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Title: Uncle Tom's Cabin

Author: Harriet Beecher Stowe

Release date: January 13, 2006 [eBook #203]
Most recently updated: January 13, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/203

Credits: Judith Boss, an Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCLE TOM'S
CABIN ***

U n c l e To m ’s C a b i n
or

Life among the Lowly

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

Contents

VOLUME I
CHAPTER I—In Which the Reader Is Introduced to a Man of Humanity
CHAPTER II—The Mother
CHAPTER III —The Husband and Father
CHAPTER IV—An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin
CHAPTER V—Showing the Feelings of Living Property on Changing
Owners
CHAPTER VI—Discovery
CHAPTER VII—The Mother’s Struggle
CHAPTER VIII—Eliza’s Escape
CHAPTER IX—In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But a Man
CHAPTER X—The Property Is Carried Off
CHAPTER XI—In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of Mind
CHAPTER XII—Select Incident of Lawful Trade
CHAPTER XIII—The Quaker Settlement
CHAPTER XIV—Evangeline
CHAPTER XV—Of Tom’s New Master, and Various Other Matters
CHAPTER XVI—Tom’s Mistress and Her Opinions
CHAPTER XVII—The Freeman’s Defence
CHAPTER XVIII—Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions

VOLUME II
CHAPTER—Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions Continued XIX
CHAPTER XX—Topsy
CHAPTER XXI—Kentuck
CHAPTER XXII—“The Grass Withereth—the Flower Fadeth”

CHAPTER XXIII—Henrique
CHAPTER XXIV—Foreshadowings
CHAPTER XXV—The Little Evangelist
CHAPTER XXVI—Death
CHAPTER XXVII—“This Is the Last of Earth”
CHAPTER XXVIII—Reunion
CHAPTER XXIX—The Unprotected
CHAPTER XXX—The Slave Warehouse
CHAPTER XXXI—The Middle Passage
CHAPTER XXXII—Dark Places
CHAPTER XXXIII—Cassy
CHAPTER XXXIV—The Quadroon’s Story
CHAPTER XXXV—The Tokens
CHAPTER XXXVI—Emmeline and Cassy
CHAPTER XXXVII—Liberty
CHAPTER XXXVIII—The Victory
CHAPTER XXXIX—The Stratagem
CHAPTER XL—The Martyr
CHAPTER XLI—The Young Master
CHAPTER XLII—An Authentic Ghost Story
CHAPTER XLIII—Results
CHAPTER XLIV—The Liberator
CHAPTER XLV—Concluding Remarks

List of Illustrations

Eliza comes to tell Uncle Tom that he is sold, and that she is running away
to save her child.
THE AUCTION SALE.
THE FREEMAN’S DEFENCE.
LITTLE EVA READING THE BIBLE TO UNCLE TOM IN THE
ARBOR.
CASSY MINISTERING TO UNCLE TOM AFTER HIS WHIPPING.
THE FUGITIVES ARE SAVE IN A FREE LAND.

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I
In Which the Reader Is Introduced to a Man of
Humanity
Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, two gentlemen were
sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnished dining parlor, 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
over-dressed, in a gaudy vest of many colors, a blue neckerchief, bedropped
gayly with yellow spots, and arranged with a flaunting tie, quite in keeping
with the general air of the man. His hands, large and coarse, were
plentifully bedecked with rings; and he wore a heavy gold watch-chain,
with a bundle of seals of portentous size, and a great variety of colors,
attached to it,—which, in the ardor of conversation, he was in the habit of
flourishing and jingling with evident satisfaction. His conversation was in
free and easy defiance of Murray’s Grammar,[1] and was garnished at
convenient intervals with various profane expressions, which not even the
desire to be graphic in our account shall induce us to transcribe.
[1] English Grammar (1795), by Lindley Murray (1745-1826), the most
authoritative American grammarian of his day.

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

“That is the way I should arrange the matter,” said Mr. Shelby.
“I can’t make trade that way—I positively can’t, Mr. Shelby,” said the
other, holding up a glass of wine between his eye and the light.
“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. I had a fellow, now, in this yer
last lot I took to Orleans—’t was as good as a meetin’, now, really, to hear
that critter pray; and he was quite gentle and quiet like. He fetched me a
good sum, too, for I bought him cheap of a man that was ’bliged to sell out;
so I realized six hundred on him. Yes, I consider religion a valeyable thing
in a nigger, when it’s the genuine article, and no mistake.”
“Well, Tom’s got the real article, if ever a fellow had,” rejoined the other.
“Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati alone, to do business for me, and
bring home five hundred dollars. ‘Tom,’ says I to him, ‘I trust you, because
I think you’re a Christian—I know you wouldn’t cheat.’ Tom comes back,
sure enough; I knew he would. Some low fellows, they say, said to him
—‘Tom, why don’t you make tracks for Canada?’ ‘Ah, master trusted me,
and I couldn’t,’—they told me about it. I am sorry to part with Tom, I must
say. You ought to let him cover the whole balance of the debt; and you
would, Haley, if you had any conscience.”
“Well, I’ve got just as much conscience as any man in business can
afford to keep,—just a little, you know, to swear by, as ’t were,” said the
trader, jocularly; “and then, I’m ready to do anything in reason to ’blige
friends; but this yer, you see, is a leetle too hard on a fellow—a leetle too
hard.” The trader sighed contemplatively, and poured out some more
brandy.

“Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?” said Mr. Shelby, after an uneasy
interval of silence.
“Well, haven’t you a boy or gal that you could throw in with Tom?”
“Hum!—none that I could well spare; to tell the truth, it’s only hard
necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don’t like parting with any of my
hands, that’s a fact.”
Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, 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.
“Hulloa, Jim Crow!” said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and snapping a bunch of
raisins towards him, “pick that up, now!”
The child scampered, with all his little strength, after the prize, while his
master laughed.
“Come here, Jim Crow,” said he. The child came up, and the master
patted the curly head, and chucked him under the chin.
“Now, Jim, show this gentleman how you can dance and sing.” The boy
commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common among the
negroes, in a rich, clear voice, accompanying his singing with many comic
evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all in perfect time to the
music.
“Bravo!” said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an orange.
“Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe, when he has the rheumatism,”
said his master.
Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed the appearance of
deformity and distortion, as, with his back humped up, and his master’s
stick in his hand, he hobbled about the room, his childish face drawn into a
doleful pucker, and spitting from right to left, in imitation of an old man.
Both gentlemen laughed uproariously.

“Now, Jim,” said his master, “show us how old Elder Robbins leads the
psalm.” The boy drew his chubby face down to a formidable length, and
commenced toning a psalm tune through his nose, with imperturbable
gravity.
“Hurrah! bravo! what a young ’un!” said Haley; “that chap’s a case, I’ll
promise. Tell you what,” said he, suddenly clapping his hand on Mr.
Shelby’s shoulder, “fling in that chap, and I’ll settle the business—I will.
Come, now, if that ain’t doing the thing up about the rightest!”
At this moment, the door was pushed gently open, and a young quadroon
woman, apparently about twenty-five, entered the room.
There needed only a glance from the child to her, to identify her as its
mother. There was the same rich, full, dark eye, with its long lashes; the
same ripples of silky black hair. The brown of her complexion gave way on
the cheek to a perceptible flush, which deepened as she saw the gaze of the
strange man fixed upon her in bold and undisguised admiration. Her dress
was of the neatest possible fit, and set off to advantage her finely 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,
showing his spoils, which he had gathered in the skirt of his robe.
“Well, take him away, then,” said Mr. Shelby; and hastily she withdrew,
carrying the child on her arm.
“By Jupiter,” said the trader, turning to him in admiration, “there’s an
article, now! You might make your fortune on that ar gal in Orleans, any
day. I’ve seen over a thousand, in my day, paid down for gals not a bit
handsomer.”
“I don’t want to make my fortune on her,” said Mr. Shelby, dryly; and,
seeking to turn the conversation, he uncorked a bottle of fresh wine, and
asked his companion’s opinion of it.
“Capital, sir,—first chop!” said the trader; then turning, and slapping his
hand familiarly on Shelby’s shoulder, he added—

