thoux.  Though  neither  of  them  could  conjecture  what  was 
the  cause  of  Cassy"  s  fainting,  still  they  made  all  the  tumult 
which  is  proper  in  such  cases ;  —  George  upsetting  a  wash- 
pitcher,  and  breaking  two  tumblers,  in  the  warmth  of  his 
humanity  ;  and  various  ladies  in  the  cabin,  hearing  that 
somebody  had  fainted,  crowded  the  state-room  door,  and  kept 
out  all  the  air  they  possibly  could,  so  that,  on  the  whole,  every- 
thing was  done  that  could  be  expected. 

Poor  Cassy  !  when  she  recovered,  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall,  and  wept  and  sobbed  like  a  child, —  perhaps,  mother, 
you  can  tell  what  she  was  thinking  of!  Perhaps  you  cannot, 
—  but  she  felt  as  sure,  in  that  hour,  that  God  had  had  mercy 
on  her,  and  that  she  should  see  her  daughter, —  as  she  did, 
months  afterwards, —  when  —  but  we  anticipate. 

vol.  ii.  25* 


294  uncle  tom's  cabin:  or, 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


RESULTS. 


The  rest  of  our  story  is  soon  told.  George  Shelby ; 
interested,  as  any  other  young  man  might  be,  by  the  romance 
of  the  incident,  no  less  than  by  feelings  of  humanity, 
was  at  the  pains  to  send  to  Cassy  the  bill  of  sale  of  Eliza ; 
■whose  date  and  name  all  corresponded  with  her  own  knowl- 
edge of  facts,  and  left  no  doubt  upon  her  mind  as  to  the 
identity  of  her  child.  It  remained  now  only  for  her  to  trace 
out  the  path  of  the  fugitives. 

Madame  de  Thoux  and  she,  thus  drawn  together  by  the 
singular  coincidence  of  their  fortunes,  proceeded  immediately 
to  Canada,  and  began  a  tour  of  inquiry  among  the  stations, 
where  the  numerous  fugitives  from  slavery  are  located.  At 
Amherstberg  they  found  the  missionary  with  whom  George 
and  Eliza  had  taken  shelter,  on  their  first  arrival  in  Canada ; 
and  through  him  were  enabled  to  trace  the  family  to  Mon- 
treal. 

George  and  Eliza  had  now  been  five  years  free.  Georgs 
had  found  constant  occupation  in  the  shop  of  a  worthy 
machinist,  where  he  had  been  earning  a  competent  support 
for  his  family,  which,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  increased  by 
the  addition  of  another  daughter. 

Little  Harry  —  a  fine  bright  boy — had  been  put  to  a  good 
school,  and  was  making  rapid  proficiency  in  knowledge. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  295 

The  worthy  pastor  of  the  station,  in  Amherstberg,  where 
George  had  first  landed,  was  so  much  interested  in  the  state- 
ments of  Madame  de  Thoux  and  Cassy,  that  he  yielded  to 
the  solicitations  of  the  former,  to  accompany  them  to  Mon- 
treal, in  their  search, —  she  bearing  all  the  expense  of  the 
expedition. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  a  small,  neat  tenement,  in  the 
outskirts  of  Montreal ;  the  time,  evening.  A  cheerful  fire 
blazes  on  the  hearth  ;  a  tea-table,  covered  with  a  snowy  cloth, 
stands  prepared  for  the  evening  meal.  In  one  corner  of  the 
room  was  a  table  covered  with  a  green  cloth,  where  was  an 
open  writing-desk,  pens,  paper,  and  over  it  a  shelf  of  well- 
selected  books. 

This  was  George's  study.  The  same  zeal  for  self-improve- 
ment, which  led  him  to  steal  the  much  coveted  arts  of  reading 
and  writing,  amid  all  the  toils  and  discouragements  of  his 
early  life,  still  led  him  to  devote  all  his  leisure  time  to  self- 
cultivation. 

At  this  present  time,  he  is  seated  at  the  table,  making 
notes  from  a  volume  of  the  family  library  he  has  been 
reading. 

"  Come,  George,"  says  Eliza,  "you've  been  gone  all  day. 
Do  put  down  that  book,  and  let 's  talk,  while  I  'm  getting  tea, 
--do." 

And  little  Eliza  seconds  the  effort,  by  toddling  up  to  her 
father,  and  trying  to  pull  the  book  out  of  his  hand,  and  install 
hers&f  on  his  knee  as  a  substitute. 

"  0,  you  little  witch!"  says  George,  yielding,  as,  in  such 
circumstances,  man  always  must. 

"That 's  right,"  says  Eliza,  as  she  begins  to  cut  a  loaf  of 
bread.     A  little  older  she  looks;  her  form  a  little  fuller; 


296  UNCLE   TOM'S  CABIN:   or, 

her  air  more  matronly  than  of  yore;  but  evidently  con- 
tented and  happy  as  woman  need  be. 

'  'Harry,  my  boy,  how  did  you  come  on  in  that  sum, 
to-day?"  says  George,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  son's 
head. 

Harry  has  lost  his  long  curls  ;  but  he  can  never  lose  those 
eyes  and  eyelashes,  and  that  fine,  bold  brow,  that  flushes  with 
triumph,  as  he  answers,  "I  did  it,  every  bit  of  it.  my self * 
father ;  and  nobody  helped. me !  " 

"That's  right,"  says  his  father;  "depend  on  yourself, 
my  son.  You  have  a  better  chance  than  ever  your  poor 
father  had." 

At  this  moment,  there  is  a  rap  at  the  door ;  and  Eliza  goes 
and  opens  it.  The  delighted  —  "  Why !  —  this  you  ? "  — 
calls  up  her  husband ;  and  the  good  pastor  of  Amherstberg 
is  welcomed.  There  are  two  more  women  with  him,  and  Eliza 
asks  them  to  sit  down. 

Now,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  honest  pastor  had 
arranged  a  little  programme,  according  to  which  this  affair 
was  to  develop  itself;  and,  on  the  way  up,  all  had  very 
cautiously  and  prudently  exhorted  each  other  not  to  let 
things  out,  except  according  to  previous  arrangement. 

What  was  the  good  man's  consternation,  therefore,  just  as 
he  had  motioned  to  the  ladies  to  be  seated,  and  was  taking 
out  his  pocket-handkerchief  to  wipe  his  mouth,  so  as  to 
proceed  to  his  introductory  speech  in  good  order,  when 
Madame  de  Thoux  upset  the  whole  plan,  by  throwing  her 
arms  around  George's  neck,  and  letting  all  out  at  once,  by 
saying,  uO,  George!  don't  you  know  me?  I'm  your 
sister  Emily." 

Cassy  had  seated  herself  more  composedly,  and  would  have 
carried  on  her  part  very  well,  had  not  little  Eliza  suddenly 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  297 

appeared  before  her  in  exact  shape  and  form,  every  outline 
and  curl,  just  as  her  daughter  was  when  she  saw  her  last. 
The  little  thing  peered  up  in  her  face ;  and  Cassy  caught  her 
up  in  her  arms,  pressed  her  to  her  bosom,  saying,  what 
at  the  moment  she  really  believed,  "Darling,  I'm  your 
mother  !" 

In  fact,  it  was  a  troublesome  matter  to  do  up  exactly  in 
proper  order ;  but  the  good  pastor,  at  last,  succeeded  in 
getting  everybody  quiet,  and  delivering  the  speech  with 
which  he  had  intended  to  open  the  exercises ;  and  in  which, 
at  last,  he  succeeded  so  well,  that  his  whole  audience  were 
sobbing  about  him  in  a  manner  that  ought  to  satisfy  any 
orator,  ancient  or  modern. 

They  knelt  together,  and  the  good  man  prayed, —  for  there 
are  some  feelings  so  agitated  and  tumultuous,  that  they  can 
find  rest  only  by  being  poured  into  the  bosom  of  Almighty 
love, —  and  then,  rising  up,  the  new-found  family  embraced 
each  other,  with  a  holy  trust  in  Him,  who  from  such  peril 
and  dangers,  and  by  such  unknown  ways,  had  brought  them 
together. 

The  note-book  of  a  missionary,  among  the  Canadian  fugi- 
tives, contains  truth  stranger  than  fiction.  How  can  it  be 
otherwise,  when  a  system  prevails  which  whirls  families  and 
scatters  their  members,  as  the  wind  whirls  and  scatters 
the  leaves  of  autumn?  These  shores  of  refuge,  like  the 
eternal  shore,  often  unite  again,  in  glad  communion,  hearts 
that  for  long  years  have  mourned  each  other  as  lost.  And 
affecting  beyond  expression  is  the  earnestness  with  which 
every  new  arrival  among  them  is  met,  if,  perchance,  it  may 
bring  tidings  of  mother,  sister,  child  or  wife,  still  lost  to  view 
in  the  shadows  of  slavery. 

Deeds  of  heroism  are  wrought  here  more  than  those  of 


29B  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 


romance,  when,  defying  torture,  and  braving  death  itself,  the 
fugitive  voluntarily  threads  his  way  back  to  the  terrors  and 
perils  of  that  dark  land,  that  he  may  bring  out  his  sister,  or 
mother,  or  wife. 

One  young  man,  of  whom  a  missionary  has  told  us,  twice 
re-captured,  and  suffering  shameful  stripes  for  his  heroism, 
had  escaped  again ;  and,  in  a  letter  which  we  heard  read,  tells 
his  friends  that  he  is  going  back  a  third  time,  that  he  may,  at 
last,  bring  away  his  sister.  My  good  sir,  is  this  man  a  hero, 
or  a  criminal  1  Would  not  you  do  as  much  for  your  sister  ? 
And  can  you  blame  him  ? 

But,  to  return  to  our  friends,  whom  we  left  wiping  their 
eyes,  and  recovering  themselves  from  too  great  and  sudden  a 
joy.  They  are  now  seated  around  the  social  board,  and  aro 
getting  decidedly  companionable ;  only  that  Cassy,  who  keeps, 
little  Eliza  on  her  lap,  occasionally  squeezes  the  little  thing, 
in  a  manner  that  rather  astonishes  her,  and  obstinately 
refuses  to  have  her  mouth  stuffed  with  cake  to  the  extent  the 
little  one  desires, —  alleging,  what  the  child  rather  wonders  at, 
that  she  has  got  something  better  than  cake,  and  does  n't 
want  it. 

And,  indeed,  in  two  or  three  days,  such  a  change  has 
passed  over  Cassy,  that  our  readers  would  scarcely  know  her. 
The  despairing,  haggard  expression  of  her  face  had  given 
way  to  one  of  gentle  trust.  She  seemed  to  sink,  at  once,  into 
the  bosom  of  the  family,  and  take  the  little  ones  into  her 
heart,  as  something  for  which  it  long  had  waited.  Indeed, 
her  love  seemed  to  flow  more  naturally  to  the  little  Eliza 
than  to  her  own  daughter ;  for  she  was  the  exact  image  and 
body  of  the  child  whom  she  had  lost.  The  little  one  was  a 
flowery  bond  between  mother  and  daughter,  through  whom 
grew  up  acquaintanceship  and  affection.     Eliza's  steady,  con- 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  299 


eistent  piety,  regulated  by  the  constant  reading  of  the  sacred 
word,  made  her  a  proper  guide  for  the  shattered  and  wearied 
mind  of  her  mother.  Cassy  yielded  at  once,  and  with  her 
whole  soul,  to  every  good  influence,  and  became  a  devout 
and  tender  Christian. 

