Uncle Tom's Cabin E-Book

Harriet Beecher-Stowe

• Herausgeber: The Gresham Library
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 403

Beschreibung

Uncle Tom's Cabin is a direct attack upon the slavery system that existed in the Southern States. The story was first published in serial form in 1851-52. Becoming immediately famous, the novel was translated into many foreign languages and has since been published in innumerable editions. This book is credited with being a catalyst to change public opinion in the United States against slavery, which was ultimately abolished as a result of the war between the Northern and Southern States in 1861-65. This is an important and history-changing book.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title page

1 Mr Shelby

2 Eliza

3 George

4 Uncle Tom’s Cabin

5 Eliza Overhears

6 Morning

7 The Pursuit

8 Escape to Freedom

9 Senator Bird

10 Uncle Tom’s Departure

11 In Disguise

12 On Board

13 Among Friends

14 Little Eva

15 Uncle Tom’s New Master

16 Uncle Tom’s New Mistress

17 George Hits Out

18 Topsy

19 My Old Kentucky Home

20 Farewell, Eva!

21 St. Clare Goes Home

22 For Sale

23 Slave Market

24 Simon Legree

25 Misse Cassy Helps

26 To Canada

27 Uncle Tom Triumphs

28 Is it Haunted?

29 Uncle Tom’s Last Prayer

30 George Shelby Finds Uncle Tom

31 Family Affairs

32 Not in Vain

33 Liberty at Kentuck

Copyright

Other titles

1

Mr Shelby

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

For convenience sake, we have said, hitherto, two gentlemen. One of the parties, however, when critically examined, did not seem, strictly speaking, to come under the species. He was a short, thick-set man, with coarse, commonplace features and that swaggering air of pretension which marks a low man who is trying to elbow his way upward in the world. He was much overdressed; his hands, large and coarse, were plentifully bedecked with rings; and he wore a heavy gold watch-chain, with a bundle of seals of portentous size, and a great variety of colours, attached to it. His conversation was in free and easy defiance of grammar.

His companion, Mr Shelby, had the appearance of a gentleman; and the arrangements of the house, and the general air of the housekeeping, indicated easy circumstances. As we before stated, the two were in the midst of an earnest conversation and Mr Shelby was speaking.

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

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

“No; I mean really, Tom is a good, steady, sensible, pious fellow. He got religion at a camp meeting, four years ago; and I believe he really did get it. I’ve trusted him, since then, with everything I have—money, house, horses—and let him come and go round the country; and I always found him true and square in everything.”

“Some folks don’t believe there is pious niggers, Shelby,” said Haley, with a candid flourish of his hand, “but I do. Yes, I consider religion a valuable thing in a nigger, when it’s the genuine article, and no mistake.”

“Well, Tom’s got the real article, if ever a fellow had,” rejoined the other. “Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati alone, to do business for me, and bring home five hundred dollars. “Tom,” says I to him, “I trust you, because I think you are a Christian—I know you wouldn’t cheat.” Tom comes back, sure enough; I knew he would. Some low fellows, they say, said to him, “Tom, why don’t you make tracks for Canada?”—“Ah, master trusted me, and I couldn’t!” They told me about it, I am sorry to part with Tom, I must say. You ought to let him cover the whole balance of the debt; and you would, Haley, if you had any conscience.”

“Well, I’ve got just as much conscience as any man in business can afford to keep—but this yer, you see, is a leetle too hard on a fellow—a leetle too hard.” The trader sighed contemplatively, and poured out some more brandy.

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

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

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

Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between four and five years of age, entered the room. There was something in his appearance remarkably beautiful and engaging. His black hair, fine as floss silk, hung in glossy curls about his round, dimpled face, while a pair of large dark eyes, full of fire and softness, looked out from beneath the rich long lashes, as he peered curiously into the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet and yellow plaid, carefully made and neatly fitted, set off to advantage the dark and rich style of his beauty; and a certain comic air of assurance, blended with bashfulness, showed that he had been not unused to being petted and noticed by his master.

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

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

“Come here, Jim Crow,” said he. The child came up, and the master patted the curly head, and chucked him under the chin. “Now, Jim, show this gentleman how you can dance and sing.”