“Come, how will you trade about the gal?—what shall I say for her—
what’ll you take?”
“Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold,” said Shelby. “My wife would not part
with her for her weight in gold.”
“Ay, ay! women always say such things, cause they ha’nt no sort of
calculation. Just show ’em how many watches, feathers, and trinkets, one’s
weight in gold would buy, and that alters the case, I reckon.”
“I tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of; I say no, and I mean no,”
said Shelby, decidedly.
“Well, you’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?” said Shelby.
“Why, I’ve got a friend that’s going into this yer branch of the business—
wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for the market. Fancy articles
entirely—sell for waiters, and so on, to rich ’uns, that can pay for handsome
’uns. It sets off one of yer great places—a real handsome boy to open door,
wait, and tend. They fetch a good sum; and this little devil is such a
comical, musical concern, he’s just the article.”
“I would rather not sell him,” said Mr. Shelby, thoughtfully; “the fact is,
sir, I’m a humane man, and I hate to take the boy from his mother, sir.”
“O, 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
ear-rings, or a new gown, or some such truck, to make up with her.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Lor bless ye, yes! These critters an’t like white folks, you know; they
gets over things, only manage right. Now, they say,” said Haley, assuming a
candid and confidential air, “that this kind o’ trade is hardening to the
feelings; but I never found it so. Fact is, I never could do things up the way
some fellers manage the business. I’ve seen ’em as would pull a woman’s
child out of her arms, and set him up to sell, and she screechin’ like mad all
the time;—very bad policy—damages the article—makes ’em quite unfit

for service sometimes. I knew a real handsome gal once, in Orleans, as was
entirely ruined by this sort o’ handling. The fellow that was trading for her
didn’t want her baby; and she was one of your real high sort, when her
blood was up. I tell you, she squeezed up her child in her arms, and talked,
and went on real awful. It kinder makes my blood run cold to think on’t;
and when they carried off the child, and locked her up, she jest went ravin’
mad, and died in a week. Clear waste, sir, of a thousand dollars, just for
want of management,—there’s where ’t is. It’s always best to do the
humane thing, sir; that’s been my experience.” And the trader leaned back in
his chair, and folded his arms, with an air of virtuous decision, apparently
considering himself a second Wilberforce.
The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply; for while Mr.
Shelby was thoughtfully peeling an orange, Haley broke out afresh, with
becoming diffidence, but as if actually driven by the force of truth to say a
few words more.
“It don’t look well, now, for a feller to be praisin’ himself; but I say it jest
because it’s the truth. I believe I’m 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.”
Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said, “Indeed!”
“Now, I’ve been laughed at for my notions, sir, and I’ve been talked to.
They an’t pop’lar, and they an’t common; but I stuck to ’em, sir; I’ve stuck
to ’em, and realized well on ’em; yes, sir, they have paid their passage, I
may say,” and the trader laughed at his joke.
There was something so piquant and original in these elucidations of
humanity, that Mr. Shelby could not help laughing in company. Perhaps you
laugh too, dear reader; but you know humanity comes out in a variety of
strange forms now-a-days, and there is no end to the odd things that
humane people will say and do.
Mr. Shelby’s laugh encouraged the trader to proceed.
“It’s strange, now, but I never could beat this into people’s heads. Now,
there was Tom Loker, my old partner, down in Natchez; he was a clever
fellow, Tom was, only the very devil with niggers,—on principle ’t was,

you see, for a better hearted feller never broke bread; ’t was his system, sir. I
used to talk to Tom. ‘Why, Tom,’ I used to say, ‘when your gals takes on
and cry, what’s the use o’ crackin on ’em over the head, and knockin’ on
’em round? It’s ridiculous,’ says I, ‘and don’t do no sort o’ good. Why, I
don’t see no harm in their cryin’,’ says I; ‘it’s natur,’ says I, ‘and if natur
can’t blow off one way, it will another. Besides, Tom,’ says I, ‘it jest spiles
your gals; they get sickly, and down in the mouth; and sometimes they gets
ugly,—particular yallow gals do,—and it’s the devil and all gettin’ on ’em
broke in. Now,’ says I, ‘why can’t you kinder coax ’em up, and speak ’em
fair? Depend on it, Tom, a little humanity, thrown in along, goes a heap
further than all your jawin’ and crackin’; and it pays better,’ says I, ‘depend
on ’t.’ But Tom couldn’t get the hang on ’t; and he spiled so many for me,
that I had to break off with him, though he was a good-hearted fellow, and
as fair a business hand as is goin’.”
“And do you find your ways of managing do the business better than
Tom’s?” said Mr. Shelby.
“Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any ways can, I takes a
leetle care about the onpleasant parts, like selling young uns and that,—get
the gals out of the way—out of sight, out of mind, you know,—and when
it’s clean done, and can’t be helped, they naturally gets used 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, ha’n’t no kind of ’spectations of no kind; so all these
things comes easier.”
“I’m afraid mine are not properly brought up, then,” said Mr. Shelby.
“S’pose not; you Kentucky folks spile your niggers. You mean well by
’em, but ’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. Now, I venture to say, your niggers would
be quite chop-fallen in a place where some of your plantation niggers would
be singing and whooping like all possessed. Every man, you know, Mr.
Shelby, naturally thinks well of his own ways; and I think I treat niggers
just about as well as it’s ever worth while to treat ’em.”

“It’s a happy thing to be satisfied,” said Mr. Shelby, with a slight shrug,
and some perceptible feelings of a disagreeable nature.
“Well,” said Haley, after they had both silently picked their nuts for a
season, “what do you say?”
“I’ll think the matter over, and talk with my wife,” said Mr. Shelby.
“Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter carried on in the quiet way you
speak of, you’d best not let your business in this neighborhood 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.”
“O! 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 wife about that; and, for that matter, about Tom, too.
So much for being in debt,—heigho! The fellow sees his advantage, and
means to push it.”
Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to be seen in the
State of Kentucky. The general prevalence of agricultural pursuits of a quiet
and gradual nature, not requiring those periodic seasons of hurry and
pressure that are called for in the business of more southern districts, makes
the task of the negro a more healthful and reasonable one; while the master,
content with a more gradual style of acquisition, has not those temptations
to hardheartedness which always overcome frail human nature when the
prospect of sudden and rapid gain is weighed in the balance, with no
heavier counterpoise than the interests of the helpless and unprotected.
Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses the good-humored
indulgence of some masters and mistresses, and the affectionate loyalty of
some slaves, might be tempted to dream the oft-fabled poetic legend of a

patriarchal institution, and all that; but over and above the scene there
broods a portentous shadow—the shadow of law. So long as the law
considers all these human beings, with beating hearts and living affections,
only as so many things belonging to a master,—so long as the failure, or
misfortune, or imprudence, or death of the kindest owner, may cause them
any day to exchange a life of kind protection and indulgence for one of
hopeless misery and toil,—so long it is impossible to make anything
beautiful or desirable in the best regulated administration of slavery.
Mr. Shelby was a fair average kind of man, good-natured and kindly, and
disposed to easy indulgence of those around him, and there had never been
a lack of anything which might contribute to the physical comfort of the
negroes on his estate. He had, however, speculated largely and quite
loosely; had involved himself deeply, and his notes to a large amount had
come into the hands of Haley; and this small piece of 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 into her face 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. “O, missis!” she said, raising her eyes; then, bursting into
tears, she sat down in a chair, and began sobbing.
“Why, Eliza, child, what ails you?” said her mistress.
“O! missis, missis,” said Eliza, “there’s been a trader talking with master
in the parlor! I heard him.”
“Well, silly child, suppose there has.”

“O, missis, do you suppose mas’r would sell my Harry?” And the poor
creature threw herself into a chair, and sobbed convulsively.
“Sell him! No, you foolish girl! You know your master never deals with
those southern traders, and never means to sell any of his servants, as long
as they behave well. Why, you silly child, who do you think would want to
buy your Harry? Do you think all the world are set on him as you are, you
goosie? Come, cheer up, and hook my dress. There now, put my back hair
up in that pretty braid you learnt the other day, and don’t go listening at
doors any more.”
“Well, but, missis, you never would give your consent—to—to—”
“Nonsense, 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’ 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.
Certain it was that he gave her unlimited scope in all her benevolent efforts
for the comfort, instruction, and improvement of her servants, though he
never took any decided part in them himself. In fact, if not exactly a
believer in the doctrine of the efficiency of the extra good works of saints,
he really seemed somehow or other to fancy that his wife had piety and
benevolence enough for two—to indulge a shadowy expectation of getting
into heaven through her superabundance of qualities to which he made no
particular pretension.
The heaviest load on his mind, after his conversation with the trader, lay
in the foreseen necessity of breaking to his wife the arrangement
contemplated,—meeting the importunities and opposition which he knew
he should have reason to encounter.

Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband’s embarrassments,
and knowing only the general kindliness of his temper, had been quite
sincere in the entire 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.

CHAPTER II
The Mother
Eliza had been brought up by her mistress, from girlhood, as a petted and
indulged favorite.
The traveller in the south must often have remarked that peculiar air of
refinement, that softness of voice and manner, which seems in many cases
to be a particular gift to the quadroon and mulatto women. These natural
graces in the quadroon are often united with beauty of the most dazzling
kind, and in almost every case with a personal appearance prepossessing
and agreeable. Eliza, such as we have described her, is not a fancy sketch,
but taken from remembrance, as we saw her, years ago, in Kentucky. Safe
under the protecting care of her mistress, Eliza had reached maturity
without those temptations which make beauty so fatal an inheritance to a
slave. She had been married to a bright and talented young mulatto man,
who was a slave on a neighboring estate, and bore the name of George
Harris.
This young man had been hired out by his master to work in a bagging
factory, where his adroitness and ingenuity caused him to be considered the
first hand in the place. He had invented a machine for the cleaning of the
hemp, which, considering the education and circumstances of the inventor,
displayed quite as much mechanical genius as Whitney’s cotton-gin.[1]
[2] A machine of this description was really the invention of a young colored
man in Kentucky. [Mrs. Stowe’s note.]

He was possessed of a handsome person and pleasing manners, and was a
general favorite in the factory. Nevertheless, as this young man was in the
eye of the law not a man, but a thing, all these superior qualifications were
subject to the control of a vulgar, narrow-minded, tyrannical master. This
same gentleman, having heard of the fame of George’s invention, took a
ride over to the factory, to see what this intelligent chattel had been about.