After  a  day  or  two,  Madame  de  Thoux  told  her  brother 
more  particularly  of  her  affairs.  The  death  of  her  husband 
had  left  her  an  ample  fortune,  which  she  generously  offered 
to  share  with  the  family.  When  she  asked  George  what 
way  she  could  best  apply  it  for  him,  he  answered,  "  Give  me 
an  education,  Emily  ;  that  has  always  been  my  heart's  desire. 
Then,  I  can  do  all  the  rest." 

On  mature  deliberation,  it  was  decided  that  the  whole 
family  should  go,  for  some  years,  to  France ;  whither  they 
sailed,  carrying  Emmeline  with  them. 

The  good  looks  of  the  latter  won  the  affection  of  the  first 
mate  of  the  vessel ;  and,  shortly  after  entering  the  port,  she 
became  his  wTife. 

George  remained  four  years  at  a  French  university,  and, 
applying  himself  with  an  unintermitted  zeal,  obtained  a  very 
thorough  education. 

Political  troubles  in  France,  at  last,  led  the  family  again 
to  seek  an  asylum  in  this  country. 

George's  feelings  and  views,  as  an  educated  man,  may  be 
best  expressed  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  friends. 

"  I  feel  somewhat  at  a  loss,  as  to  my  future  course.  True, 
as  you  have  said  to  me,  I  might  mingle  in  the  circles  of  tho 
whites,  in  this  country,  my  shade  of  color  is  so  slight,  and 
that  of  my  wife  and  family  scarce  perceptible.  Well, 
perhaps,  on  sufferance,  I  might.  But,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  have  no  wish  to. 

"  My  sympathies  are  not  for  my  father's  race,  but  for  my 


300  UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN  :    OR. 

mother's.  To  him  I  was  no  more  than  a  fine  dog  or  horse : 
to  my  poor  heart-broken  mother  I  was  a  child ;  and,  though 
I  never  saw  her,  after  the  cruel  sale  that  separated  us,  till  she 
died,  yet  I  know  she  always  loved  me  dearly.  I  know  it  by 
my  own  heart.  When  I  think  of  all  she  suffered,  of  my  own 
early  sufferings,  of  the  distresses  and  struggles  of  my  heroic 
wife,  of  my  sister,  sold  in  the  New  Orleans  slave-market, — 
though  I  hope  to  have  no  unchristian  sentiments,  yet  I  may 
be  excused  for  saying,  I  have  no  wish  to  pass  for  an  Amer- 
ican, or  to  identify  myself  with  them. 

"It  is  with  the  oppressed,  enslaved  African  race  that  I 
cast  in  my  lot ;  and,  if  I  wished  anything,  I  would  wish  my- 
self two  shades  darker,  rather  than  one  lighter. 

"  The  desire  and  yearning  of  my  soul  is  for  an  African 
nationality.  I  want  a  people  that  shall  have  a  tangible, 
separate  existence  -of  its  own  ;  and  where  am  I  to  look  for  it  ? 
Not  in  Hayti ;  for  in  Hayti  they  had  nothing  to  start  with. 
A  stream  cannot  rise  above  its  fountain.  The  race  that 
formed  the  character  of  the  Haytiens  was  a  worn-out,  effem- 
inate one ;  and,  of  course,  the  subject  race  will  be  centuries  in 
rising  to  anything. 

"  Where,  then,  shall  I  look  ?  On  the  shores  of  Africa  I 
see  a  republic, —  a  republic  formed  of  picked  men,  who,  by 
energy  and  self-educating  force,  have,  in  many  cases,  individ- 
ually, raised  themselves  above  a  condition  of  slavery.  Having 
gone  through  a  preparatory  stage  of  feebleness,  this  republic 
has,  at  last,  become  an  acknowledged  nation  on  the  face  of 
the  earth, —  acknowledged  by  both  France  and  England. 
There  it  is  my  wish  to  go,  and  find  myself  a  peopie. 

"  I  am  aware,  now,  that  I  shall  have  you  all  against  me  ; 
but,  before  you  strike,  hear  me.  During  my  stay  in  France, 
I  have  followed  up,  with  intense  interest,  the  history  of  my 


LIFE   AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  SOI 

people  in  America.  I  have  noted  the  struggle  between  abo- 
litionist and  colonizationist,  and  have  received  some  impres- 
sions, as  a  distant  spectator,  which  could  never  have  occurred 
to  me  as  a  participator. 

"  I  grant  that  this  Liberia  may  have  subserved  all  sorts  of 
purposes,  by  being  played  off,  in  the  hands  of  our  oppressors, 
against  us.  Doubtless  the  scheme  may  have  been  used,  in 
unjustifiable  ways,  as  a  means  of  retarding  our  emancipation. 
But  the  question  to  me  is,  Is  there  not  a  God  above  all  man's 
schemes  ?  May  He  not  have  overruled  their  designs,  and 
founded  for  us  a  nation  by  them  ? 

"  In  these  days,  a  nation  is  born  in  a  day.  A  nation  starts, 
now,  with  all  the  great  problems  of  republican  life  and  civil- 
ization wrought  out  to  its  hand  ;  —  it  has  not  to  discover,  but 
only  to  apply.  Let  us,  then,  all  take  hold  together,  with  all 
our  might,  and  see  what  we  can  do  with  this  new  enterprise, 
and  the  whole  splendid  continent  of  Africa  opens  before  us 
and  our  children.  Our  nation  shall  roll  the  tide  of  civiliza- 
tion and  Christianity  along  its  shores,  and  plant  there  mighty 
republics,  that,  growing  with  the  rapidity  of  tropical  vege- 
tation, shall  be  for  all  coming  ages. 

"  Do  you  say  that  I  am  deserting  my  enslaved  brethren? 
I  think  not.  If  I  forget  them  one  hour,  one  moment  of  my 
life,  so  may  God  forget  me  !  But,  what  can  I  do  for  them, 
here  1  Can  I  break  their  chains  1  No,  not  as  an  individual ; 
but,  let  me  go  and  form  part  of  a  nation,  which  shall  have  a 
voice  in  the  councils  of  nations,  and  then  we  can  speak.  A 
nation  has  a  right  to  argue,  remonstrate,  implore,  and  present 
the  cause  of  its  race, —  which  an  individual  has  not. 

"  If  Europe  ever  becomes  a  grand  council  of  free  nations, 
—  as  I  trust  in  God  it  will, —  if,  there,  serfdom,  and  all  unjust 
and  oppressive  social  inequalities,  are  done  away ;  and  if  they, 

vol.  ii.  26 


302  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

as  France  and  England  have  done,  acknowledge  our  position, 
—  then,  in  the  great  congress  of  nations,  we  will  make  our 
appeal,  and  present  the  cause  of  our  enslaved  and  suffering 
race ;  and  it  cannot  be  that  free,  enlightened  America  will 
not  then  desire  to  wipe  from  her  escutcheon  that  bar  sinister 
which  disgraces  her  among  nations,  and  is  as  truly  a  curse  to 
her  as  to  the  enslaved. 

"  But,  you  will  tell  me,  our  race  have  equal  rights  to 
mingle  in  the  American  republic  as  the  Irishman,  the  German, 
the  Swede.  Granted,  they  have.  We  ought  to  be  free  to 
meet  and  mingle, —  to  rise  by  our  individual  worth,  without 
any  consideration  of  caste  or  color ;  and  they  who  deny  us 
this  right  are  false  to  their  own  professed  principles  of  human 
equality.  We  ought,  in  particular,  to  be  allowed  here.  We 
have  more  than  the  rights  of  common  men ;  —  we  have  the 
claim  of  an  injured  race  for  reparation.  But,  then,  i"  do  not 
want  it;  I  want  a  country,  a  nation,  of  my  own.  I  think 
that  the  African  race  has  peculiarities,  yet  to  be  unfolded  in 
the  light  of  civilization  and  Christianity,  which,  if  not  the 
same  with  those  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  may  prove  to  be,  morally, 
of  even  a  higher  type. 

"  To  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  has  been  intrusted  the  destinies 
of  the  world,  during  its  pioneer  period  of  struggle  and  conflict. 
To  that  mission  its  stern,  inflexible,  energetic  elements,  were 
well  adapted ;  but,  as  a  Christian,  I  look  for  another  era  to 
arise.  On  its  borders  I  trust  we  stand ;  and  the  throes  that 
now  convulse  the  nations  are,  to  my  hope,  but  the  birth-pangs 
of  an  hour  of  universal  peace  and  brotherhood. 

"  I  trust  that  the  development  of  Africa  is  to  be  essentially 
a  Christian  one.  If  not  a  dominant  and  commanding  race, 
they  are,  at  least,  an  affectionate,  magnanimous,  and  forgiving 
one.     Having  been  called  in  the  farnace  of  injustice  and 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  303 


oppression,  they  have  need  to  bind  closer  to  their  hearts  that 
sublime  doctrine  of  love  and  forgiveness,  through  which  alone 
they  are  to  conquer,  which  it  is  to  be  their  mission  to  spread 
over  the  continent  of  Africa. 

"  In  myself,  I  confess,  I  am  feeble  for  this, —  full  half  the 
blood  in  my  veins  is  the  hot  and  hasty  Saxon ;  but  I  have  an 
eloquent  preacher  of  the  Gospel  ever  by  my  side,  in  the  per- 
son of  my  beautiful  wife.  When  I  wander,  her  gentler  spirit 
ever  restores  me,  and  keeps  before  my  'ryes  the  Christian 
calling  and  mission  of  our  race.  As  a  Christian  patriot,  as  a 
teacher  of  Christianity,  I  go  to  my  country, —  my  chosen,  my 
glorious  Africa !  —  and  to  her,  in  my  heart,  I  sometimes 
apply  those  splendid  words  of  prophecy :  '  Whereas  thou  hast 
been  forsaken  and  hated,  so  that  no  man  went  through  thee ; 
/  will  make  thee  an  eternal  excellence,  a  joy  of  many  gene- 
rations ! ' 

"You  will  call  me  an  enthusiast :  you  will  tell  me  that  I 
have  not  well  considered  what  I  am  undertaking.  But  I  have 
considered,  and  counted  the  cost.  I  go  to  Liberia,  not  as  to 
an  Elysium  of  romance,  but  as  to  afield  of  work.  I  expect 
to  work  with  both  hands, —  to  work  hard ;  to  work  against 
all  sorts  of  difficulties  and  discouragements ;  and  to  work  till 
I  die.  This  is  what  I  go  for ;  and  in  this  I  am  quite  sure  I 
shall  not  be  disappointed. 

"Whatever  you  may  think  of  my  determination,  do  not 
divorce  me  from  your  confidence ;  and  think  that,  in  whatever 
I  do,  I  act  with  a  heart  wholly  given  to  my  people. 

"George  Harris." 

George,  with  his  wife,  children,  sister  and  mother,  embarked 
for  Africa,  some  few  weeks  after.  If  we  are  not  mistaken, 
the  world  will  yet  hear  from  him  there. 


304  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

Of  our  other  characters  we  have  nothing  very  particular  to 
write,  except  a  word  relating  to  Miss  Ophelia  and  Topsy,  and 
a  farewell  chapter,  which  we  shall  dedicate  to  George  Shelby. 