The boy commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common among the negroes, in a rich, clear voice, accompanying his singing with many evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all in perfect time to the music.

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

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

There needed only a glance from the child to her to identify her as its mother. There was the same rich, full, dark eye with its long lashes; the same ripples of silky black hair. The brown of her complexion gave way on the cheek to a perceptible flush, which deepened as she saw the gaze of the strange man fixed upon her in bold and undisguised admiration. Her dress was of the neatest possible fit, and set off to advantage her finely-moulded shape; a delicately-formed hand and a trim foot and ankle were items of appearance that did not escape the quick eye of the trader, well used to run up at a glance the points of a fine female article.

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

“I was looking for Harry, please, sir”; and the boy bounded toward her.

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

“By Jupiter!” said the trader, turning to him in admiration, “there’s an article, now! You might make your fortune on that ar gal in Orleans, any day. I’ve seen over a thousand, in my day, paid down for gals not a bit handsomer. Come, how will you trade about the gal?—what shall I say for her—what’ll you take?”

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

“Ay, ay! women always say such things, cause they han’t no sort of calculation. Just show ’em how many watches, feathers, and trinkets one’s weight in gold would buy, and that alters the case, I reckon.”

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

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

“What on earth can you want with the child?”

“Why, I’ve got a friend that’s going into this yer branch of the business—wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for the market. Fancy articles entirely—sell for waiters, and so on, to rich uns, that can pay for handsome uns. It sets off one of yer great places—a real handsome boy to open door, wait, and tend. They fetch a good sum; and this little devil is such a comical, musical concern, he’s just the article.”

“I would rather not sell him,” said Mr Shelby thoughtfully; “the fact is, I’m a humane man, and I hate to take the boy from his mother, sir.”

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

“I’m afraid not.”

“Lor bless ye, yes! These critters an’t like white folk, you know; they gets over things, only manage right. Now, they say,” said Haley, assuming a candid and confidential air, “that this kind o’ trade is hardening to the feelings; but I never found it so. Fact it, I never could do things up the way some fellers manage the business. I’ve seen ’em as would pull a woman’s child out of her arms, and set him up to sell and she screechin’ like mad all the time; very bad policy—damages the article—makes ’em quite unfit for service sometimes. It’s always best to do the humane thing, sir; that’s been my experience. I believe I’m reckoned to bring in about the finest droves of niggers that is brought in—at least, I’ve been told so; if I have once, I reckon I have a hundred times, all in good case—fat and likely; and I lose as few as any man in the business. And I lays it all to my management, sir; and humanity, sir, I may say, is the great pillar of my management.”

“And do you find your ways of managing do the business better than others’?” said Mr Shelby.

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

“I’m afraid mine are not properly brought up, then,” said Mr Shelby.

“S’pose not; you Kentucky folks spile your niggers. You mean well by ’em, but ’tan’t no real kindness, arter all. Now, a nigger you see, what’s got to be hacked and tumbled round the world, and sold to Tom, and Dick, and the Lord knows who, ’tan’t no kindness to be givin’ on him notions and expectations, and bringin’ on him up too well, for the rough and tumble comes all the harder on him arter.”

“Well,” said Mr Shelby, “I’ll think the matter over, and talk with my wife. Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter carried on in the quiet way you speak of, you’d best not let your business in this neighbourhood be known. It will get out among my boys, and it will not be a particularly quiet business getting away any of my fellows, if they know it, I’ll promise you.”

“Oh, certainly, by all means, mum! of course. But I’ll tell you, I’m in a devil of a hurry, and shall want to know, as soon as possible, what I may depend on,” said he, rising and putting on his overcoat.

“Well, call up this evening, between six and seven, and you shall have my answer,” said Mr Shelby; and the trader bowed himself out of the apartment.

“I’d like to have been able to kick the fellow down the steps,” said he to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed, “with his impudent assurance; but he knows how much he has me at advantage. If anybody had ever said to me that I should sell Tom down South to one of those rascally traders, I should have said, “Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?” And now it must come, for aught I see. And Eliza’s child too! I know that I shall have some fuss with my wife about that; and, for that matter, about Tom too. So much for being in debt—heigh-ho! The fellow sees his advantage, and means to push it.”