He was received with great enthusiasm by the 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 round 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.
“O 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 labor-saving
machines themselves, every one of ’em. No, he shall tramp!”
George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doom thus suddenly
pronounced by a power that he knew was irresistible. He folded his arms,
tightly pressed in his lips, but a whole volcano of bitter feelings burned in
his bosom, and sent streams of fire 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 help you,
yet.”

The tyrant observed the whisper, and conjectured its import, though he
could not hear what was said; and he inwardly strengthened himself in his
determination to keep the power he possessed over his victim.
George was taken home, and put to the meanest drudgery of the farm. He
had been able to repress every disrespectful word; but the flashing eye, the
gloomy and troubled brow, were part of a natural language that could not be
repressed,—indubitable signs, which showed too plainly that the man could
not become a thing.
It was during the happy period of his employment in the factory that
George had seen and married his wife. During that period,—being much
trusted and favored by his employer,—he had free liberty to come and go at
discretion. The marriage was highly approved of by Mrs. Shelby, who, with
a little womanly complacency in match-making, felt pleased to unite her
handsome favorite with one of her own class who seemed in every way
suited to her; and so they were married in her mistress’ great parlor, and her
mistress herself adorned the bride’s beautiful hair with orange-blossoms,
and threw over it the bridal veil, which certainly could scarce have rested
on a fairer head; and there was no lack of white gloves, and cake and wine,
—of admiring guests to praise the bride’s beauty, and her mistress’
indulgence and liberality. For a year or two Eliza saw her husband
frequently, and there was nothing to interrupt their happiness, except the
loss of two infant children, to whom she was passionately attached, and
whom she mourned with a grief so intense as to call for gentle remonstrance
from her mistress, who sought, with maternal anxiety, to direct her naturally
passionate feelings within the bounds of reason and religion.
After the birth of little Harry, however, she had gradually 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 he, doggedly; “I
know my own business, sir.”
“I did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I only thought that you might
think it for your interest to let your man to us on the terms proposed.”
“O, I understand the matter well enough. I saw your winking and
whispering, the day I took him out of the factory; but you don’t come it
over me that way. It’s a free country, sir; the man’s mine, and I do what I
please with him,—that’s it!”
And so fell George’s last hope;—nothing before him but a life of toil and
drudgery, rendered more bitter by every little smarting vexation and
indignity which tyrannical ingenuity could devise.
A very humane jurist once said, The worst use you can put a man to is to
hang him. No; there is another use that a man can be put to that is WORSE!

CHAPTER III
The Husband and Father
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! Well; 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. O, 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? I’m sure we’ve been very happy, till
lately.”
“So we have, dear,” said George. Then drawing his child on his knee, he
gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and passed his hands through his
long curls.
“Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest woman I ever saw, and
the best one I ever wish to see; but, oh, I wish I’d never seen you, nor you

me!”
“O, George, how can you!”
“Yes, Eliza, it’s all misery, misery, misery! My life is bitter as
wormwood; the very life is burning out of me. I’m a poor, miserable,
forlorn drudge; I shall only drag you down with me, that’s all. What’s the
use of our trying to do anything, trying to know anything, trying to be
anything? What’s the use of living? I wish I was dead!”
“O, now, dear George, that is really wicked! I know how you feel about
losing your place in the factory, and you have a hard master; but pray be
patient, and perhaps something—”
“Patient!” said he, interrupting her; “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 dray-horse of me?—to take me from
things I can do, and do better than he can, and put me to work that any
horse can do? He tries to do it; he says he’ll bring me down and humble me,
and he puts me to just the hardest, meanest and dirtiest work, on purpose!”
“O, George! George! you frighten me! Why, I never heard you talk so;
I’m afraid you’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!”
“O dear! what shall we do?” said Eliza, mournfully.
“It was only yesterday,” said George, “as I was busy loading stones into a
cart, that young Mas’r Tom stood there, slashing his whip so near the horse
that the creature was frightened. I asked him to stop, as pleasant as 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 up at his expense, and that he couldn’t afford to have every
nigger keeping his dog, and ordered me to tie a stone to his neck and throw
him in the pond.”
“O, George, you didn’t do it!”

“Do it? not 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? O, George, don’t do anything wicked; if you
only trust in God, and try to do right, he’ll deliver you.”
“I an’t a Christian like you, Eliza; my heart’s full of bitterness; I can’t
trust in God. Why does he let things be so?”
“O, George, we must have faith. Mistress says that when all things go
wrong to us, we must believe that God is doing the very best.”
“That’s easy to say for people that are sitting on their sofas and riding in
their carriages; but let ’em be where I am, I guess it would come 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!”
“O, but master is so kind!”
“Yes, but who knows?—he may die—and then he may be sold to nobody
knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart, and bright?
I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good

and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him worth too much for
you to keep.”
The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart; the vision of the trader came
before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck her a deadly blow, she
turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the
verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and
where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-
stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked
herself.
“No, no,—he has enough to bear, poor fellow!” she thought. “No, I won’t
tell him; besides, it an’t true; Missis never deceives us.”
“So, Eliza, my girl,” said the husband, mournfully, “bear up, now; and
good-by, 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!”
“O, dreadful! if you should be taken?”
“I won’t be taken, Eliza; I’ll die first! I’ll be free, or I’ll die!”
“You won’t kill yourself!”
“No need of that. They will kill me, fast enough; they never will get me
down the river alive!”
“O, 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.”

“O, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in him; then you won’t do
anything wicked.”
“Well, now, good-by,” said George, holding Eliza’s hands, and gazing
into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent; then there were last
words, and sobs, and bitter weeping,—such parting as those may make
whose hope to meet again is as the spider’s web,—and the husband and
wife were parted.

CHAPTER IV
An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin
The cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, close adjoining to “the
house,” as the negro par excellence designates his master’s dwelling. In
front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, strawberries,
raspberries, and a variety of fruits and vegetables, flourished under careful
tending. The whole front of it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia and a
native multiflora rose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left scarce a
vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in summer, various brilliant
annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four-o’clocks, found an indulgent
corner in which to unfold their splendors, and were the delight and pride of
Aunt Chloe’s heart.
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”; therefore, doubt not that it is her you see by the fire, presiding with
anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a stew-pan, and anon with
grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from whence steam
forth indubitable intimations of “something good.” A round, black, shining
face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that she might have been
washed over with white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her whole
plump countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from under
her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, if we must
confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the first
cook of the neighborhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally held and
acknowledged to be.
A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. Not a
chicken or turkey or duck in the barn-yard but looked grave when they saw
her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end;
and certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing and

roasting, to a degree that was calculated to 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; and she would shake her fat sides with honest
pride and merriment, as she would narrate the fruitless efforts that one and
another of her compeers had made to attain to her elevation.
The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinners and suppers
“in style,” awoke all the energies of her soul; and no sight was more
welcome to her than a pile of travelling trunks launched on the verandah,
for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs.
Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the bake-pan; in
which congenial operation we shall leave her till we finish our picture of the
cottage.
In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread; and
by the side of it was a piece of carpeting, of some considerable size. On this
piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the
upper walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner,
in fact, were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, so far as
possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks.
In fact, that corner was the drawing-room of the establishment. In the other
corner was a bed of much humbler pretensions, and evidently designed for
use. The wall over the fireplace was adorned with some very brilliant
scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington, drawn and colored
in a manner which would certainly have astonished that hero, if ever he had
happened to meet with its like.
On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headed boys, with
glistening black eyes and fat shining cheeks, were busy in superintending
the first walking operations of the baby, which, as is usually the case,
consisted in getting up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then tumbling
down,—each 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 daguerreotype for our readers. He was a large, broad-

chested, powerfully-made man, of a full glossy black, and a face whose
truly African features were characterized by an expression of grave and
steady good sense, united with much kindliness and benevolence. There
was something about his whole air self-respecting and dignified, yet united
with a confiding and humble simplicity.
He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him, on
which he was carefully and slowly endeavoring to accomplish a copy of
some letters, in which operation he was overlooked by young Mas’r
George, a smart, bright boy of thirteen, who appeared fully to realize the
dignity of his position as instructor.
“Not that way, Uncle Tom,—not that way,” said he, briskly, as Uncle
Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his g the wrong side out; “that makes
a q, you see.”
“La sakes, now, does it?” said Uncle Tom, looking with a respectful,
admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly scrawled q’s and g’s
innumerable for his edification; and then, taking the pencil in his big, heavy
fingers, he patiently 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?”
“Mose done, Mas’r George,” said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid and peeping
in,—“browning beautiful—a real lovely brown. Ah! let me alone for dat.
Missis let Sally try to make some cake, t’other day, jes to larn her, she said.
‘O, go way, Missis,’ said I; ‘it really hurts my feelin’s, now, to see good
vittles spiled dat ar way! Cake ris all to one side—no shape at all; no more
than my shoe; go way!’”
And with this final expression of contempt for Sally’s greenness, Aunt
Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly-
baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been
ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, Aunt
Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper department.