Miss  Ophelia  took  Topsy  home  to  Vermont  with  her,  much 
to  the  surprise  of  that  grave  deliberative  body  whom  a  New 
Englander  recognizes  under  the  term  "  Our  folks"  "  Our 
folks, ''"  at  first,  thought  it  an  odd  and  unnecessary  addi- 
tion to  their  well-trained  domestic  establishment;  but,  so 
thoroughly  efficient  was  Miss  Ophelia  in  her  conscientious 
endeavor  to  do  her  duty  by  her  eleve,  that  the  child  rapidly 
grew  in  grace  and  in  favor  with  the  family  and  neighborhood. 
At  the  age  of  womanhood,  she  was,  by  her  own  request,  bap- 
tized, and  became  a  member  of  the  Christian  church  in  the 
place ;  and  showed  so  much  intelligence,  activity  and  zeal,  and 
desire  to  do  good  in  the  world,  that  she  was  at  last  recom- 
mended, and  approved,  as  a  missionary  to  one  of  the  stations 
in  Africa ;  and  we  have  heard  that  the  same  activity  and  inge- 
nuity which,  when  a  child,  made  her  so  multiform  and  rest- 
less in  her  developments,  is  now  employed,  in  a  safer  and 
wholesomer  manner,  in  teaching  the  children  of  her  own 
country. 

P.  S.  —  It  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  some  mother,  also,  to 
state,  that  some  inquiries,  which  were  set  on  foot  by  Madame 
de  Thoux,  have  resulted  recently  in  the  discovery  of  Cassy's 
sen.  Being  a  young  man  of  energy,  he  had  escaped,  some 
years  before  his  mother,  and  been  received  and  educated  by 
friends  of  the  oppressed  in  the  north.  He  will  soon  follow  his 
family  to  Africa. 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  305 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 


THE  LIBERATOR. 


George  Shelby  had  written  to  his  mother  merely  a  line> 
stating  the  day  that  she  might  expect  him  home.  Of  the 
death  scene  of  his  old  friend  he  had  not  the  heart  to  write. 
He  had  tried  several  times,  and  only  succeeded  in  half  chok- 
ing himself;  and  invariably  finished  by  tearing  up  the  paper, 
wiping  his  eyes,  and  rushing  somewhere  to  get  quiet. 

There  was  a  pleased  bustle  all  through  the  Shelby  man- 
sion, that  day,  in  expectation  of  the  arrival  of  young  Mas'r 
George. 

Mrs.  Shelby  was  seated  in  her  comfortable  parlor,  where  a 
cheerful  hickory  fire  was  dispelling  the  chill  of  the  late 
autumn  evening.  A  supper-table,  glittering  with  plate  and 
cut  glass,  was  set  out,  on  whose  arrangements  our  former 
friend,  old  Chloe,  was  presiding. 

Arrayed  in  a  new  calico  dress,  with  clean,  white  apron,  and 
high,  well-starched  turban,  her  black  polished  face  glowing 
with  satisfaction,  she  lingered,  with  needless  punctiliousness, 
around  the  arrangements  of  the  table,  merely  as  an  excuse  for 
talking  a  little  to  her  mistress. 

"Laws,  now!  won't  it  look  natural  to  him?"  she  said 
"Thar, — I  set  his  plate  just  whar  he  likes  it, — round  by  the 
fire.  Mas'r  George  allers  wants  de  warm  seat.  0,  go  way ! 
■ — why  didn't  Sally  get  out  de  best  tea-pot, —  de  little  new 
one,  Mas'r  George  got  for  Missis,  Christmas  ?  I  '11  have  it 
vol.  ii.  26* 


806  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

out !  And  Missis  has  heard  from  Mas'r  George  ?  "  she  said, 
inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  Chloe ;  but  only  a  line,  just  to  say  he  would  be 
home  to-night,  if  he  could, —  that 's  all." 

"  Did  n't  say  nothin'  'bout  my  old  man,  s'pose?"  said 
Chloe,  still  fidgeting  -with  the  tea-cups. 

"  No,  he  did  n't.  He  did  not  speak  of  anything,  Chloe. 
He  said  he  would  tell  all,  when  he  got  home." 

"  Jes  like  Mas'r  George,  —he  's  allers  so  ferce  for  tellin' 
everything  hisself.  I  allers  minded  dat  ar  in  Mas'r  George. 
Don't  see,  for  my  part,  how  white  people  gen'lly  can  bar  to 
hev  to  write  things  much  as  they  do,  writin'  's  such  slow, 
oneasy  kind  o'  work." 

Mrs.  Shelby  smiled. 

"  I  'm  a  thinkin'  my  old  man  won't  know  de  boys  and  de 
baby.  Lor'  !  she  's  de  biggest  gal,  now, —  good  she  is,  too, 
and  peart,  Polly  is.  She  's  out  to  the  house,  now,  watch- 
in'  de  hoe-cake.  I 's  got  jist  de  very  pattern  my  old  man 
liked  so  much,  a  bakin'.  Jist  sich  as  I  gin  him  the  mornin' 
he  was  took  off.  Lord  bless  us  !  how  I  felt,  dat  ar  morn- 
ing ! " 

Mrs.  Shelby  sighed,  and  felt  a  heavy  weight  on  her  heart, 
at  this  allusion.  She  had  felt  uneasy,  ever  since  she  received 
her  son's  letter,  lest  something  should  prove  to  be  hidden 
behind  the  veil  of  silence  which  he  had  drawn. 

"  Missis  has  got  dem  bills  ?  "  said  Chloe,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  Chloe." 

"  'Cause  I  wants  to  show  my  old  man  dem  very  bir3  de 
verfectioner  gave  me.  'And,'  says  he,  l  Chloe,  I  wish  3.  >u  'd 
stay  longer.'  '  Thank  you,  Mas'r,'  says  I,  '  I  would,  only 
my  old  man 's  coming  home,  and  Missis, —  she  can't  do  with- 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  307 

out  me  no  longer.'     There  's  jist  what  I  telled  him.     Berry 
nice  man,  dat  Mas'r  Jones  was." 

Chloe  had  pertinaciously  insisted  that  the  very  bills  in 
which  her  wages  had  been  paid  should  be  preserved,  to 
show  to  her  husband,  in  memorial  of  her  capability.  And 
Mrs.  Shelby  had  readily  consented  to  humor  her  in  the 
request. 

" He  won't  know  Polly, —  my  old  man  won't.  Laws,  it's 
five  year  since  they  tuck  him  !  She  was  a  baby  den,  — 
could  n't  but  jist  stand.  Remember  how  tickled  he  used  to 
be,  cause  she  would  keep  a  fallin'  over,  when  she  sot  out  to 
walk.     Laws  a  me  !  " 

The  rattling  of  wheels  now  was  heard. 

"  Mas'r  George  !"  said  Aunt  Chloe,  starting  to  the  win 
dow. 

Mrs.  Shelby  ran  to  the  entry  door,  and  was  folded  in  the 
arms  of  her  son.  Aunt  Chloe  stood  anxiously  straining  her 
eyes  out  into  the  darkness. 

uO,  poor  Aunt  Chloe  !  "  said  George,  stopping  compas- 
sionately, and  taking  her  hard,  black  hand  between  both  his; 
"I'd  have  given  all  my  fortune  to  have  brought  him  witn 
me,  but  he  's  gone  to  a  better  country." 

There  was  a  passionate  exclamation  from  Mrs.  Shelby,  but 
Aunt  Chloe  said  nothing. 

The  party  entered  the  supper-room.  The  money,  of  which 
Chloe  was  so  proud,  was  still  lying  on  the  table. 

"Thar,"  said  she,  gathering  it  up,  and  holding  it,  with  a 
trembling  hand,  to  her  mistress,  "don't  never  want  to  see  nor 
hear  on  't  again.  Jist  as  I  knew  't  would  be, —  sold,  and 
murdered  on  dem  ar'  old  plantations  !  " 

Chloe  turned,  and  was  walking  proudly  out  of  the  room. 


308  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN  :    OR, 

Mrs.  Shelby  followed  her  softly,  and  took  one  of  her  hands, 
drew  her  down  into  a  chair,  and  sat  down  by  her. 

"  My  poor,  good  Chloe  !  "  said  she. 

Chloe  leaned  her  head  on  her  mistress'  shoulder,  and 
sobbed  out,  "0  Missis!  'scuse  me,  my  heart's  broke, — 
dat  's  all !  " 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  as  her  tears  fell  fast; 
"and  /  cannot  heal  it,  but  Jesus  can.  He  healeth  the  bro- 
ken hearted,  and  bindeth  up  their  wounds." 

There  was  a  silence  for  some  time,  and  all  wept  together. 
At  last,  George,  sitting  down  beside  the  mourner,  took  her 
hand,  and,  with  simple  pathos,  repeated  the  triumphant  scene 
of  her  husband's  death,  and  his  last  messages  of  love. 

About  a  month  after  this,  one  morning,  all  the  servants  of 
the  Shelby  estate  were  convened  together  in  the  great  hall 
that  ran  through  the  house,  to  hear  a  few  words  from  their 
young  master. 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  he  appeared  among  them  with  a 
bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  containing  a  certificate  of  free- 
dom to  every  one  on  the  place,  which  he  read  successively, 
and  presented,  amid  the  sobs  and  tears  and  shouts  of  all 
present. 

Many,  however,  pressed  around  him,  earnestly  begging 
him  not  to  send  them  away  ;  and,  with  anxious  faces,  tender- 
ing back  their  free  papers. 

"  We  don't  want  to  be  no  freer  than  we  are.  We  's  allers 
had  all  we  wanted.  We  don't  want  to  leave  de  ole  place,  and 
Mas'r  and  Missis,  and  de  rest !  " 

"My  good  friends,"  said  George,  as  soon  as  he  could  get 
a  silence,  "there'll  be  no  need  for  you  to  leave  me.  The 
place  wants  as  many  hands  to  work  it  as  it  did  before.  We 
need  the  same  about  the  house  that  we  did  before.     But, 


LIFE  AMONG  THE   LOWLY.  809 


you  are  now  free  men  and  free  women.  I  shall  pay  you 
wages  for  your  work,  such  as  we  shall  agree  on.  The  advan- 
tage is,  that  in  case  of  my  getting  in  debt,  or  dying, —  things 
that  might  happen, —  you  cannot  now  be  taken  up  and  sold. 
I  expect  to  carry  on  the  estate,  and  to  teach  you  what,  per- 
haps, it  will  take  you  some  time  to  learn, —  how  to  use  the 
rights  I  give  you  as  free  men  and  women.  I  expect  you  U 
be  good,  and  willing  to  learn ;  and  I  trust  in  God  that  I  shall 
be  faithful,  and  willing  to  teach.  And  now,  my  friends,  look 
up,  and  thank  God  for  the  blessing  of  freedom." 

An  aged,  patriarchal  negro,  who  had  grown  gray  and  blind 
on  the  estate,  now  rose,  and,  lifting  his  trembling  hand  said, 
"Let  us  give  thanks  unto  the  Lord  !  "  As  all  kneeled  by 
one  consent,  a  more  touching  and  hearty  Te  Deum  never 
ascended  to  heaven,  though  borne  on  the  peal  of  organ,  bell 
and  cannon,  than  came  from  that  honest  old  heart. 