Mr Shelby was a fair average kind of man, good-natured and kindly, and disposed to easy indulgence of those around him, and there had never been a lack of anything which might contribute to the physical comfort of the negroes on his estate. He had, however, speculated largely and quite loosely; had involved himself deeply, and his notes to a large amount had come into the hands of Haley; and this small piece of information is the key to the preceding conversation.

Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the door, Eliza had caught enough of the conversation to know that a trader was making offers to her master for somebody. She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as she came out; but her mistress just then calling, she was obliged to hasten away. Still, she thought she heard the trader make an offer for her boy—could she be mistaken? Her heart swelled and throbbed, and she involuntarily strained him so tight that the little fellow looked up in astonishment.

“Eliza, girl, what ails you today?” said her mistress, when Eliza had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked down the workstand, and finally was abstractedly offering her mistress a long nightgown in place of the silk dress she had ordered her to bring from the wardrobe.

Eliza started. “Oh, missis!” she said; then, bursting into tears, she sat down in a chair, and began sobbing.

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

“Oh, missis,” said Eliza, “there’s been a trader talking with master in the parlour! I heard him.”

“Well, silly child, suppose there was?”

“Oh, missis, do you suppose mas’r would sell my Harry?” And the poor creature threw herself into a chair, and sobbed convulsively.

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

“But, missis, you never would give your consent—to—to—”

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

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

Mrs Shelby was a woman of a high class, both intellectually and morally. To that natural magnanimity and generosity of mind which one often marks as characteristic of the women of Kentucky, she added high moral and religious sensibility and principle, carried out with great energy and ability into practical results. Her husband, who made no professions to any particular religious character, nevertheless reverenced and respected the consistency of hers, and stood, perhaps, a little in awe of her opinion.

The heaviest load on his mind, after the conversation with the trader, lay in the foreseen necessity of breaking to his wife the arrangement contemplated, meeting the importunities and opposition which he knew he should have reason to encounter.

Mrs Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband’s embarrassments, and knowing only the general kindliness of his temper, had been quite sincere in the entire incredulity with which she had met Eliza’s suspicions. In fact, she dismissed the matter from her mind, without a second thought; and, being occupied in preparations for an evening visit, it passed out of her thoughts entirely.

Eliza had been brought up by her mistress, from girlhood, as a petted and indulged favourite. She had been married to a bright and talented young mulatto man, a slave on a neighbouring estate, who bore the name of George Harris.

2

Eliza

This young man had been hired out by his master to work in a bagging factory, where his adroitness and ingenuity caused him to be considered the first hand in the place. He had invented a machine for cleaning the hemp.

He was possessed of a handsome person and pleasing manners, and was a general favourite in the factory. Nevertheless, as this young man was in the eye of the law not a man, but a thing, all these superior qualifications were subject to the control of a vulgar, narrow-minded, tyrannical master. This same gentleman, having heard of the fame of George’s invention, took a ride over to the factory, to see what this intelligent chattel had been about. He was received with great enthusiasm by the employer, who congratulated him on possessing so valuable a slave.

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

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

“What if it is?—isn’t the man mine?”

“We would be willing, sir, to increase the rate of compensation.”

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

“But, sir, he seems peculiarly adapted to this business.”

“Dare say he may be: never was much adapted to anything that I set him about, I’ll be bound.”

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

“Oh, yes!—a machine for saving work, is it? He’d invent that, I’ll be bound; let a nigger alone for that, any time. They are all labour-saving machines themselves, every one of ’em. No, he shall tramp!”

George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doom thus suddenly pronounced by a power that he knew was irresistible. He folded his arms, tightly pressed in his lips, but a whole volcano of bitter feelings burned in his bosom, and sent streams of fire through his veins. He breathed short, and his large dark eyes flashed like live coals; and he might have broken out into some dangerous ebullition, had not the kindly manufacturer touched him on the arm, and said, in a low tone:

“Give way, George; go with him for the present. We’ll try to get you, yet.”