“Here you, Mose and Pete! get out de way, you niggers! Get away, Polly,
honey,—mammy’ll give her baby somefin, by and by. Now, Mas’r George,
you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old man, and I’ll
take up de sausages, and have de first griddle full of cakes on your plates in
less dan no time.”
“They wanted me to come to supper in the house,” said George; “but I
knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe.”
“So you did—so you did, honey,” said Aunt Chloe, heaping the smoking
batter-cakes on his plate; “you know’d your old aunty’d keep the best for
you. O, let you alone for dat! Go way!” And, with that, aunty gave George a
nudge with her finger, designed to be immensely facetious, and turned again
to her griddle with great briskness.
“Now for the cake,” said Mas’r George, when the activity of the griddle
department had somewhat subsided; and, with that, the youngster flourished
a large knife over the article in question.
“La bless you, Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, with earnestness,
catching his arm, “you wouldn’t be for cuttin’ it wid dat ar great heavy
knife! Smash all down—spile all de pretty rise of it. Here, I’ve got a thin
old knife, I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light as a
feather! Now eat away—you won’t get anything to beat dat ar.”
“Tom Lincon says,” said George, speaking with his mouth full, “that their
Jinny is a better cook than you.”
“Dem Lincons an’t much count, no way!” said Aunt Chloe,
contemptuously; “I mean, set along side our folks. They ’s ’spectable folks
enough in a kinder plain way; but, as to gettin’ up anything in style, they
don’t begin to have a notion on ’t. Set Mas’r Lincon, now, alongside Mas’r
Shelby! Good Lor! and Missis Lincon,—can she kinder sweep it into a
room like my missis,—so kinder splendid, yer know! O, go way! don’t tell
me nothin’ of dem Lincons!”—and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who
hoped she did know something of the world.
“Well, though, I’ve heard you say,” said George, “that Jinny was a pretty
fair cook.”
“So I did,” said Aunt Chloe,—“I may say dat. Good, plain, common
cookin’, Jinny’ll do;—make a good pone o’ bread,—bile her taters far,—
her corn cakes isn’t extra, not extra now, Jinny’s corn cakes isn’t, but then

they’s far,—but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she do?
Why, she makes pies—sartin she does; but what kinder crust? Can she
make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a
puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married, and
Jinny she jest showed me de weddin’ pies. Jinny and I is good friends, ye
know. I never said nothin’; but go ’long, Mas’r George! Why, I shouldn’t
sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey wan’t
no ’count ’t all.”
“I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice,” said George.
“Thought so!—didn’t she? Thar she was, showing ’em, as innocent—ye
see, it’s jest here, Jinny don’t know. Lor, the family an’t nothing! She can’t
be spected to know! ’Ta’nt no fault o’ hern. Ah, Mas’r George, you doesn’t
know half your privileges in yer family and bringin’ up!” Here Aunt Chloe
sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion.
“I’m sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and pudding privileges,”
said George. “Ask Tom Lincon if I don’t crow over him, every time I meet
him.”
Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a hearty guffaw of
laughter, at this witticism of young Mas’r’s, laughing till the tears rolled
down her black, shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully
slapping and poking Mas’r Georgey, and telling him to go way, and that he
was a case—that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill her, one
of these days; and, between each of these sanguinary predictions, going off
into a laugh, each longer and stronger than the other, till George really
began to think that he was a very dangerously witty fellow, and that it
became him to be careful how he talked “as funny as he could.”
“And so ye telled Tom, did ye? O, Lor! what young uns will be up ter! Ye
crowed over Tom? O, Lor! Mas’r George, if ye wouldn’t make a hornbug
laugh!”
“Yes,” said George, “I says to him, ‘Tom, you ought to see some of Aunt
Chloe’s pies; they’re the right sort,’ says I.”
“Pity, now, Tom couldn’t,” said Aunt Chloe, on whose benevolent heart
the idea of Tom’s benighted condition seemed to make a strong impression.
“Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner, some o’ these times, Mas’r
George,” she added; “it would look quite pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas’r
George, ye oughtenter feel ’bove nobody, on ’count yer privileges, ’cause

all our privileges is gi’n to us; we ought al’ays to ’member that,” said Aunt
Chloe, looking quite serious.
“Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week,” said George; “and
you do your prettiest, Aunt Chloe, and we’ll make him stare. Won’t we
make him eat so he won’t get over it for a fortnight?”
“Yes, yes—sartin,” said Aunt Chloe, delighted; “you’ll see. Lor! to think
of some of our dinners! Yer mind dat ar great chicken pie I made when we
guv de dinner to General Knox? I and Missis, we come pretty near
quarrelling about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies sometimes, I don’t
know; but, sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o’ ’sponsibility on
’em, as ye may say, and is all kinder ‘seris’ and taken up, dey takes dat ar
time to be hangin’ round and kinder interferin’! Now, Missis, she wanted
me to do dis way, and she wanted me to do dat way; and, finally, I got
kinder sarcy, and, says I, ‘Now, Missis, do jist look at dem beautiful white
hands o’ yourn with long fingers, and all a sparkling with rings, like my
white lilies when de dew ’s on ’em; and look at my great black stumpin
hands. Now, don’t ye think dat de Lord must have meant me to make de
pie-crust, and you to stay in de parlor?’ Dar! I was jist so sarcy, Mas’r
George.”
“And what did mother say?” said George.
“Say?—why, she kinder larfed in her eyes—dem great handsome eyes o’
hern; and, says she, ‘Well, Aunt Chloe, I think you are about in the right on
’t,’ says she; and she went off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over de
head for bein’ so sarcy; but dar’s whar ’t is—I can’t do nothin’ with ladies
in de kitchen!”
“Well, you made out well with that dinner,—I remember everybody said
so,” said George.
“Didn’t I? And wan’t I behind de dinin’-room door dat bery day? and
didn’t I see de General pass his plate three times for some more dat bery
pie?—and, says he, ‘You must have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby.’ Lor!
I was fit to split myself.
“And de Gineral, he knows what cookin’ is,” said Aunt Chloe, drawing
herself up with an air. “Bery nice man, de Gineral! He comes of one of de
bery fustest families in Old Virginny! He knows what’s what, now, as well
as I do—de Gineral. Ye see, there’s pints in all pies, Mas’r George; but tan’t

everybody knows what they is, or orter be. But the Gineral, he knows; I
knew by his ’marks he made. Yes, he knows what de pints is!”
By this time, Master George had arrived at that pass to which even a boy
can come (under uncommon circumstances), when he really could not eat
another morsel, and, therefore, he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly
heads and glistening eyes which were regarding their operations hungrily
from the opposite corner.
“Here, you Mose, Pete,” he said, breaking off liberal bits, and throwing it
at them; “you want some, don’t you? Come, Aunt Chloe, bake them some
cakes.”
And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney-corner,
while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took her baby on her
lap, and began alternately filling its mouth and her own, and distributing to
Mose and Pete, who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs as they rolled
about on the floor under the table, tickling each other, and occasionally
pulling the baby’s toes.
“O! go long, will ye?” said the mother, giving now and then a kick, in a
kind of general way, under the table, when the movement became too
obstreperous. “Can’t ye be decent when white folks comes to see ye? Stop
dat ar, now, will ye? Better mind yerselves, or I’ll take ye down a button-
hole lower, when Mas’r George is gone!”
What meaning was couched under this terrible threat, it is difficult to say;
but certain it is that its awful indistinctness seemed to produce very little
impression on the young sinners addressed.
“La, now!” said Uncle Tom, “they are so full of tickle all the while, they
can’t behave theirselves.”
Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with hands and faces
well plastered with molasses, began a vigorous kissing of the baby.
“Get along wid ye!” said the mother, pushing away their woolly heads.
“Ye’ll all stick together, and never get clar, if ye do dat fashion. Go long to
de spring and wash yerselves!” she said, seconding her exhortations by a
slap, which resounded very formidably, but which seemed only to knock
out so much more laugh from the young ones, as they tumbled precipitately
over each other out of doors, where they fairly screamed with merriment.

“Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns?” said Aunt Chloe, rather
complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept for such emergencies, she
poured a little water out of the cracked tea-pot on it, and began rubbing off
the molasses from the baby’s face and hands; and, having polished her till
she shone, she set her down in Tom’s lap, while she busied herself in
clearing away supper. The baby employed the intervals in pulling Tom’s
nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his woolly hair,
which last operation seemed to afford her special content.
“Aint she a peart young un?” said Tom, holding her from him to take a
full-length view; then, getting up, he set her on his broad shoulder, and
began capering and dancing with her, while Mas’r George snapped at her
with his pocket-handkerchief, and Mose and Pete, now returned again,
roared after her like bears, till Aunt Chloe declared that they “fairly took her
head off” with their noise. As, according to her own statement, this surgical
operation was a matter of daily occurrence in the cabin, the declaration no
whit abated the merriment, till every one had roared and tumbled and
danced themselves down to a state of composure.
“Well, now, I hopes you’re done,” said Aunt Chloe, who had been busy
in pulling out a rude box of a trundle-bed; “and now, you Mose and you
Pete, get into thar; for we’s goin’ to have the meetin’.”
“O mother, we don’t wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin’,—meetin’s is
so curis. We likes ’em.”
“La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let ’em sit up,” said Mas’r George,
decisively, giving a push to the rude machine.
Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed highly delighted to
push the thing under, saying, as she did so, “Well, mebbe ’t will do ’em
some good.”
The house now resolved itself into a committee of the whole, to consider
the accommodations and arrangements for the meeting.
“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.
“Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last week,”
suggested Mose.