On  rising,  another  struck  up  a  Methodist  hymn,  of  which 
the  burden  was, 

"  The  year  of  Jubilee  is  come,  — 
Return,  ye  ransomed  sinners,  home.*' 

"  One  thing  more,"  said  George,  as  he  stopped  the  con- 
gratulations of  the  throng  ;  "you  all  remember  our  good  old 
Uncle  Tom?" 

George  here  gave  a  short  narration  of  the  scene  of  his 
death,  and  of  h.U  loving  farewell  to  all  on  the  place,  and 
added, 

"It  was  on  his  grave,  my  friends,  that  I  resolved,  before 
God,  that  I  would  never  own  another  slave,  while  it  was  pos- 
sible to  free  him ;  that  nobody,  through  me,  should  ever 
run  the  risk  of  being  parted  from  home  and  friends,  and 
dying  on  a  lonely  plantation,  as  he  died.      So,  when  you 


310  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

rejoice  in  your  freedom,  think  that  you  owe  it  to  that  good 
old  soul,  and  pay  it  back  in  kindness  to  his  wife  and  children. 
Think  of  your  freedom,  every  time  you  see  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin  ;  and  let  it  be  a  memorial  to  put  you  all  in  mind  to 
follow  in  his  steps,  and  be  as  honest  and  faithful  and  Christian 
as  he  was." 


CHAPTER   XLY. 


CONCLUDING  KEMARKS. 


The  writer  has  often  been  inquired  of,  by  correspondents 
from  different  parts  of  the  country,  whether  this  narrative  is 
a  true  one ;  and  to  these  inquiries  she  will  give  one  general 
answer. 

The  separate  incidents  that  compose  the  narrative  are,  to  a 
very  great  extent,  authentic,  occurring,  many  of  them,  either 
under  her  own  observation,  or  that  of  her  personal  friends. 
She  or  her  friends  have  observed  characters  the  counterpart 
of  almost  all  that  are  here  introduced ;  and  many  of  the  say- 
ings are  word  for  word  as  heard  herself,  or  reported  to  her. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Eliza,  the  chai  acter  ascribed  to 
her,  are  sketches  drawn  from  life.  The  incorruptible  fidelity, 
piety  and  honesty,  of  Uncle  Tom,  had  more  than  one  develop- 
ment, to  her  personal  knowledge.  Some  of  the  most  deeply 
tragic  and  romantic,  some  of  the  most  terrible  incidents,  have 
also  their  parallel  in  reality.  The  incident  of  the  mother's  cross- 
ing the  Ohio  river  on  the  ice  is  a  well-known  fact.     The  story 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  Sll 

of  "old  Prue,"  in  the  second  volume,  was  an  incident  that 
fell  under  the  personal  observation  of  a  brother  of  the  writer, 
then  collecting-clerk  to  a  large  mercantile  house,  in  New 
Orleans.  From  the  same  source  was  derived  the  character  of 
the  planter  Legree.  Of  him  her  brother  thus  wrote,  speaking 
of  visiting  his  plantation,  on  a  collecting  tour:  "He  act- 
ually made  me  feel  of  his'  fist,  which  was  like  a  blacksmith'3 
hammer,  or  a  nodule  of  iron,  telling  me  that  it  was  '  calloused 
with  knocking  down  niggers.'  When  I  left  the  plantation,  I 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  felt  as  if  I  had  escaped  from  an 
ogre's  den." 

That  the  tragical  fate  of  Tom,  also,  has  too  many  times  had 
its  parallel,  there  are  living  witnesses,  all  over  our  land,  to 
testify.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  in  all  southern  states  it 
is  a  principle  of  jurisprudence  that  no  person  of-  colored 
lineage  can  testify  in  a  suit  against  a  white,  and  it  will  be  easy 
to  see  that  such  a  case  may  occur,  wherever  there  is  a  man 
whose  passions  outweigh  his  interests,  and  a  slave  who  has  man- 
hood or  principle  enough  to  resist  his  will.  There  is,  actually, 
nothing  to  protect  the  slave's  life,  but  the  character  of  the 
master.  Facts  too  shocking  to  be  contemplated  occasionally 
force  their  way  to  the  public  ear,  and  the  comment  that  one 
^ften  hears  made  on  them  is  more  shocking  than  the  thing  itself. 
It  is  said,  "  Very  likely  such  cases  may.  now  and  then  occur, 
but  they  are  no  sample  of  general  practice."  If  the  laws  of 
New  England  were  so  ^arranged  that  a  master  could  nolo 
and  then  torture  an  apprentice  to  death,  without  a  possi- 
bility of  being  brought  to  justice,  would  it  be  received  with 
equal  composure  1  Would  it  be  said,  "  These  cases  are  rare, 
and  no  samples  of  general  practice"?  This  injustice  is  an 
inherent  one  in  the  slave  system, — it  cannot  exist  without  it. 

The  public  and  shameless  sale  of  beautiful  mulatto  and 


312  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

quadroon  girls  has  acquired  a  notoriety,  from  the  incidents 
following  the  capture  of  the  Pearl.  We  extract  the  following 
from  the  speech  of  Hon.  Horace  Mann,  one  of  the  legal 
counsel  for  the  defendants  in  that  case.  He  says  :  "In  that 
company  of  seventy-six  persons,  who  attempted,  in  1848,  to 
escape  from  the  District  of  Columbia  in  the  schooner  Pearl, 
and  whose  officers  I  assisted  in  defending,  there  were  several 
young  and  healthy  girls,  who  had  those  peculiar  attractions 
of  form  and  feature  which  connoisseurs  prize  so  highly, 
Elizabeth  Russel  was  one  of  them.  She  immediately  fell 
into  the  slave-trader's  fangs,  and  was  doomed  for  the  New 
Orleans  market.  The  hearts  of  those  that  saw  her  were 
touched  with  pity  for  her  fate.  They  offered  eighteen  hun- 
dred dollars  to  redeem  her  ;  and  some  there  were  who  offered 
to  give,  that  would  not  have  much  left  after  the  gift;  but 
the  fiend  of  a  slave-trader  was  inexorable.  She  was  des- 
patched to  New  Orleans ;  but,  when  about  half  way  there,  God 
had  mercy  on  her,  and  smote  her  with  death.  There  were 
two  girls  named  Edmundson  in  the  same  company.  When 
about  to  be  sent  to  the  same  market,  an  older  sister  went  to 
the  shambles,  to  plead  with  the  wretch  who  owned  them,  for 
the  love  of  God,  to  spare  his  victims.  He  bantered  her, 
telling  what  fine  dresses  and  fine  furniture  they  would  have. 
'  Yes,'  she  said,  '  tjiat  may  do  very  well  in  this  life,  but 
what  will  become  of  them  in  the  next  ? '  They  too  were 
eent  to  New  Orleans;  but  were  afterwards  redeemed,  at  an 
enormous  ransom,  and  brought  back."  Is  it  not  plain,  from 
this,  that  the  histories  of  Emmeline  and  Cassy  may  have 
many  counterparts  1 

Justice,  too,  obliges  the  author  to  state  that  the  fairness 
of  mind  and  generosity  attributed  to  St.  Clare  are  not 
without  a   parallel,  as   the   following    anecdote   will   show. 


LIFE  AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  818 

A  few  years  since,  a  young  southern  gentleman  was  in 
Cincinnati,  with  a  favorite  servant,  who  had  been  his  personal 
attendant  from  a  boy.  The  young  man  took  advantage 
of  this  opportunity  to  secure  his  own  freedom,  and  fled  to 
the  protection  of  a  Quaker,  who  was  quite  noted  in  affairs  of 
this  kind.  The  owner  was  exceedingly  indignant.  He  had 
always  treated  the  slave  with  such  indulgence,  and  his  con- 
fidence in  his  affection  was  such,  that  he  believed  he  must 
have  been  practised  upon  to  induce  him  to  revolt  from  him. 
He  visited  the  Quaker,  in  high  anger ;  but,  being  possessed  of 
uncommon  candor  and  fairness,  was  soon  quieted  by  his 
arguments  and  representations.  It  was  a  side  of  the  subject 
which  he  never  had  heard, —  never  had  thought  on ;  and  he 
immediately  told  the  Quaker  that,  if  his  slave  would,  to  his 
own  face,  say  that  it  was  his  desire  to  be  free,  he  would 
liberate  him.  An  interview  was  forthwith  procured,  and 
Nathan  was  asked  by  his  young  master  whether  he  had  ever 
had  any  reason  to  complain  of  his  treatment,  in  any  respect. 

"No,  Mas'r,"  said  Nathan;  "you've  always  been  good 
to  me." 

11  Well,  then,  why  do  you  want  to  leave  me  1 " 

"Mas'r  may  die,  and  then  who  get  me? — I  'd  rather  be 
a  free  man." 

After  some  deliberation,  the  young  master  replied,  "  Na- 
than, in  your  place,  I  think  I  should  feel  very  much  so, 
myself.     You  are  free." 

He  immediately  made  him  out  free  papers;  deposited  a 
sum  of  money  in  the  hands  of  the  Quaker,  to  be  judiciously 
used  in  assisting  him  to  start  in  life,  and  left  a  very  sensible 
and  kind  letter  of  advice  to  the  young  man.  That  letter  was 
for  some  time  in  the  writer's  hands. 

The  author  hopes  she  has  done  justice  to  that  nobility, 

vol.  ii.  27 


314  OHCLl   TOM'S    CABIN:    01 

and  humanity,  which  in  many  eases  characterize 
individ"  the  South.     Such  instances  save  us  from  i 

despair  of  our  kind.     But.  she  asks  any  person,  who  knows 
the  world,  are  such  characters  common,  anywhere  \ 

For  many  years  of  her  life  ithor  avoided  all  reading 

upon  or  allusion  to  the  suhject  of  slavery,  consider: 
too  painful  to  be  inquired   into,  and   one  which   advan 
light  and  civilization  would  certainly  live  down.     But.  since 
the   lee-  : :    jf  1850    when  she   heard,  with  perfect 

surprise   and   consternation.    Oh  and  humane   people 

•.ally  recommending  the  remanding  escaped  fugitives  into 
.  as  a  duty  binding  on  good  citizens. —  when  she 
heard,  on  all  hands,  from  kind,  compassionate  and  estimable 
people,  in  the  free  s: atefl  of  the  Xorth.  deliberations  and 
:o  what  Christian  duty  could  be  on  this  head, — 
she  could  only  think.  These  men  and  Christians  cannot  know 
what  slavery  is :  if  they  did.  such  a  question  could  never  be 
open  for  discussion.  And  from  thi3  arose  a  desire  to  exhibit 
it  in  a  living  dramatic  reality.  She  has  endeavored  to 
show  it  fairly,  in  its  best  and  its  worst  phases.  In  its  best 
aspect,  she  has.  perhaps,  been  successful ;  but,  oh !  who  shall 
say  what  yet  remains  untold  in- that  valley  and  shadow  of 
death,  that  lies  the  other 

1  c  y  ju,  generous,  noble-minded  men  and  women,  of  the 
South, —  you,  whose  virtue,  and  magnanimity,  and  purity  of 
character,  are  the  greater  for  the  severer  trial  it  has  encoun- 
tered.—  to  you  is  her  appeaL  Have  you  not,  in  your  own 
secret  souls,  in  your  own  private  conversings.  felt  that  there 
are  woes  and  evils,  in  this  accursed  system,  far  beyond  what 
are  here  shadowed,  or  can  be  shadowed  ?-  Can  it  be  other- 
wise 1  Is  man  ever  a  creature  to  be  trusted  with  wholly 
irresponsible  power)     And   does  not  the  slave  system,  by 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  315 

denying  the  slave  all  legal  right  of  testimony,  make  every  indi- 
vidual owner  an  irresponsible  despot  ?  Can  anj'body  fail  to 
make  the  inference  what  the  practical  result  will  be  ?  If  there 
is,  as  we  ndmit,  a  public  sentiment  among  you,  men  of  honor, 
justice  and  humanity,  is  there  not  also  another  kind  of  public 
sentiment  among  the  ruffian,  the  brutal  and  debased  ?  And 
cannot  the  ruffian,  the  brutal,  the  debased,  by  slave  law,  own 
just  as  many  slaves  as  the  best  and  purest  ?  Are  the  honor- 
able, the  just,  the  high-minded  and  compassionate,  the  major- 
ity anywhere  in  this  world  ? 