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

It was during the happy period of his employment in the factory that George had seen and married his wife. During that period—being much trusted and favoured by his employer—he had free liberty to come and go at discretion. The marriage was highly approved of by Mrs Shelby, who, with a little womanly complacency in match-making, felt pleased to unite her handsome favourite with one of her own class who seemed in every way suited to her; and so they were married in her mistress’s great parlour, and her mistress herself adorned the bride’s beautiful hair with orange-blossoms, and threw over it the bridal veil, which certainly could scarce have rested on a fairer head. For a year or two Eliza saw her husband frequently, and there was nothing to interrupt their happiness, except the loss of two infant children, whom she mourned with intense grief.

After the birth of little Harry, however, she had gradually become tranquillized and settled; and every bleeding tie and throbbing nerve, once more entwined with that little life, seemed to become sound and healthful, and Eliza was a happy woman up to the time that her husband was rudely torn from his kind employer, and brought under the iron sway of his legal owner.

The manufacturer, true to his word, visited Mr Harris a week or two after George had been taken away, when, as he hoped, the heat of the occasion had passed away, and tried every possible inducement to lead him to restore him to his former employment.

“You needn’t trouble yourself to talk any longer,” said the tyrant doggedly. “I know my own business, sir.”

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

“It’s a free country, sir; the man’s mine, and I do what I please with him—that’s it!”

And so fell George’s last hope; nothing before him but a life of toil and drudgery, rendered more bitter by every little smarting vexation and indignity which tyrannical ingenuity could devise.

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

3

George

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

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

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

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

“I wish he’d never been born!” said George bitterly. “I wish I’d never been born myself!”

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

“There now, Eliza, it’s too bad for me to make you feel so, poor girl!” said he fondly; “it’s too bad! Oh, how I wish you never had seen me—you might have been happy!”

“George! George! how can you talk so? What dreadful thing has happened, or is going to happen?”

Drawing his child on his knee, George gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes.

“Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest woman I ever saw, and the best one I ever wish to see; but oh, I wish I’d never seen you, nor you me!”

“Oh, George; how can you!”

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

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

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

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

“My master! and who made him my master? That’s what I think of—what right has he to me? I’m a man as much as he is. I’m a better man than he is. I know more about business than he does; I am a better manager than he is; I can read better than he can; I can write a better hand—and I’ve learned it all myself, and no thanks to him—I’ve learned it in spite of him; and now what right has he to make a drayhorse of me—to take me from things I can do, and do better than he can, and put me to work that any horse can do? He tries to do it; he says he’ll bring me down and humble me, and he puts me to just the hardest, meanest and dirtiest work, on purpose!”

“Oh, George! George! you frighten me! Why! I never heard you talk so; I’m afraid you’ll do something dreadful. I don’t wonder at your feelings at all; but oh, do be careful—do, do—for my sake—for Harry’s!”

“I have been careful, and I have been patient, but it’s growing worse and worse; flesh and blood can’t bear it any longer; every chance he can get to insult and torment me, he takes. I thought I could do my work well, and keep on quiet, and have some time to read and learn out of work hours; but the more he sees I can do, the more he loads on. He says that, though I don’t say anything, he sees I’ve got the devil in me, and he means to bring it out; and one of these days it will come out in a way that he won’t like, or I’m mistaken! Only yesterday, as I was busy loading stones into a cart, young Mas’r Tom stood there, slashing his whip so near the horse that the creature was frightened. I asked him to stop, as pleasantly as I could—he just kept right on. I begged him again, and then he turned on me, and began striking me. I held his hand, and then he screamed and kicked and ran to his father, and told him that I was fighting him. He came in a rage, and said he’d teach me who was my master; and he tied me to a tree, and cut switches for young master, and told him that he might whip me till he was tired—and he did do it! If I don’t make him remember it, some time!” and the brow of the young man grew dark, and his eyes burned with an expression that made his young wife tremble. “Who made this man my master? That’s what I want to know!” he said.

“Well,” said Eliza mournfully, “I always thought that I must obey my master and mistress, or I couldn’t be a Christian.”

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

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

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

“Oh, George, you didn’t do it!”