“You go long! I’ll boun’ you pulled ’em out; some o’ your shines,” said
Aunt Chloe.
“Well, it’ll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!” said Mose.
“Den Uncle Peter mus’n’t sit in it, cause he al’ays hitches when he gets a
singing. He hitched pretty nigh across de room, t’ other night,” said Pete.
“Good Lor! get him in it, then,” said Mose, “and den he’d begin, ‘Come
saints and sinners, hear me tell,’ and den down he’d go,”—and Mose
imitated precisely the nasal tones of the old man, tumbling on the floor, to
illustrate the supposed catastrophe.
“Come now, be decent, can’t ye?” said Aunt Chloe; “an’t yer shamed?”
Mas’r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and declared
decidedly that Mose was a “buster.” So the maternal admonition seemed
rather to fail of effect.
“Well, ole man,” said Aunt Chloe, “you’ll have to tote in them ar bar’ls.”
“Mother’s bar’ls is like dat ar widder’s, Mas’r George was reading ’bout,
in de good book,—dey never fails,” said Mose, aside to Pete.
“I’m sure one on ’em caved in last week,” said Pete, “and let ’em all
down in de middle of de singin’; dat ar was failin’, warnt it?”
During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty casks had been
rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling, by stones on each
side, boards were laid across them, which arrangement, together with the
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 ’t will be so much more interestin’.”
George very readily consented, for your boy is always ready for anything
that makes him of importance.
The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from the old gray-
headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl and lad of fifteen. A little
harmless gossip ensued on various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally
got her new red headkerchief, and how “Missis was a going to give 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 disadvantage of nasal intonation could prevent the
effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited. The
words were sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung in the
churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character,
picked up at camp-meetings.
The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was sung with great
energy and unction:
“Die on the field of battle,
Die on the field of battle,
Glory in my soul.”

Another special favorite had oft repeated the words—
“O, I’m going to glory,—won’t you come along with me?
Don’t you see the angels beck’ning, and a calling me away?
Don’t you see the golden city and the everlasting day?”

There were others, which made incessant mention of “Jordan’s banks,”
and “Canaan’s fields,” and the “New Jerusalem;” for the negro mind,
impassioned and imaginative, always attaches itself to hymns and
expressions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and, as they sung, some laughed,
and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook hands rejoicingly with
each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side of the river.
Various exhortations, or relations of experience, followed, and
intermingled with the singing. One old gray-headed woman, long past
work, but much revered as a sort of chronicle of the past, rose, and leaning
on her staff, said—
“Well, chil’en! Well, I’m mighty glad to hear ye all and see ye all once
more, ’cause I don’t know when I’ll be gone to glory; but I’ve done got
ready, chil’en; ’pears like I’d got my little bundle all tied up, and my bonnet
on, jest a waitin’ for the stage to come along and take me home; sometimes,
in the night, I think I hear the wheels a rattlin’, and I’m lookin’ out all the
time; now, you jest be ready too, for I tell ye all, chil’en,” she said, striking

her staff hard on the floor, “dat ar glory is a mighty thing! It’s a mighty
thing, chil’en,—you don’no nothing about it,—it’s wonderful.” And the old
creature sat down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while the
whole circle struck up—
“O Canaan, bright Canaan,
I’m bound for the land of Canaan.”

Mas’r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation, often
interrupted by such exclamations as “The sakes now!” “Only hear that!”
“Jest think on ’t!” “Is all that a comin’ sure enough?”
George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious things by his
mother, finding himself an object of general admiration, threw in
expositions of his own, from time to time, with a commendable seriousness
and gravity, for which he was admired by the young and blessed by the old;
and it was agreed, on all hands, that “a minister couldn’t lay it off better
than he did;” that “’t was reely ’mazin’!”
Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters, in the
neighborhood. Having, naturally, an organization in which the morale was
strongly predominant, together with a greater breadth and cultivation of
mind than obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with great
respect, as a sort of minister among them; and the simple, hearty, sincere
style of his exhortations might have edified even better educated persons.
But it was in prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing could exceed the
touching simplicity, the 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.”
And so much did his prayer always work on the devotional feelings of his
audiences, that there seemed often a danger that it would be lost altogether
in the abundance of the responses which broke out everywhere around him.

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

The trader and Mr. Shelby were seated together in the dining room afore-
named, at a table covered with papers and writing utensils.
Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bills, which, as they
were counted, he pushed over to the trader, who counted them likewise.
“All fair,” said the trader; “and now for signing these 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 honor, 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 afeard. If there’s anything that I thank the
Lord for, it is that I’m never noways cruel.”
After the expositions which the trader had previously given of his
humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel particularly reassured by these
declarations; but, as they were the best comfort the case admitted of, he
allowed the trader to depart in silence, and betook himself to a solitary
cigar.

CHAPTER V
Showing the Feelings of Living Property on
Changing Owners
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment for the night. He was
lounging in a large easy-chair, looking over some letters that had come in
the afternoon mail, and she was standing before her mirror, brushing out the
complicated braids and curls in which Eliza had arranged her hair; for,
noticing her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused her attendance
that night, and ordered her to bed. The employment, naturally enough,
suggested her conversation with the 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 himself rather uneasily in his
chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a letter.
“Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray?”
“Well, he’s a man that I transacted some business with, last time I was at
Natchez,” said Mr. Shelby.
“And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and dine
here, ay?”
“Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him,” said Shelby.
“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.
“Nothing,—only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a great worry, crying
and taking on, and said you were talking with a trader, and that she heard
him make an offer for her boy—the ridiculous little goose!”

“She did, hey?” said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper, which he seemed
for a few moments quite intent upon, not perceiving that he was holding it
bottom upwards.
“It will have to come out,” said he, mentally; “as well now as ever.”
“I told Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing her hair, “that
she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had anything to do
with that sort of persons. Of course, I knew you never meant to sell any of
our people,—least of all, to such a fellow.”
“Well, Emily,” said her husband, “so I have always felt and said; but the
fact is that my business lies so that I cannot get on without. I shall have to
sell some of my hands.”
“To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious.”
“I’m sorry to say that I am,” said Mr. Shelby. “I’ve agreed to sell Tom.”
“What! our Tom?—that good, faithful creature!—been your faithful
servant from a boy! O, Mr. Shelby!—and you have promised him his
freedom, too,—you and I have spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I
can believe anything now,—I can believe now that you could sell little
Harry, poor Eliza’s only child!” said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between grief
and indignation.
“Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to sell Tom and
Harry both; and I don’t know why I am to be rated, as if I were a monster,
for doing what every one does every day.”
“But why, of all others, choose these?” said Mrs. Shelby. “Why sell them,
of all on the place, if you must sell at all?”
“Because they will bring the highest sum of any,—that’s why. I could
choose another, if you say so. The fellow made me a high bid on Eliza, if
that would suit you any better,” said Mr. Shelby.
“The wretch!” said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.
“Well, I didn’t listen to it, a moment,—out of regard to your feelings, I
wouldn’t;—so give me some credit.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, “forgive me. I have
been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared for this;—but surely
you will allow me to intercede for these poor creatures. Tom is a noble-

hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr. Shelby, that if he
were put to it, he would lay down his life for you.”
“I know it,—I dare say;—but what’s the use of all this?—I can’t help
myself.”
“Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I’m willing to bear my part of the
inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have tried—tried most faithfully, as a
Christian woman should—to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent
creatures. I have cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and
known all their little cares and joys, for years; and how can I ever hold up
my head again among them, if, for the sake of a little paltry gain, we sell
such a faithful, excellent, confiding creature as poor Tom, and tear from
him in a moment all we have taught him to love and value? I have taught
them the duties of the family, of parent and child, and husband and wife;
and how can I bear to have this open acknowledgment that we care for no
tie, no duty, no relation, however sacred, compared with money? I have
talked with Eliza about her boy—her duty to him as a Christian mother, to
watch over him, pray for him, and bring him up in a Christian way; and
now what can I say, if you tear him away, and sell him, soul and body, to a
profane, unprincipled man, just to save a little money? I have told her that
one soul is worth more than all the money in the world; and how will she
believe me when she sees us turn round and sell her child?—sell him,
perhaps, to certain ruin of body and soul!”
“I’m sorry you feel so about it, Emily,—indeed I am,” said Mr. Shelby;
“and I respect your feelings, too, though I don’t pretend to share them to
their full extent; but I tell you now, solemnly, it’s of no use—I can’t help
myself. I didn’t mean to tell you this Emily; but, in plain words, there is no
choice between selling these two and selling everything. Either they must
go, or all must. Haley has come into possession of a mortgage, which, if I
don’t clear off with him directly, will take everything before it. I’ve raked,
and scraped, and borrowed, and all but begged,—and the price of these two
was needed to make up the balance, and I had to give them up. Haley
fancied the child; he agreed to settle the matter that way, and no other. I was
in his power, and had to do it. If you feel so to have them sold, would it be
any better to have all sold?”
Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning to her toilet, she
rested her face in her hands, and gave a sort of groan.