The  slave-trade  is  now,  by  American  law,  considered  as 
piracy.  But  a  slave-trade,  as  systematic  as  ever  was  carried 
on  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  is  an  inevitable  attendant  and  result 
of  American  slavery.  And  its  heart-break  and  its  horrors, 
can  they  be  told  ? 

The  writer  has  given  only  a  faint  shadow,  a  dim  picture, 
of  the  anguish  and  despair  that  are,  at  this  very  moment, 
riving  thousands  of  hearts,  shattering  thousands  of  families, 
and  driving  a  helpless  and  sensitive  race  to  frenzy  and  despair. 
There  are  those  living  who  know  the  mothers  whom  this 
accursed  traffic  has  driven  to  the  murder  of  their  children ; 
and  themselves  seeking  in  death  a  shelter  from  woes  more 
dreaded  than  death.  Nothing  of  tragedy  can  be  written,  can 
be  spoken,  can  be  conceived,  that  equals  the  frightful  reality 
of  scenes  daily  and  hourly  acting  on  our  shores,  beneath  the 
shadow  of  American  law,  and  the  shadow  of  the  cross  of 
Christ. 

And  now,  men  and  women  of  America,  is  this  a  thing  to 
be  trifled  with,  apologized  for,  and  passed  over  in  silence'? 
Farmers  of  Massachusetts,  of  New  Hampshire,  of  Vermont, 
of  Connecticut,  who  read  this  book  by  the  blaze  of  your 
winter-evening  fire,  —  strong-hearted,  generous  sailors   and 


316  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN:    OR, 

ship-owners  of  Maine, —  is  this  a  thing  for  you  to  countenance 
and  encourage?  Brave  and  generous  men  of  New  York,  farm- 
ers of  rich  and  joyous  Ohio,  and  ye  of  the  wide  prairie  states, 
—  answer,  is  chis  a  thing  for  you  to  protect  and  countenance  1 
And  you,  mothers  of  America, —  you,  who  have  learned,  by 
the  cradles  of  your  own  children,  to  love  and  feel  for  all  man- 
kind,—  by  the  sacred  love  you  bear  your  child;  by  your  joy 
in  his  beautiful,  spotless  infancy;  by  the  motherly  pity  and 
tenderness  with  which  you  guide  his  growing  years ;  by  the 
anxieties  of  his  education ;  by  the  prayers  you  breathe  for  his 
soul's  eternal  good ;  —  I  beseech  you,  pity  the  mother  who  has 
all  your  affections,  and  not  one  legal  right  to  protect,  guide, 
or  educate,  the  child  of  her  bosom  !  By  the  sick  hour  of  your 
child ;  by  those  dying  eyes,  which  you  can  never  forget ;  by 
those  last  cries,  that  wrung  your  heart  when  you  could  neither 
help  nor  save ;  by  the  desolation  of  that  empty  cradle,  that 
silent  nursery, —  I  beseech  you,  pity  those  mothers  that  are 
constantly  made  childless  by  the  American  slave-trade !  And 
say,  mothers  of  America,  is  this  a  thing  to  be  defended,  sym- 
pathized with,  passed  over  in  silence  ? 

Do  you  say  that  the  people  of  the  free  states  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  and  can  do  nothing  ?  Would  to  God  this  were 
true  !  But  it  is  not  true.  The  people  of  the  free  states  have 
defended,  encouraged,  and  participated ;  and  are  more  guilty 
for  it,  before  God,  than  the  South,  in  that  they  have  not  the 
apology  of  education  or  custom.  * 

If  the  mothers  of  the  free  states  had  all  felt  as  they  should, 
in  times  past,  the  sons  of  the  free  states  would  not  have  been 
the  holders,  and,  proverbially,  the  hardest  masters  of  slaves ; 
the  sons  of  the  free  states  would  not  have  connived  at  the  ex- 
tension of  slavery,  in  our  national  body ;  the  sons  of  the  free 
states  would  not,  as  they  do,  trade  the  souls  and  bodies  of  men 


LIFE   AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  317 

as  an  equivalent  to  money,  in  their  mercantile  dealings.  There 
are  multitudes  of  slaves  temporarily  owned,  and  sold  again,  by 
merchants  in  northern  cities ;  and  shall  the  whole  guilt  or 
obloquy  of  slavery  fall  only  on  the  South  ? 

Northern  men,  northern  mothers,  northern  Christians,  have 
something  more  to  do  than  denounce  their  brethren  at  the 
South ;  they  have  to  look  to  the  evil  among  themselves. 

But,  what  can  any  individual  do  7  Of  that,  every  indi- 
vidual can  judge.  There  is  one  thing  that  every  individual 
can  do, —  they  can  see  to  it  that  they  feel  right.  An  atmos- 
phere of  sympathetic  influence  encircles  every  human  being  j 
and  the  man  or  woman  who  feels  strongly,  healthily  and 
justly,  on  the  great  interests  of  humanity,  is  a  constant  bene- 
factor to  the  human  race.  See,  then,  to  your  sympathies  il 
this  matter !  Are  they  in  harmony  with  the  sympathies  oi 
Christ  ?  or  are  they  swayed  and  perverted  by  the  sophistries 
of  worldly  policy  ? 

Christian  men  and  women  of  the  North !  still  further, — 
you  have  another  power  ;  you  can  pray  !  Do  you  believe  in 
prayer?  or  has  it  become  an  indistinct  apostolic  tradition? 
You  pray  for  the  heathen  abroad ;  pray  also  for  the  heathen  at 
home.  And  pray  for  those  distressed  Christians  whose  whole 
chance  of  religious  improvement  is  an  accident  of  trade  and 
sale ;  from  whom  any  adherence  to  the  morals  of  Christianity 
is,  in  many  cases,  an  impossibility,  unless  they  have  given 
them,  from  above,  the  courage  and  grace  of  martyrdom. 

But,  still  more.  On  the  shores  of  our  free  states  are 
emerging  the  poor,  shattered,  broken  remnants  of  families, — 
men  and  women,  escaped,  by  miraculous  providences,  from  the 
surges  of  slavery, —  feeble  in  knowledge,  and,  in  many  cases, 
infirm  in  moral  constitution,  from  a  system  which  confounds 
and  confuses  every  principle  of  Christianity  and  morality 

vol.  ii.  27* 


318  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN:    OR, 

They  come  to  seek  a  refuge  among  you ;  they  come  to  seek 
education,  knowledge,  Christianity. 

What  do  you  owe  to  these  poor  unfortunates,  oh  Christians  ? 
Does  not  every  American  Christian  owe  to  the  African  race 
some  effort  at  reparation  for  the  wrongs  that  the  American 
nation  has  brought  upon  them  ?  Shall  the  doors  of  churches 
and  school-houses  be  shut  upon  them  ?  Shall  states  arise  and 
shake  them  out  ?  Shall  the  church  of  Christ  hear  in  silence 
the  taunt  that  is  thrown  at  them,  and  shrink  away  from  the 
helpless  hand  that  they  stretch  out;  and,  by  her  silence- 
encourage  the  cruelty  that  would  chase  them  from  our  bor- 
ders ?  If  it  must  be  so,  it  will  be  a  mournful  spectacle.  If  it 
must  be  so,  the  country  will  have  reason  to  tremble,  when  it 
remembers  that  the  fate  of  nations  is  in  the  hands  of  One  who 
is  very  pitiful,  and  of  tender  compassion. 

Do  you  say,  "  We  don't  want  them  here;  let  them  go  to 
Africa"? 

That  the  providence  of  God  has  provided  a  refuge  in  Africa, 
is,  indeed,  a  great  and  noticeable  fact ;  but  that  is  no  reason 
why  the  church  of  Christ  should  throw  off  that  responsibility 
to  this  outcast  race  which  her  profession  demands  of  her. 

To  fill  up  Liberia  with  an  ignorant,  inexperienced,  half-bar- 
barized race,  just  escaped  from  the  chains  of  slavery,  would  be 
only  to  prolong,  for  ages,  the  period  of  struggle  and  conflict 
which  attends  the  inception  of  new  enterprises.  Let  the  church 
of  the  north  receive  these  poor  sufferers  in  the  spirit  of  Christ ; 
receive  them  to  the  educating  advantages  of  Christian  repub- 
lican society  and  schools,  until  they  have  attained  to  somewhat 
of  a  moral  and  intellectual  maturity,  and  then  assist  them  in 
their  passage  to  those  shores,  where  they  may  put  in  practice 
the  lessons  they  have  learned  in  America. 

There  is  a  body  of  men  at  the  north,  comparatively  small, 


LIFE   AMONG   THE   LOWLY.  819 

who  have  been  doing  this ;  and,  as  the  result,  this  country  ha? 
already  seen  examples  of  men,  formerly  slaves,  who  have  rapidly 
acquired  property,  reputation,  and  education.  Talent  has  been 
developed,  which,  considering  the  circumstances,  is  certainly 
remarkable ;  and,  for  moral  traits  of  honesty,  kindness,  tender- 
ness of  feeling, —  for  heroic  efforts  and  self-denials,  endured 
for  the  ransom  of  brethren  and  friends  yet  in  slavery, —  they 
have  been  remarkable  to  a  degree  that,  considering  the  influ- 
ence under  which  they  were  born,  is  surprising. 

The  writer  has  lived,  for  many  years,  on  the  frontier-line 
of  slave  states,  and  has  had  great  opportunities  of  observation 
among  those  who  formerly  were  slaves.  They  have  been  in 
her  family  as  servants  ;  and,  in  default  of  any  other  school  to 
receive  them,  she  has,  in  many  cases,  had  them  instructed  in 
a  family  school,  with  her  own  children.  She  has  also  the  tes- 
timony of  missionaries,  among  the  fugitives  in  Canada,  in 
coincidence  with  her  own  experience ;  and  her  deductions,  with 
regard  to  the  capabilities  of  the  race,  are  encouraging  in  the 
highest  degree. 

The  first  desire  of  the  emancipated  slave,  generally,  is  for 
education.  There  is  nothing  that  they  are  not  willing  to 
give  or  do  to  have  their  children  instructed ;  and,  so  far  as  the 
writer  has  observed  herself,  or  taken  the  testimony  of  teachers 
among  them,  they  are  remarkably  intelligent  and  quick  to 
learn.  The  results  of  schools,  founded  for  them  by  benevo- 
lent individuals  in  Cincinnati,  fully  establish  this. 