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

“What are you going to do? Oh, George, don’t do any-thing wicked! If you only trust in God, and try to do right, He’ll deliver you.”

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

“Oh, George! we must have faith. Mistress says that when all things go wrong with us, we must believe that God is doing the very best.”

“That’s easy to say for people that are sitting on their sofas and riding in their carriages; but let ’em be where I am. I guess it would come some harder. I wish I could be good; but my heart burns, and can’t be reconciled, anyhow. You couldn’t in my place—you can’t now, if I tell you all I’ve got to say. You don’t know the whole yet.”

“What can be coming now?”

“Well, lately mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to let me marry off the place; that he hates Mr Shelby and all his tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I’ve got proud notions from you; and he says he won’t let me come here any more, and that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded and grumbled these things; but yesterday he told me that I should take Mina for a wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell me down river.”

“Why—but you were married to me, by the minister, as much as if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza simply.

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

“Oh, but master is so kind!”

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

The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart. The vision of the trader came before her eyes, and, as if someone had struck her a deadly blow, she turned and gasped for breath. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself. “No, no—he has enough to bear, poor fellow!” she thought. “No, I won’t tell him; besides, it an’t true. Missis never deceives us.”

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

“Going, George! Going where?”

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

“Oh, dreadful! if you should be taken?”

“I won’t be taken, Eliza; I’ll die first! I’ll be free, or I’ll die!”

“You won’t kill yourself?”

“No need of that. They will kill me, fast enough!”

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

“Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas’r took it into his head to send me right by here with a note to Mr Symmes, that lives a mile past. I believe he expected I should come here to tell you what I have. It would please him if he thought it would aggravate “Shelby’s folks”, as he calls ’em. I’m going home quite resigned, you understand, as if all was over. I’ve got some preparations made—and there are those that will help me; and in the course of a week or so, I shall be among the missing, some day. Pray for me, Eliza; perhaps the good Lord will hear you.”

“Oh, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in Him; then you won’t do anything wicked.”

“Well, now, good-bye,” said George, holding Eliza’s hands, and gazing into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent; then there were last words, and sobs, and bitter weeping—and the husband and wife were parted.

4

Uncle Tom’s Cabin

The cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building close adjoining to “the house”, as the negro par excellence designates his master’s dwelling. In front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, strawberries, raspberries, and a variety of fruits and vegetables flourished under careful tending.

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house is over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as head cook, has left to inferior officers in the kitchen the business of clearing away and washing dishes, and come out into her own snug territories, to “get her ole man’s supper”. A round, black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that she might have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her whole plump countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, if we must confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the neighbourhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.

A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. Not a chicken or turkey or duck in the barnyard but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end; and certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing, and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised compounders.

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

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

On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headed boys, with glistening black eyes and fat, shining cheeks, were busy in superintending the first walking operations of the baby which, as is usually the case, consisted in getting up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then tumbling down—each successive failure being violently cheered, as something decidedly clever.

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

He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him, on which he was carefully and slowly endeavouring to accomplish a copy of some letters, in which operation he was overlooked by young Mas’r George, a smart, bright boy of thirteen, who appeared fully to realize the dignity of his position as instructor.

“Not that way, Uncle Tom—not that way,” said he briskly, as Uncle Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his g the wrong side out; “that makes a q, you see.”

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

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

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

“Mos’ done, Mas’r George,” said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid and peeping in—“browning beautiful—a real lovely brown.” And she whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been ashamed. “Now, Mas’r George, you jest take off dem books and set down now with my old man, and I’ll take up de sausages, and have de first griddleful of cakes on your plates in less dan no time.”

“They wanted me to come to supper in the house,” said George; “but I knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe. Now for the cake.” And with that, the youngster flourished a large knife over the article in question.

“La bless you, Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe with earnestness, catching his arm, “you wouldn’t be for cuttin’ it wid dat ar great heavy knife! Smash it all down—spile all the pretty rise of it. Here, I’ve got a thin old knife I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light as a feather! Now, eat away—you won’t get anything to beat dat ar.”