“This is God’s curse on slavery!—a bitter, bitter, most accursed thing!—a
curse to the master and a curse to the slave! I was a fool to think I could
make anything good out of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave
under laws like ours,—I always felt it was,—I always thought so when I
was a girl,—I thought so still more after I joined the church; but I thought I
could gild it over,—I thought, by kindness, and care, and instruction, I
could make the condition of mine better than freedom—fool that I was!”
“Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite.”
“Abolitionist! if they knew all I know about slavery, they might talk! We
don’t need them to tell us; you know I never thought that slavery was right
—never felt willing to own slaves.”
“Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men,” said Mr.
Shelby. “You remember Mr. B.’s sermon, the other Sunday?”
“I don’t want to hear such sermons; I never wish to hear Mr. B. in our
church again. Ministers can’t help the evil, perhaps,—can’t cure it, any
more than we can,—but defend it!—it always went against my common
sense. And I think you didn’t think much of that sermon, either.”
“Well,” said Shelby, “I must say these ministers sometimes carry matters
further than we poor sinners would exactly dare to do. We men of the world
must wink pretty hard at various things, and get used to a deal that isn’t the
exact thing. But we don’t quite fancy, when women and ministers come out
broad and square, and go beyond us in matters of either modesty or morals,
that’s a fact. But now, my dear, I trust you see the necessity of the thing, and
you see that I have done the very best that circumstances would allow.”
“O yes, yes!” said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstractedly fingering her
gold watch,—“I haven’t any jewelry of any amount,” she added,
thoughtfully; “but would not this watch do something?—it was an
expensive one, when it was bought. If I could only at least save Eliza’s
child, I would sacrifice anything I have.”
“I’m sorry, very sorry, Emily,” said Mr. Shelby, “I’m sorry this takes hold
of you so; but it will do no good. The fact is, Emily, the thing’s done; the
bills of sale are already signed, and in Haley’s hands; and you must be
thankful it is no worse. That man has had it in his power to ruin us all,—and
now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as I do, you’d think that we had
had a narrow escape.”

“Is he so hard, then?”
“Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather,—a man alive to
nothing but trade and profit,—cool, and unhesitating, and unrelenting, as
death and the grave. He’d sell his own mother at a good percentage—not
wishing the old woman any harm, either.”
“And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and Eliza’s child!”
“Well, my dear, the fact is that this goes rather hard with me; it’s a thing I
hate to think of. Haley wants to drive matters, and take possession
tomorrow. I’m going to get out my horse bright and early, and be off. I can’t
see Tom, that’s a fact; and you had better arrange a drive somewhere, and
carry Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she is out of sight.”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Shelby; “I’ll be in no sense accomplice or help in this
cruel business. I’ll go and see poor old Tom, God help him, in his distress!
They shall see, at any rate, that their mistress can feel for and with them. As
to Eliza, I dare not think about it. The Lord forgive us! What have we done,
that this cruel necessity should come on us?”
There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. and Mrs. Shelby
little suspected.
Communicating with their apartment was a large closet, opening by a
door into the outer passage. When Mrs. Shelby had dismissed Eliza for the
night, her feverish and excited mind had suggested the idea of this closet;
and she had hidden herself there, and, with her ear pressed close against the
crack of the door, had lost not a word of the conversation.
When the voices died into silence, she rose and crept stealthily away.
Pale, shivering, with rigid features and compressed lips, she looked an
entirely altered being from the soft and timid creature she had been hitherto.
She moved cautiously along the entry, paused one moment at her mistress’
door, and raised her hands in mute appeal to Heaven, and then turned and
glided into her own room. It was a quiet, neat apartment, on the same floor
with her mistress. There was the pleasant sunny window, where she had
often sat singing at her sewing; there a little case of books, and various little
fancy articles, ranged by them, the gifts of Christmas holidays; there was
her simple wardrobe in the closet and in the drawers:—here was, in short,
her home; and, on the whole, a happy one it had been to her. But there, on
the bed, lay her slumbering boy, his long curls falling negligently around
his unconscious face, his rosy mouth half open, his little fat hands thrown

out over the bedclothes, and a smile spread like a sunbeam over his whole
face.
“Poor boy! poor fellow!” said Eliza; “they have sold you! but your
mother will save you yet!”
No tear dropped over that pillow; in such straits as these, the heart has no
tears to give,—it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence. She took
a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote, hastily,
“O, Missis! dear Missis! don’t think me ungrateful,—don’t think hard of
me, any way,—I heard all you and master said tonight. I am going to try to
save my boy—you will not blame me! God bless and reward you for all
your kindness!”
Hastily folding and directing this, she went to a drawer and made up a
little package of clothing for her boy, which she tied with a handkerchief
firmly round her waist; and, so fond is a mother’s remembrance, that, even
in the terrors of that hour, she did not forget to put in the little package one
or two of his favorite toys, reserving a gayly painted parrot to amuse him,
when she should be called on to awaken him. It was some trouble to arouse
the little sleeper; but, after some effort, he sat up, and was playing with his
bird, while his mother was putting on her bonnet and shawl.
“Where are you going, mother?” said he, as she drew near the bed, with
his little coat and cap.
His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his eyes, that he at
once divined that something unusual was the matter.
“Hush, Harry,” she said; “mustn’t speak loud, or they will hear us. A
wicked man was coming to take little Harry away from his mother, and
carry him ’way off in the dark; but mother won’t let him—she’s going to
put on her little boy’s cap and coat, and run off with him, so the ugly man
can’t catch him.”
Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the child’s simple
outfit, and, taking him in her arms, she whispered to him to be very still;
and, opening a door in her room which led into the outer verandah, she
glided noiselessly out.
It was a sparkling, frosty, starlight night, and the mother wrapped the
shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet with vague terror, he clung
round her neck.

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end of the porch,
rose, with a low growl, as she came near. She gently spoke his name, and
the animal, an old pet and playmate of hers, instantly, wagging his tail,
prepared to follow her, though apparently revolving much, in his simple
dog’s head, what such an indiscreet midnight promenade might mean. Some
dim ideas of imprudence or impropriety in the measure seemed to
embarrass him considerably; for he often stopped, as Eliza glided forward,
and looked wistfully, first at her and then at the house, and then, as if
reassured by reflection, he pattered along after her again. A few minutes
brought them to the window of Uncle Tom’s cottage, and Eliza, stopping,
tapped lightly on the window-pane.
The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom’s had, in the order of hymn-singing,
been protracted to a very late hour; and, as Uncle Tom had indulged himself
in a few lengthy solos afterwards, the consequence was, that, although it
was now between twelve and one o’clock, he and his worthy helpmeet were
not yet asleep.
“Good Lord! what’s that?” said Aunt Chloe, starting up and hastily
drawing the curtain. “My sakes alive, if it an’t Lizy! Get on your clothes,
old man, quick!—there’s old Bruno, too, a pawin’ round; what on airth! I’m
gwine to open the door.”
And suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and the light of
the tallow candle, which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the haggard face
and dark, wild eyes of the fugitive.
“Lord bless you!—I’m skeered to look at ye, Lizy! Are ye tuck sick, or
what’s come over ye?”
“I’m running away—Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe—carrying off my child
—Master sold him!”

Eliza comes to tell Uncle Tom that he is sold, and that she is
running away to save her child.

“Sold him?” echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay.
“Yes, sold him!” said Eliza, firmly; “I crept into the closet by Mistress’
door tonight, and I heard Master tell Missis that he had sold my Harry, and
you, Uncle Tom, both, to a trader; and that he was going off this morning on
his horse, and that the man was to take possession today.”
Tom had stood, during this speech, with his hands raised, and his eyes
dilated, like a man in a dream. Slowly and gradually, as its meaning came
over him, he collapsed, rather than seated himself, on his old chair, and
sunk his head down upon his knees.
“The good Lord have pity on us!” said Aunt Chloe. “O! it don’t seem as
if it was true! What has he done, that Mas’r should sell him?”
“He hasn’t done anything,—it isn’t for that. Master don’t want to sell,
and Missis—she’s always good. I heard her plead and beg for us; but he
told her ’t was no use; that he was in this man’s debt, and that this man had
got the power over him; and that if he didn’t pay him off clear, it would end
in his having to sell the place and all the people, and move off. Yes, I heard
him say there was no choice between selling these two and selling all, the
man was driving him so hard. Master said he was sorry; but oh, Missis—
you ought to have heard her talk! If she an’t a Christian and an angel, there