The  author  gives  the  following  statement  of  facts,  on  the 
authority  of  Professor  C.  E.  Stowe,  then  of  Lane  Seminary, 
Ohio,  with  regard  to  emancipated  slaves,  now  resident  in  Cin- 
cinnati ;  given  to  show  the  capability  of  the  race,  even  without 
any  very  particular  assistance  or  encouragement. 


320  UNCLE   TOM'S   CABIN:    CR, 

The  initial  letters  alone  are  given.  They  are  all  residents 
of  Cincinnati. 

"B .     Furniture  maker;  twenty  years  in  the  city; 

worth  ten  thousand  dollars,  all  his  own  earnings ;  a  Baptist. 

"  C .     Full  black;  stolen  from  Africa;  sold  in  New 

Orleans ;  been  free  fifteen  years ;  paid  for  himself  six  hun- 
dred dollars ;  a  farmer  ;  owns  several  farms  in  Indiana ;  Pres- 
byterian ;  probably  worth  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
all  earned  by  himself. 

"  K .     Full  black ;  dealer  in  real  estate  ;  worth  thirty 

thousand  dollars ;  about  forty  years  old ;  free  six  years ;  paid 
eighteen  hundred  dollars  for  his  family ;  member  of  the  Bap- 
tist church  ;  received  a  legacy  from  his  master,  which  he  has 
taken  good  care  of,  and  increased. 

' '  G .      Full  black ;    coal  dealer ;  about  thirty  years 

old ;  worth  eighteen  thousand  dollars ;  paid  for  himself  twice, 
being  once  defrauded  fco  the  amount  of  sixteen  hundred  dol- 
lars ;  made  all  his  money  by  his  own  efforts  —  much  of  it 
while  a  slave,  hiring  his  time  of  his  master,  and  doing  busi- 
ness for  himself ;  a  fine,  gentlemanly  fellow. 

«f  W .     Three-fourths  black ;  barber  and  waiter ;  from 

Kentucky :  nineteen  years  free  ;  paid  for  self  and  family  over 
three  thousand  dollars ;  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars,  all  his 
own  earnings ;  deacon  in  the  Baptist  church. 

"  GL  D .     Three-fourths  black;  white-washer;   from 

Kentucky ;  nine  years  free  ;  paid  fifteen  hundred  dollars  for 
self  and  family ;  recently  died,  aged  sixty ;  worth  six  thousand 
dollars." 

Professor  Stowe  says,  "With  all  these,  except  G ,  I 

have  been,  for  some  years,  personally  acquainted,  and  make 
my  statements  from  my  own  knowledge." 

The  writer  well  remembers  an  aged  colored  woman,  who 


LIFE  AMONG  THE  LOWLY.  821 

was  employ ed  as  a  washerwoman  in  her  father's  family.  The 
daughter  of  this  woman  married  a  slave.  She  was  a  remark- 
ably active  and  capable  young  woman,  and,  by  her  industry 
and  thrift,  and  the  most  persevering  self-denial,  raised  nine 
hundred  dollars  for  her  husband's  freedom,  which  she  paid,  as 
she  raised  it,  into  the  hands  of  his  master.  She  yet  wanted  a 
hundred  dollars  of  the  price,  when  he  died.  She  never  recov- 
ered any  of  the  money. 

These  are  but  few  facts,  among  multitudes  which  might  be 
adduced,  to  show  the  self-denial,  energy,  patience,  and  hon- 
esty, which  the  slave  has  exhibited  in  a  state  of  freedom. 

And  let  it  be  remembered  that  these  individuals  have  thus 
bravely  succeeded  in  conquering  for  themselves  comparative 
wealth  and  social  position,  in  the  face  of  every  disadvantage 
and  discouragement.  The  colored  man,  by  the  law  of  Ohio, 
cannot  be  a  voter,  and,  till  within  a  few  years,  was  even 
denied  the  right  of  testimony  in  legal  suits  with  the  white. 
Nor  are  these  instances  confined  to  the  State  of  Ohio.  In 
all  states  of  the  Union  we  see  men,  but  yesterday  burst  from 
the  shackles  of  slavery,  who,  by  a  self-educating  force,  which 
cannot  be  too  much  admired,  have  risen  to  highly  respectable 
stations  in  society.  Pennington,  among  clergymen,  Douglas 
and  Ward,  among  editors,  are  well  known  instances. 

If  this  persecuted  race,  with  every  discouragement  and 
disadvantage,  have  done  thus  much,  how  much  more  they 
might  do,  if  the  Christian  church  would  act  towards  them  in 
the  spirit  of  her  Lord  ! 

This  is  an  age  of  the  world  when  nations  are  trembling 
and  convulsed.  A  mighty  influence  is  abroad,  surging  and 
heaving  the  world,  as  with  an  earthquake.  And  is  America 
safe?  Every  nation  that  carries  in  its  bosom  great  and  unre- 
dressed injustice  has  in  it  the  elements  of  this  last  convulsion 


322  UNCLE  TOM'S   CABIN. 

For  what  is  this  mighty  influence  thus  rousing  in  all 
nations  and  languages  those  groanings  that  cannot  be  uttered, 
for  man's  freedom  and  equality  ? 

0,  Church  of  Christ,  read  the  signs  of  the  times  !  Is  not 
this  power  the  spirit  of  Him  whose  kingdom  is  yet  to  come, 
and  whose  will  to  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven  1 

But  who  may  abide  the  day  of  his  appearing?  "  for  that  day 
shall  burn  as  an  oven :  and  he  shall  appear  as  a  swift  witness 
against  those  that  oppress  the  hireling  in  his  wages,  the 
widow  and  the  fatherless,  and  that  turn  aside  the  stranger 
in  his  right:  and  he  shall  break  in  pieces  the  oppressor." 

Are  not  these  dread  words  for  a  nation  bearing  in  her 
bosom  so  mighty  an  injustice  1  Christians !  every  time  that 
you  pray  that  the  kingdom  of  Christ  may  come,  can  you  for- 
get that  prophecy  associates,  in  dread  fellowship,  the  day  of 
vengeance  with  the  year  of  his  redeemed  1 

A  day  of  grace  is  yet  held  out  to  us.  Both  North  and 
South  have  been  guilty  before  God ;  and  the  Christian 
church  has  a  heavy  account  to  answer.  Not  by  combining 
together,  to  protect  injustice  and  cruelty,  and  making  a 
common  capital  of  sin,  is  this  Union  to  be  saved, — but  by 
repentance,  justice  and  mercy ;  for,  not  surer  is  the  eternal 
law  by  which  the  millstone  sinks  in  the  ocean,  than  that 
stronger  law,  by  which  injustice  and  cruelty  shall  bring  on 
nations  the  wrath  of  Almighty  God ! 


ffaltuihl*  3knbt 

PUBLISHED  BY 

JOHN  P.  JEWETT  &  COMPANY, 

Nos.   17  &  19   CORNHILL,   BOSTON, 

AND 

JEWETT,  PROCTOR  &  WORTHINGTON, 

No.  138  SUPERIOR  ST.,  CLEVELAND,  OHIO. 


STANDARD,  THEOLOGICAL,  MISCELLANEOUS,  AGRICULTURAL, 
MUSICAL    AND    SCHOOL. 


THE  WORKS  OF  REV.  LEONARD  WOODS,  D.  D. 

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bridges,  and  some  other  connected  topics.  This  is  followed  by  a  treatise  on 
Practical  Geometry,  with  numerous  diagrams.  We  then  have  remarks  on  the 
various  orders  which  have  prevailed  at  different  times,  with  illustrative  drawings 
from  the  celebrated  remains  of  antiquity. 


FIRESIDE  LECTURES. 

By  Rev.  Francis  Horton.     75  cents. 

FINNEY    ON  REVIVALS. 
Eleventh  edition.     By  Prof.  C.  G.  Finney.     $1. 

THE  ART  OF  PAINTING. 

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SCULPTURE  AND  PLASTIC  ART. 
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UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN. 

By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  In  2  vols.  12mo.  Price  $1.50,  in 
cloth  ;  $2,  gilt. 

50,000  COPIES  IN  EIGHT  WEEKS  ! 
A  sale  unprecedented  in  the  history  of  hook-selling  in  America.     On  the 
20th  of  March  the  first  sale  was  made  of  this  unparalleled  book,  and  in 
sixty  days  50,000  copies,  making 

100,000  VOLUMES,  HAVE  BEEN  SOLD. 
Editors  of  Newspapers,  Magazines,  and  even  the  staid  Quarterlies,  have 
vied  with  each  other  in  their  eulogistic  notices.  The  ordinary  style  of 
book  notices  has  been  laid  aside,  and,  instead  of  pulls  of  half  a  finger's 
length,  the  press  has  sent  forth  column  after  column  —  literally  hundreds 
of  columns  —  of  stronger  and  heartier  commendations  than  were  ever 
bestowed  upon  one  book  ;  and,  with  well-nigh  one  voice,  it  has  been  pro- 
nounced to  be 

THE  GREATEST  BOOK  OE  ITS  KIND 

ever  issued  from  the  American  Press.  In  thrilling  delineation  of  charac- 
ter, and  power  of  description,  it  is  without  a  rival,  and  will  be  read  and 
re-read  in  every  intelligent  family  in  America,  and  produce  an  impression 
never  yet  made  by  any  similar  work. 

From  a  thousand  notices,  we  cull  a  line  each  from  a  few : 

We  will  frankly  say  that  wo  know  of  no  publication  which  promises  to  bo 
more  effective  in  the  service  of  a  holy  but  perilous  work  than  this.  —  Christian 
Examiner. 

A  book  over  which  twenty  thousand  families  are  alternately  crying  and  laugh- 
ing, in  spite  of  philosophy  or  dignity,  within  a  month  after  its  publication.  *  *  * 
In  fact,  among  all  classes  of  people,  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  is  having,  and  is 
destined  to  have,  a  success  and  a  circulation  almost  unexampled  in  our  litera- 
ture. —  Rev.  Mr.  Huntington,  in  Unitarian  Monthly  Magazine. 

"  Spread  it  round  the  world  !  "  is  the  feeling  which  comes  first.  —  the  instant, 
urgent,  inevitable  impulse,  —  as  one  rises  from  the  perusal  of  this  fascinating 
book  ;  and,  thank  God  !  it  bids  fair  to  become  as  familiar  as  household  words 
East,  West,  North  and  South.  —  New  York  Independent. 

It  is  a  thrilling  tale,  exemplifying  a  masterly  genius,  anda  profound  knowl- 
edge of  the  human  heart.  —  New  York  Evangelist. 

The  greatest  work  of  its  kind  which  has  appeared  in  half  a  century.  —  Provi- 
dence Mirror. 

These  volumes  will  be  read  South,  as  well  as  North,  and  find  a  response  in 
every  honest  heart.     It  is  a  work  of  most  absorbing  interest.  —  Albany  Spectator. 

We  wish  to  commend  this  tale  to  all  with  whom  we  have  any  influence,  as 
one  of  the  most  admirable  stories  ever  written.  —  Evening  Traveller,  Boston. 