When Master George had arrived at that pass to which even a boy can come (under uncommon circumstances), when he really could not eat another morsel, George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney-corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and began alternately filling its mouth and her own.

Then Aunt Chloe, set the baby down in Tom’s lap, while she busied herself in clearing away supper. The baby employed the intervals in pulling Tom’s nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his woolly hair, which last operation seemed to afford her special content.

“An’t she a peart young un?” said Tom, holding her from him to take a full-length view; then, getting up, he set her on his broad shoulder and began capering and dancing with her.

“Well, now, I hopes you’re done,” said Aunt Chloe at last, “for we’s goin’ to have the meetin”, though what we’s to do for cheers, now, I declar’ I don’t know,” said Aunt Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle Tom’s weekly for an indefinite length of time, without any more “cheers”, there seemed some encouragement to hope that a way would be discovered at present.

“Well, cle man,” said Aunt Chloe, “you’ll have to tote in them ar bar’ls.”

Two empty casks were rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling, by stones on each side, boards were laid across them, which arrangement, together with the turning down of certain tubs and pails, and the disposing of the rickety chairs, at last completed the preparation.

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

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

The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from the old grey-headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl and lad of fifteen. A little harmless gossip ensued on various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally got her new red headkerchief, and how “Missis was a-going to give Lizzy that spotted muslin gown, when she’d got her new berage made up”; and how Mas’r Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt, that was going to prove an addition to the glories of the place. A few of the worshippers belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to attend, and who brought in various choice scraps of information about the sayings and doings at the house and on the place, which circulated as freely as the same sort of small change does in higher circles.

After a while the singing commenced, to the evident delight of all present. Not even all the disadvantages of nasal intonation could prevent the effect of the naturally fine voices in airs at once wild and spirited. The words were sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung in the churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character picked up at camp-meetings.

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

“Die on the field of battle

Die on the field of battle,

Glory in my soul,”

Another special favourite had, oft repeated, the words:

“Oh, I’m going to glory—won’t you come along with me?

Don’t you see the angels beck’ning, and a-calling me away?

Don’t you see the golden city and the everlasting day?”

There were others, which made incessant mention of “Jordan’s banks”, and “Canaan’s fields”, and the “New Jerusalem”; for the negro mind, impassioned and imaginative, always attaches itself to hymns and expressions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and, as they sang, some laughed, and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook hands rejoicingly with each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side of the river.

Mas’r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation, often interrupted by such exclamations as “The sakes now!” “Only hear that!” “Jest think on’t!” “Is all that acomin’ sure enough?”

Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters in the neighbourhood. It was in prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing could exceed the touching simplicity, the childlike earnestness of his prayer, enriched with the language of Scripture, which seemed so entirely to have wrought itself into his being as to have become a part of himself, and to drop from his lips unconsciously; in the language of a pious old negro, he “prayed right up”.

* * * * * * * *

WHILE this scene was passing in the cabin of the man, one quite otherwise passed in the halls of the master.

The trader and Mr Shelby were seated together in the dining-room aforenamed, at a table covered with papers and writing utensils. The latter was busy in counting some bundles of bills, which, as they were counted, he pushed over to the trader, who counted them likewise.

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

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

“Wal, now, the thing’s done!” said the trader, getting up.

“It’s done!” said Mr Shelby, in a musing tone; and, fetching a long breath he repeated, “It’s done!”

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

“Haley,” said Mr Shelby, “I hope you’ll remember that you promised, on your honour, you wouldn’t sell Tom without knowing what sort of hands he’s going into.”

“Why, you’ve just done it, sir,” said the trader.

“Circumstances, you well know, obliged me,” said Shelby haughtily.

“Wal, you know, they may ’blige me too,” said the trader.

“Howsomever, I’ll do the very best I can in gettin’ Tom a good berth; as to my treatin’ on him bad, you needn’t be a grain afeared. If there’s anything that I thank the Lord for, it is that I’m never noways cruel.”

5

Eliza Overhears

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

“By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you lugged in to our dinner-table today?”

“Haley is his name,” said Shelby, turning rather uneasily in his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a letter.

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

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

“And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home and call and dine here, eh?”

“Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him.”

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

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