This  work  exhibits  the  most  consummate  skill,  and  will  be  read  by  almost 
everybody.  —  Puritan  Recorder,  Boston. 

We  welcome  the  work  as  among  the  most  powerful  agents  that  human  genius 
has  yet  produced  for  the  removal  of  the  one  fearful  curse  that  rests  upon  our 
country.  —  Christian  Register,  Boston. 

Wc  look  upon  the  writing  of  this  book  as  providential,  and  as  the  best  mis- 
sionary God  has  yet  sent  into  the  field.  —  Congregationalist,  Bosto7i. 

lie  who  can  read  this  greatest  of  all  American  tales,  unmoved,  must  have 
-been  very  successful  in  hardening  his  heart.  —  Barre  Patriot. 

This  is  the  most  deeply  interesting  work  ever  issued  from  the  American 
Press.  —  Independent  Democrat,  Concord. 

If  any  one  can  rise  from  the  perusal  of  this  work  without  desiring  to  be  a 
purer  and  better  person,  we  envy  him  not.     It  will  exert  a  powerful  influence 
upon  the  nation.  —  Cincinnati  Journal. 
5 


JOHN  P.  JBWETI  &  CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

THE  CATECHISM  TESTED  BY  THE  BIBLE. 

By  Rev.  A.  R.  Baker.     In  four  parts  ;  two  series,  —  one  series  for 
adults,  in  two  parts  ;  one  series  for  children,  in  two  parts. 

Series  for  Children. 

Part  1      Doctrinal,  per  hundred, $10.00 

Part  2     Practical,    "         "  - 10.00 

Series  for  Adults. 

Part  1      Doctrinal,  per  hundred, 12.50 

Part  2.     Practical,    "         "  12.50 

Both  Parts,  bound  in  one  volume,  per  hundred, 25.00 

"        juvenile  series,  per  hundred,     .  20.00 


44  ((  (4  44        44 


More  than  fifty  thousand  copies  of  Mr.  Baker's  valuable  Catechisms  have 
been  sold. 


NOTICES. 
From  the  Rev.  Dr.  Jenks,  Author  of  the  Comprehensive  Commentary. 

That  the  Bible  exhibits  the  religion  of  Protestants,  is  received  by  us  as  an 
axiom  ;  and  it  is  equally  acknowledged,  that  the  value  of  every  formula  of  our 
faith  is  to  be  found  in  its  agreement  with  the  Bible.  It  is  also  regarded  as 
equally  true,  that  our  Sabbath-schools  and  Bible-classes  are  to  be  considered  as 
nurseries  for  the  Church  of  Christ  among  us.  And  it  must  hence  be  admitted, 
that,  to  the  Church  of  Christ,  at  least,  their  principal  importance  must  arise 
from  the  fact,  that  in  them  the  Holy  Bible  is  the  chief  subject  of  study,  <md 
highest  court  of  appeal. 

Such  being  the  case,  to  "  test "  by  the  Bible  that  "form  of  sound  words,"  the 
Westminster  Catechism,  so  long  and  so  highly  regarded  among  us,  is  a  praise- 
worthy effort  ;  and  to  perform  well  a  work  of  this  character  is  a  subject  of  gratu- 
lation,  as  it  is  a  matter  of  much  labor  and  care.  With  pleasure,  then,  I  contem- 
plate and  commend  the  compendious  work  of  Rev.  Mr.  Baker,  which,  so  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  examine  it,  deserves  the  grateful  notice  and  study  of  the 
Christian  community  in  these  points  of  light ;  and  will,  I  judge,  as  it  may  be 
faithfully  used,  abundantly  repay  the  attentive  and  praying  inquirer  or  teacher. 

July  25,  1849.  Wm.  Jenks,  late  Pastor  of  Green-st.  Church,  Boston. 

We  heartily  concur  with  the  Rev.  Dr.  Jenks  in  the  above  testimonial. 

Reuben  Emerson,  Pastor  of  the  Con.  Ch.,  So.  Reading. 
A.  W.  McClure,  Pastor  of  the  First  Ch.,  Maiden. 
Wm.  M.  Rogers,  Pastor  of  the  Central  Ch.,  Boston. 
N.  Adams,  Pastor  of  Essex-st.  Ch.,  Boston. 
G.  W.  Blagden,  Pastor  of  the  Old  South  Ch.,  Boston 

From  Rev.  Dr.  Pond,  Bangor,  Me. 

Rev.  and  Dear  Sir  :  I  need  not  say  that  I  admire  the  Assembly's  Cate- 
chism. I  learned  it  when  a  child,  and  can  repeat  it,  verbatim,  to  this  day.  I 
have  taught  it  to  my  family,  every  Sabbath,  ever  since  I  had  a  family.  Per- 
haps to  no  other  uninspired  work  (unless  it  be  Watts'  Psalms  and  Hymns)  is 
the  church  using  the  English  language  so  much  indebted  as  to  the  Assembly's 
Catechism.  *  *  *  I  am  much  pleased  with  your  questions,  as  a  whole.  They 
indicate  much  thought,  and  will  be  a  great  help  to  an  intelligent  study  of  the 
Catechism.  It  was  a  happy  moment  when  you  was  first  led  to  think  of  prepar- 
ing such  a  book.  I  hope  you  will  get  out  your  new  edition  speedily,  and  that  it 
may  have  a  wide  circulation      With  much  affection,  I  remain  yours,  as  ever, 

July  10,  1849.  Enoch  Pond. 

6 


JOHN   P.  JEWETT  &   CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

NEW  AND  VALUABLE  MUSICAL  WORKS. 
Cantica  Laudis ;  or  the  American  Book  of  Church  Music. 

By  Lowell  Mason  and  George  J.  Webb.    Price  75  cts. 


From  Thomas  Comer,  President  of  Boston  Musical  Fund  Society. 

I  find  a  richness  both  of  harmony  and  melody,  seldom,  if  ever,  equalled  in 
similar  collections. 

From  Wm.  F.  Goodwin,  President  of  Musical  Education  Society,  Boston. 
I  am  satisfied  that  wherever  it  is  used  and  appreciated  it  cannot  fail  to  improve 
the  taste  for  Sacred  Music  in  a  much  higher  degree  than  any  work  with  which 
I  am  acquainted. 

From  Chas.  C.  Perkins,  President  of  Boston  Handel  and  Haydn  Society. 

A  most  judicious  selection  from  the  great  masters,  with  whose  works  it  is  so 
important  to  familiarize  the  public. 

The  Melodist. 

A  new  collection  of  Part  Songs,  Glees,  &c,  for  Soprano,  Alto,  Tenor, 
and  Bass  Voices.     By  G.  J.  Webb  and  William  Mason.     Price  75  cts. 

Zundel's  Book  of  Easy  Voluntaries  and  Interludes. 

For  the  Organ,  Melodeon,  and  Seraphine.     By  John  Zundel.     Price 

$1.25. 

The  Glee  Hive. 

A  collection  of  Glees  and  Part  Songs,  for  the  use  of  Musical  Conventions, 
Teachers'  Institutes,  and  Classes  of  the  Boston  Academy  of  Music.  By 
Lowell  Mason  and  George  J.  Webb.     Price  30  cts. 

Temple  Melodies. 

A  collection  of  nearly  all  the  Popular  Standard  Tunes,  in  connection 
with  five  hundred  Favorite  Hymns.  Intended  as  a  Hymn  and  Tune  Book, 
for  Vestries,  Social  Meetings,  Congregations,  and  Family  Worship.  By 
Darius  E.  Jones.     Price  62£  cts. 

Marx's  Theory  of  Musical  Composition. 

Translated  from  the  German,  by  H.  S.  Saroni,  editor  of  Saroni's 
Musical  Times. 

This  work  has  for  some  years  held  rank  in  Germany  as  the  best  work  on 
musical  composition  ever  issued.  —  {In  press.) 

The  Piano  Forte. 

A  complete  and  thorough  Instruction  Book,  selected,  compiled,  andlr- 
ranged  principally  from  the  works  of  Hunten,  Bertini,  Czerny,  Herz,  etc., 
to  which  is  added  a  collection  of  about  fifty  popular  Airs,  Waltzes,  Polkas, 
Quick  Steps,  Marches,  &c,  with  and  without  variations,  properly  arranged 
and  fingered.  By  Manuel  Fenollosa,  Professor  of  Music.  132  pages, 
quarto.     Half  morocco  ;  an  elegant  work.     Price  $2  each. 

Jewett's  Hational  Violin  Teacher. 

A  new  and  complete  Instruction  Book  for  the  Violin,  comprising  many 
new  compositions,  and  a  great  variety  of  new  and  beautiful  arrangements 
for  the  instrument,  with  several  pages  of  choice  duetts  for  two  violins. 
Price  50  cts. 

7 


JOHN   P.  JEWETT   &   CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

Jewett's  national  Flute  Teacher. 

A  new  and  complete  Instruction  Book  for  the  Flute,  comprising  many 
new  compositions,  and  a  great  variety  of  new  and  beautiful  arrangements 
for  the  instrument,  with  several  pages  of  choice  duetts  for  two  flutes. 
Price  50  cts. 

Jewett's  National  Collection  of  Duetts,  Trios,  and  Quartetts. 

Being  a  collection  of  new  and  beautiful  Music,  arranged  for  two,  three, 
and  four  instruments.     Price  50  cts. 

Jewett's  National  Flutina  and  Accordion  Teacher. 

These  Music-books  are  published  in  better  style  than  anything  of  the 
kind  ever  before  issued  in  America.  The  whole  composed  and  arranged  by 
a  distinguished  Professor  of  Music.     Price  50  cts. 


AGRICULTURAL  WORKS. 
Cole's  American  Veterinarian. 

A  Treatise  on  the  Diseases  of  Domestic  Animals.  By  S.  W.  Cole. 
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The  best  work  of  the  kind  ever  issued  from  the  American  press.  33,000 
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Cole's  American  Fruit-hook. 

By  S.  W.  Cole,  author  of  the  "American  Veterinarian."  Price,  full 
sheep,  50  cents. 

This  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  valuable  works  on  the  subject  ever 
published  in  this  country.     18,000  published. 

Schenck's  Kitchen  Gardener's  Text-hook. 

Containing  full  and  practical  directions  for  the  formation  and  manage- 
ment of  the  Kitchen  Garden.     By  Peter  A.  Schenck.     Price  50  cts. 

Breck's  Book  of  Flowers. 

A  thorough  work,  with  full  directions  for  the  cultivation  of  a  Flower 
Garden,  in  which  is  also  described  all  the  various  Trees,  Shrubs,  and 
Plants,   for  ornamental  purposes.      By  Joseph    Breck,   Seedsman  and 
^Florist.     Price  75  cents. 

Treatise   on  the  Construction,  Heating  and  Ventilation  of 

Hot  Houses. 

By  R.  B.  Leuchars.     12mo.,  cloth,  $1. 

The  only  work  on  this  subject  ever  published  in  America.  It  is  highly 
recommended  by  Prof.  Silliman,  and  other  scientific  gentlemen. 

The  American  Fowl  Breeder. 

Each  25  cts.     Eight  thousand  copies  have  been  sold  of  this  work. 
8 


JOHN    P.    JEWETT    &    CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

i      NEW  AND  VALUABLE  SCHOOL  BOOKS. 
Leavitt's  First  Reader. 

Half  bound,  stiff  covers,  18mo.,  72  pages,  elegantly  illustrated,  each  10  o. 

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Half  bound,  18mo.,  180  pages,  each  20cts. 

Leavitt's  Third  Reader. 

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Leavitt's  Fourth  Reader. 

12nio.,  312  pages,  full  sheep,  each  50  cents. 

In  the  preparation  of  these  books,  the  author  has  made  it  his  leading 
object,  never  lost  sight  of,  to  give  children  such  lessons  as  they  will  read 
with  interest  and  pleasure;  lessons  which,  both  by  their  subjects  and  their 
style,  are  especially  adapted  to  elocutionary  purposes  ;  lessons  selected  not 
so  much  with  reference  to  their  didactic  use,  for  moral  or  scientific 
instruction,  as  for  their  fitness  for  children  to  learn  to  read.  It  is  believed 
that  there  is  no  series  of  reading  books  in  the  market  which  are  so  well  cal 
culated,  by  their  structure  and  variety,  to  make  children  read  with  life 
and  spirit,  and  to  lead  them  naturally  into  the  proper  intonation  and 
inflections  of  the  voice  in  reading. 

RECOMMENDATIONS. 
"We  doubt  whether  there  is  another  compilation  so  well  adapted  for  the  pur^ 
poses  intended  as  Mr.  Leavitt's  series  of  Readers.  —  New  York  Evangelist. 

From  Hon.  "Wm.  B.  Calhoun,  late  Secretary  of  State  of  Massachusetts. 

I  cannot  but  regard  Mr.  Leavitt's  Reading  Books  as  better  adapted  to  the 
capacities  of  youth,  and  better  calculated  to  make  good  readers,  than  any  series 
with  which  I  am  acquainted. 

From  Rev.  Dr.  Perry,  Bradford. 
Leavitt's  Readers  need  no  commendation  to  those  acquainted  with  the  works. 

Robinson's  American  Arithmetic. 

12mo.,  288  pages,  morocco  back  and  cloth  sides.     Price,  single,  50  cts. 
per  dozen,  $4.50. 

OFFICIAL  ACTION  OF  BOSTON  SCIIOOL  COMMITTEE. 
At  a  meeting  of  the  School  Committee  of  the  city  of  Boston,  March  8,  1848, 
Ordered,  that  the  report  of  the  Committee  on  Books  be  amended,  by  placing 
Robinson's  Arithmetic  in  place  of  the  North  American  Arithmetic,  Part  Third. 

Attest,  S.  F.  M'Cleary,  Secretary. 

'  • 

Robinson's  Primary  School  Arithmetic. 

Each  12£  cts. 

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Each  50  cts. 
From  S.  W.  Bates,  Esq.,  Adams  School,  Boston. 
I  think  Robinson's  Arithmetic  an  excellent  and  highly  practical  work. 

From  Thomas  Sherwin,  Esq.,  English  High  School,  Boston. 
It  gives  me  pleasm©   to  recommend  Mr.  Robinson's  Arithmetic  to  th» 
interested  in  education. 
9 


JOHN    P.    JEWETT    &    CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

The  Literary  Eeader,  for  Academies  and  High  Schools. 

By  Miss  A.  Hall,  author  of  the  "  Manual  of  Morals."  12mo.,  480  pages, 
full  sheep,  62  cts. 

We  are  most  favorably  impressed  with  the  plan  and  execution  of  Miss  Hall's 
Literary  Reader.  —  Evening  Traveller,  Boston. 

We  like  this  new  reading  book,  and  most  cordially  recommend  it.  —  Hartford 
Republican 


Manual  of  Morals,  by  Miss  A.  Hall. 

Common  School  Edition,  212  pages,  each  20  cts.  The  same,  best  edi- 
tion, morocco  back  and  cloth  sides,  38  cts. 

It  will  be  an  auspicious  day  to  the  cause  of  common  school  education,  through- 
out the  land,  when  a  book  like  this  shall  become  a  classical  study,  and  its 
principles  shall  be  taught  and  understood  with  half  the  thoroughness  applied  to 
some  studies  of  far  inferior  value.  —  Congregationalist,  Boston. 

This  book  —  the  Manual  of  Morals  —  will  excite  the  sympathies,  as  well  as 
inform  the  intellect  ;  which  will  make  children  love  virtue,  as  well  as  under- 
stand what  it  is,  and  teach  them  their  duties  to  God,  themselves,  and  others.  — 
Religious  Spectator. 


Wells'  School  Grammar. 

38  cts. 

Wells'  Elementary  Grammar. 

This  work  is  strictly  Elementary.  Price  17  cts.  150,000  copies  of  this 
work  have  been  published. 

STATE  RECOMMENDATIONS. 

The  Grammar  has  received  an  official  recommendation  from  the  Convention  of 
School  Committees  for  the  State  of  Rhode  Island,  held  at  Provide'nce,  September, 
1846. 

At  the  Convention  of  County  Superintendents,  held  at  Montpelier,  Vt.,  Oct. 
14th,  1846,  Wells'  School  Grammar  was  recommended,  as  best  adapted  to  the 
use  of  the  common  schools  of  the  state. 

Ira  Mayhew,  Esq.,  Superintendent  of  Public  Instruction  for  the  State  of 
Michigan,  in  his  last  Report  to  the  Legislature  of  that  state,  recommended 
Wells'  School  Grammar,  as  best  adapted  to  meet  the  wants  of  public  schools. 

The  Board  of  Education  for  the  State  of  Maine,  at  a  meeting  held  in  October, 
1847,  recommended  Wells'  Grammar,  to  the  schools  of  the  state,  as  the  best 
work  of  the  kind  now  before  the  public. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  School  Committee  of  the  city  of  Boston,  March  8,  1848, 
an  order  passed  substituting  Wells'  Grammar  in  place  of  Weld's  Grammar. 

Attest,  S.  E.  M 'Clear  y,  Secretary. 

From  Prof.  C.  D.  Cleveland,  Pnn.  of  a  Select  School  for  Young  Ladies,  PhiVa. 

Gentlemen  :  You  ask  my  opinion  of  Wells'  Grammar.  I  answer,. I  like  it 
much,  and  have  introduced  it  into  my  school,  in  preference  to  any  other  English 
Grammar  with  which  I  am  acquainted. 

It  oombines  such  happy  qualities  as  to  interest  all  my  scholars.  The  younger 
10 


JOHN    P.    JEWETT    &    CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

classes  are  pleased  with  it  for  its  clearness  and  simplicity  ;  and  the  older,  for  its 
numerous  citations  of  authorities. 

I  am  not  surprised  at  the  great  success  it  has  met  with  ;  it  deserves  it. 

From  Rev.  Emerson  Davis,  D.  D.,  Westfield,  Mass. 

I  can  say,  in  all  honesty,  that  your  work  is,  all  things  considered,  the  best 
School  Grammar  before  the  public. 

From  G.  Field,  Esq.,  Principal  of  Belfast  Academy,  Maine. 

I  use,  and  shall  continue  to  use,  Wells'  Grammar,  in  preference  to  any  other 
work. 


Jewett's  New  England  Writing  Books. 

Per  Gross,  $6. 

Towndrow's  Writing  Books. 

In  seven  parts,  with  the  copies  in  the  books.     Same,  without  copies. 

This  is  the  best  system  of  penmanship  now  in  use.  The  books  are  made 
of  superfine  cap  paper,  and  the  copies  are  engraved  in  the  most  elegant 
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About  300,000  copies  of  this  valuable  system  of  penmanship  have  been 
published. 


Bliss'  Analysis  of  Geography. 

New  Revised  Edition,  quarto.     Price  62  cents. 

Bliss'  Geography  of  New  England. 

Each  25  cents. 

Bliss'  Outline  Map  of  New  England. 

Each  $1.     The  same,  varnished,  $1,25. 

Bliss'  Series  of  Outline  Maps. 

For  Academies  and  Common  Schools,  on  thick  paper,  and  elegantly  col- 
ored, per  set,  $3. 

The  same,  backed  with  cloth,  elegantly  colored,  per  set,  $5. 

The  same,  mounted  on  rollers,  elegantly  colored,  and  backed  with  cloth, 
$&. 

The  same,  varnished,  $7. 

Bliss'  Outline  Globe. 

A  new  and  beautiful  twelve-inch  globe,  which  should  be  rn  every  school- 
room.    $8. 

Bliss'  Topics  to  be  used  with  Outline  Maps. 

Price  per  dozen,  $1. 

From  N.  Tillinghast,  Esq.,  Principal  of  the  State  Normal  School,  at  Bridgewater. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  the  "  Outline  Maps  ;"  their  size  and  execution 
make  them  fill  a  place  that  no  other  similar  maps  that  I  have  seen  do  fill.     I 
shall  put  them,  in  connection  with  the  "  Analysis  of  Geography,"  in  use  in  my 
Normal  and  Experimental  School,  and  expect  to  reap  advantage  from  them. 
11 


JOHN  P.  JBWETT  &  CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 

jjM    i  Rev.  Emerson  Davis,  D.  D.,  for  many  years  Principal  of  the    Westfield 
Academy,  and  late  Principal  of  the  Normal  School  located  there. 

y  most  cheerfully  recommend  it  [the  geography]  to  the  public,  as  combining 
moie  excellences  than  any  other  for  the  use  of  schools.  Its  chief  excellence  is 
its  classification  of  subjects,  by  which  the  attention  of  the  scholar  is  directed  to 
one  thing  at  a  time. 

From  David  S.  Rowe,  Esq.,  Principal  of  the  State  Normal  School,  at  Westfield. 
A  trial  has  been  given  it  [the  geography],  and  our  conclusion  is  that  it  is  a 
capital  book.  The  lady  who  has  taught  the  class  which  has  used  it  informs  me 
that  all  her  pupils  are  delighted  with  it,  and  she  regards  it  as  decidedly  the 
best  geography  with  which  she  is  acquainted.  The  "  Outline  Maps  "  are  a 
beautiful  set  of  maps,  very  neatly  executed,  and  in  connection  with  the  "  Analy- 
sis of  Geography,"  by  Mr.  Bliss,  furnish  the  best  and  most  attractive  aids  to 
the  study  of  geography  with  which  I  am  acquainted. 


Hutting's  Initiatory  Drawing  Cards. 

In  four  parts,  eighteen  cards  in  each  ;  presenting  carefully  drawn  ex- 
amples, accompanied  by  directions  illustrating  the  first  principles  of  draw- 
ing. For  the  use  of  schools  and  families.  By  B.  F.  Nutting.  Per  dozen 
packs,  $2.25. 

Nutting's  Progressive  Drawing  Cards. 

In  four  parts,  nine  large-sized  and  elegant  carcls  in  a  pack.  Intended 
for  more  advanced  pupils,  and  designed  to  follow  the  initiatory  series. 
Per  dozen  packs,  $4. 

Hall's  Lectures  to  Teachers. 

New  and  Revised  Edition.     By  S.  R.  Hall.    Price  25  cents. 

National  Accountant. 

A  complete  system  of  Book-Keeping,  by  Single  and  Double  Entry.  By 
Jacob  Batchelder.     Price  50  cents. 

The  Scholar's  Record  Book. 
By  Rev.  G.  B.  Perry,  D.  D     Each  20  cents. 


12 


£Z3Z.78 


S\5.37 


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