never was one. I’m a wicked girl to leave her so; but, then, I can’t help it.
She said, herself, one soul was worth more than the world; and this boy has
a soul, and if I let him be carried off, who knows what’ll become of it? It
must be right: but, if it an’t right, the Lord forgive me, for I can’t help doing
it!”
“Well, old man!” said Aunt Chloe, “why don’t you go, too? Will you wait
to be toted down river, where they kill niggers with hard work and starving?
I’d a heap rather die than go there, any day! There’s time for ye,—be off
with Lizy,—you’ve got a pass to come and go any time. Come, bustle up,
and I’ll get your things together.”
Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but quietly around,
and said,
“No, no—I an’t going. Let Eliza go—it’s her right! I wouldn’t be the one
to say no—’tan’t in natur for her to stay; but you heard what she said! If I
must be sold, or all the people on the place, and everything go to rack, why,
let me be sold. I s’pose I can b’ar it as well as any on ’em,” he added, while
something like a sob and a sigh shook his broad, rough chest convulsively.
“Mas’r always found me on the spot—he always will. I never have broke
trust, nor used my pass no ways contrary to my word, and I never will. It’s
better for me alone to go, than to break up the place and sell all. Mas’r an’t
to blame, Chloe, and he’ll take care of you and the poor—”
Here he turned to the rough trundle bed full of little woolly heads, and
broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of the chair, and covered his
face with his large hands. Sobs, heavy, hoarse and loud, shook the chair,
and great tears fell through his fingers on the floor; just such tears, sir, as
you dropped into the coffin where lay your first-born son; such tears,
woman, as you shed when you heard the cries of your dying babe. For, sir,
he was a man,—and you are but another man. And, woman, though dressed
in silk and jewels, you are but a woman, and, in life’s great straits and
mighty griefs, ye feel but one sorrow!
“And now,” said Eliza, as she stood in the door, “I saw my husband only
this afternoon, and I little knew then what was to come. They have pushed
him to the very last standing place, and he told me, today, that he was going
to run away. Do try, if you can, to get word to him. Tell him how I went,
and why I went; and tell him I’m going to try and find Canada. You must
give my love to him, and tell him, if I never see him again,” she turned

away, and stood with her back to them for a moment, and then added, in a
husky voice, “tell him to be as good as he can, and try and meet me in the
kingdom of heaven.”
“Call Bruno in there,” she added. “Shut the door on him, poor beast! He
mustn’t go with me!”
A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings, and
clasping her wondering and affrighted child in her arms, she glided
noiselessly away.

CHAPTER VI
Discovery
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby, after their protracted discussion of the night before,
did not readily sink to repose, and, in consequence, slept somewhat later
than usual, the ensuing morning.
“I wonder what keeps Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, after giving her bell
repeated pulls, to no purpose.
Mr. Shelby was standing before his dressing-glass, sharpening his razor;
and just then the door opened, and a colored boy entered, with his shaving-
water.
“Andy,” said his mistress, “step to Eliza’s door, and tell her I have rung
for her three times. Poor thing!” she added, to herself, with a sigh.
Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonishment.
“Lor, Missis! Lizy’s drawers is all open, and her things all lying every
which way; and I believe she’s just done clared out!”
The truth flashed upon Mr. Shelby and his wife at the same moment. He
exclaimed,
“Then she suspected it, and she’s off!”
“The Lord be thanked!” said Mrs. Shelby. “I trust she is.”
“Wife, you talk like a fool! Really, it will be something pretty awkward
for me, if she is. Haley saw that I hesitated about selling this child, and he’ll
think I connived at it, to get him out of the way. It touches my honor!” And
Mr. Shelby left the room hastily.
There was great running and ejaculating, and opening and shutting of
doors, and appearance of faces in all shades of color in different places, for
about a quarter of an hour. One person only, who might have shed some
light on the matter, was entirely silent, and that was the head cook, Aunt
Chloe. Silently, and with a heavy cloud settled down over her once joyous

face, she proceeded making out her breakfast biscuits, as if she heard and
saw nothing of the excitement around her.
Very soon, about a dozen young imps were roosting, like so many crows,
on the verandah railings, each one determined to be the first one to apprize
the strange Mas’r of his ill luck.
“He’ll be rael mad, I’ll be bound,” said Andy.
“Won’t he swar!” said little black Jake.
“Yes, for he does swar,” said woolly-headed Mandy. “I hearn him
yesterday, at dinner. I hearn all about it then, ’cause I got into the closet
where Missis keeps the great jugs, and I hearn every word.” And Mandy,
who had never in her life thought of the meaning of a word she had heard,
more than a black cat, now took airs of superior wisdom, and strutted about,
forgetting to state that, though actually coiled up among the jugs at the time
specified, she had been fast asleep all the time.
When, at last, Haley appeared, booted and spurred, he was saluted with
the bad tidings on every hand. The young imps on the verandah were not
disappointed in their hope of hearing him “swar,” which he did with a
fluency and fervency which delighted them all amazingly, as they ducked
and dodged hither and thither, to be out of the reach of his riding-whip; and,
all whooping off together, they tumbled, in a pile of immeasurable giggle,
on the withered turf under the verandah, where they kicked up their heels
and shouted to their full satisfaction.
“If I had the little devils!” muttered Haley, between his teeth.
“But you ha’nt got ’em, though!” said Andy, with a triumphant flourish,
and making a string of indescribable mouths at the unfortunate trader’s
back, when he was fairly beyond hearing.
“I say now, Shelby, this yer ’s a most extro’rnary business!” said Haley,
as he abruptly entered the parlor. “It seems that gal ’s off, with her young
un.”
“Mr. Haley, Mrs. Shelby is present,” said Mr. Shelby.
“I beg pardon, ma’am,” said Haley, bowing slightly, with a still lowering
brow; “but still I say, as I said before, this yer’s a sing’lar report. Is it true,
sir?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Shelby, “if you wish to communicate with me, you must
observe something of the decorum of a gentleman. Andy, take Mr. Haley’s

hat and riding-whip. Take a seat, sir. Yes, sir; I regret to say that the young
woman, excited by overhearing, or having reported to her, something of this
business, has taken her child in the night, and made off.”
“I did expect fair dealing in this matter, I confess,” said Haley.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Shelby, turning sharply round upon him, “what am I
to understand by that remark? If any man calls my honor in question, I have
but one answer for him.”
The trader cowered at this, and in a somewhat lower tone said that “it
was plaguy hard on a fellow, that had made a fair bargain, to be gulled that
way.”
“Mr. Haley,” said Mr. Shelby, “if I did not think you had some cause for
disappointment, I should not have borne from you the rude and
unceremonious style of your entrance into my parlor this morning. I say
thus much, however, since appearances call for it, that I shall allow of no
insinuations cast upon me, as if I were at all partner to any unfairness in this
matter. Moreover, I shall feel bound to give you every assistance, in the use
of horses, servants, &c., in the recovery of your property. So, in short,
Haley,” said he, suddenly dropping from the tone of dignified coolness to
his ordinary one of easy frankness, “the best way for you is to keep good-
natured and eat some breakfast, and we will then see what is to be done.”
Mrs. Shelby now rose, and said her engagements would prevent her
being at the breakfast-table that morning; and, deputing a very respectable
mulatto woman to attend to the gentlemen’s coffee at the side-board, she
left the room.
“Old lady don’t like your humble servant, over and above,” said Haley,
with an uneasy effort to be very familiar.
“I am not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with such freedom,”
said Mr. Shelby, dryly.
“Beg pardon; of course, only a joke, you know,” said Haley, forcing a
laugh.
“Some jokes are less agreeable than others,” rejoined Shelby.
“Devilish free, now I’ve signed those papers, cuss him!” muttered Haley
to himself; “quite grand, since yesterday!”
Never did fall of any prime minister at court occasion wider surges of
sensation than the report of Tom’s fate among his compeers on the place. It

was the topic in every mouth, everywhere; and nothing was done in the
house or in the field, but to discuss its probable results. Eliza’s flight—an
unprecedented event on the place—was also a great accessory in
stimulating the general excitement.
Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being about three
shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place, was revolving the
matter profoundly in all its phases and bearings, with a comprehensiveness
of vision and a strict lookout to his own personal well-being, that would
have done credit to any white patriot in Washington.
“It’s an ill wind dat blow nowhar,—dat ar a fact,” said Sam,
sententiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons, and adroitly
substituting a long nail in place of a missing suspender-button, with which
effort of mechanical genius he seemed highly delighted.
“Yes, it’s an ill wind blows nowhar,” he repeated. “Now, dar, Tom’s down
—wal, course der’s room for some nigger to be up—and why not dis
nigger?—dat’s de idee. Tom, a ridin’ round de country—boots blacked—
pass in his pocket—all grand as Cuffee—but who he? Now, why shouldn’t
Sam?—dat’s what I want to know.”
“Halloo, Sam—O Sam! Mas’r wants you to cotch Bill and Jerry,” said
Andy, cutting short Sam’s soliloquy.
“High! what’s afoot now, young un?”
“Why, you don’t know, I s’pose, that Lizy’s cut stick, and clared out, with
her young un?”
“You teach your granny!” said Sam, with infinite contempt; “knowed it a
heap sight sooner than you did; this nigger an’t so green, now!”
“Well, anyhow, Mas’r wants Bill and Jerry geared right up; and you and I
’s to go with Mas’r Haley, to look arter her.”
“Good, now! dat’s de time o’ day!” said Sam. “It’s Sam dat’s called for in
dese yer times. He’s de nigger. See if I don’t cotch her, now; Mas’r’ll see
what Sam can do!”
“Ah! but, Sam,” said Andy, “you’d better think twice; for Missis don’t
want her cotched, and she’ll be in yer wool.”
“High!” said Sam, opening his eyes. “How you know dat?”

“Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin’, when I bring in
Mas’r’s shaving-water. She sent me to see why Lizy didn’t come to dress
her; and when I telled her she was off, she jest ris up, and ses she, ‘The
Lord be praised;’ and Mas’r, he seemed rael mad, and ses he, ‘Wife, you
talk like a fool.’ But Lor! she’ll bring him to! I knows well enough how
that’ll be,—it’s allers best to stand Missis’ side the fence, now I tell yer.”
Black Sam, upon this, scratched his woolly pate, which, if it did not
contain very profound wisdom, still contained a great deal of a particular
species much in demand among politicians of all complexions and
countries, and vulgarly denominated “knowing which side the bread is
buttered;” so, stopping with grave consideration, he again gave a hitch to
his pantaloons, which was his regularly organized method of assisting his
mental perplexities.
“Der an’t no saying’—never—‘bout no kind o’ thing in dis yer world,”
he said, at last. Sam spoke like a philosopher, emphasizing this—as if he
had had a large experience in different sorts of worlds, and therefore had
come to his conclusions advisedly.
“Now, sartin I’d a said that Missis would a scoured the varsal world after
Lizy,” added Sam, thoughtfully.
“So she would,” said Andy; “but can’t ye see through a ladder, ye black
nigger? Missis don’t want dis yer Mas’r Haley to get Lizy’s boy; dat’s de
go!”
“High!” said Sam, with an indescribable intonation, known only to those
who have heard it among the negroes.
“And I’ll tell yer more ’n all,” said Andy; “I specs you’d better be
making tracks for dem hosses,—mighty sudden, too,—-for I hearn Missis
’quirin’ arter yer,—so you’ve stood foolin’ long enough.”
Sam, upon this, began to bestir himself in real earnest, and after a while
appeared, bearing down gloriously towards the house, with Bill and Jerry in
a full canter, and adroitly throwing himself off before they had any idea of
stopping, he brought them up alongside of the horse-post like a tornado.
Haley’s horse, which was a skittish young colt, winced, and bounced, and
pulled hard at his halter.
“Ho, ho!” said Sam, “skeery, ar ye?” and his black visage lighted up with
a curious, mischievous gleam. “I’ll fix ye now!” said he.

There was a large beech-tree overshadowing the place, and the small,
sharp, triangular beech-nuts lay scattered thickly on the ground. With one of
these in his fingers, Sam approached the colt, stroked and patted, and
seemed apparently busy in soothing his agitation. On pretence of adjusting
the saddle, he adroitly slipped under it the sharp little nut, in such a manner
that the least weight brought upon the saddle would annoy the nervous
sensibilities of the animal, without leaving any perceptible graze or wound.
“Dar!” he said, rolling his eyes with an approving grin; “me fix ’em!”
At this moment Mrs. Shelby appeared on the balcony, beckoning to him.
Sam approached with as good a determination to pay court as did ever
suitor after a vacant place at St. James’ or Washington.
“Why have you been loitering so, Sam? I sent Andy to tell you to hurry.”
“Lord bless you, Missis!” said Sam, “horses won’t be cotched all in a
minnit; they’d done clared out way down to the south pasture, and the Lord
knows whar!”
“Sam, how often must I tell you not to say ‘Lord bless you, and the Lord
knows,’ and such things? It’s wicked.”
“O, Lord bless my soul! I done forgot, Missis! I won’t say nothing of de
sort no more.”
“Why, Sam, you just have said it again.”
“Did I? O, Lord! I mean—I didn’t go fur to say it.”
“You must be careful, Sam.”
“Just let me get my breath, Missis, and I’ll start fair. I’ll be bery careful.”
“Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show him the road, and help
him. Be careful of the horses, Sam; you know Jerry was a little lame last
week; don’t ride them too fast.”
Mrs. Shelby spoke the last words with a low voice, and strong emphasis.
“Let dis child alone for dat!” said Sam, rolling up his eyes with a volume
of meaning. “Lord knows! High! Didn’t say dat!” said he, suddenly
catching his breath, with a ludicrous flourish of apprehension, which made
his mistress laugh, spite of herself. “Yes, Missis, I’ll look out for de
hosses!”
“Now, Andy,” said Sam, returning to his stand under the beech-trees,
“you see I wouldn’t be ’t all surprised if dat ar gen’lman’s crittur should gib

a fling, by and by, when he comes to be a gettin’ up. You know, Andy,
critturs will do such things;” and therewith Sam poked Andy in the side, in a
highly suggestive manner.
“High!” said Andy, with an air of instant appreciation.
“Yes, you see, Andy, Missis wants to make time,—dat ar’s clar to der
most or’nary ’bserver. I jis make a little for her. Now, you see, get all dese
yer hosses loose, caperin’ permiscus round dis yer lot and down to de wood
dar, and I spec Mas’r won’t be off in a hurry.”
Andy grinned.
“Yer see,” said Sam, “yer see, Andy, if any such thing should happen as
that Mas’r Haley’s horse should begin to act contrary, and cut up, you and I
jist lets go of our’n to help him, and we’ll help him—oh yes!” And Sam and
Andy laid their heads back on their shoulders, and broke into a low,
immoderate laugh, snapping their fingers and flourishing their heels with
exquisite delight.
At this instant, Haley appeared on the verandah. Somewhat mollified by
certain cups of very good coffee, he came out smiling and talking, in
tolerably restored humor. Sam and Andy, clawing for certain fragmentary
palm-leaves, which they were in the habit of considering as hats, flew to the
horseposts, to be ready to “help Mas’r.”
Sam’s palm-leaf had been ingeniously disentangled from all pretensions
to braid, as respects its brim; and the slivers starting apart, and standing
upright, gave it a blazing air of freedom and defiance, quite equal to that of
any Fejee chief; while the whole brim of Andy’s being departed bodily, he
rapped the crown on his head with a dexterous thump, and looked about
well pleased, as if to say, “Who says I haven’t got a hat?”
“Well, boys,” said Haley, “look alive now; we must lose no time.”
“Not a bit of him, Mas’r!” said Sam, putting Haley’s rein in his hand, and
holding his stirrup, while Andy was untying the other two horses.
The instant Haley touched the saddle, the mettlesome creature bounded
from the earth with a sudden spring, that threw his master sprawling, some
feet off, on the soft, dry turf. Sam, with frantic ejaculations, made a dive at
the reins, but only succeeded in brushing the blazing palm-leaf afore-named
into the horse’s eyes, which by no means tended to allay the confusion of
his nerves. So, with great vehemence, he overturned Sam, and, giving two

or three contemptuous snorts, flourished his heels vigorously in the air, and
was soon prancing away towards the lower end of the lawn, followed by
Bill and Jerry, whom Andy had not failed to let loose, according to contract,
speeding them off with various direful ejaculations. And now ensued a
miscellaneous scene of confusion. Sam and Andy ran and shouted,—dogs
barked here and there,—and Mike, Mose, Mandy, Fanny, and all the smaller
specimens on the place, both male and female, raced, clapped hands,
whooped, and shouted, with outrageous officiousness and untiring zeal.
Haley’s horse, which was a white one, and very fleet and spirited,
appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene with great gusto; and having
for his coursing ground a lawn of nearly half a mile in extent, gently sloping
down on every side into indefinite woodland, he appeared to take infinite
delight in seeing how near he could allow his pursuers to approach him, and
then, when within a hand’s breadth, whisk off with a start and a snort, like a
mischievous beast as he was and career far down into some alley of the
wood-lot. Nothing was further from Sam’s mind than to have any one of the
troop taken until such season as should seem to him most befitting,—and
the exertions that he made were certainly most heroic. Like the sword of
Coeur De Lion, which always blazed in the front and thickest of the battle,
Sam’s palm-leaf was to be seen everywhere when there was the least danger
that a horse could be caught; there he would bear down full tilt, shouting,
“Now for it! cotch him! cotch him!” in a way that would set everything to
indiscriminate rout in a moment.
Haley ran up and down, and cursed and swore and stamped
miscellaneously. Mr. Shelby in vain tried to shout directions from the
balcony, and Mrs. Shelby from her chamber window alternately laughed
and wondered,—not without some inkling of what lay at the bottom of all
this confusion.
At last, about twelve o’clock, Sam appeared triumphant, mounted on
Jerry, with Haley’s horse by his side, reeking with sweat, but with flashing
eyes and dilated nostrils, showing that the spirit of freedom had not yet
entirely subsided.
“He’s cotched!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. “If ’t hadn’t been for me,
they might a bust themselves, all on ’em; but I cotched him!”
“You!” growled Haley, in no amiable mood. “If it hadn’t been for you,
this never would have happened.”

“Lord bless us, Mas’r,” said Sam, in a tone of the deepest concern, “and
me that has been racin’ and chasin’ till the sweat jest pours off me!”
“Well, well!” said Haley, “you’ve lost me near three hours, with your
cursed nonsense. Now let’s be off, and have no more fooling.”
“Why, Mas’r,” said Sam, in a deprecating tone, “I believe you mean to
kill us all clar, horses and all. Here we are all just ready to drop down, and
the critters all in a reek of sweat. Why, Mas’r won’t think of startin’ on now
till arter dinner. Mas’r’s hoss wants rubben down; see how he splashed
hisself; and Jerry limps too; don’t think Missis would be willin’ to have us
start dis yer way, no how. Lord bless you, Mas’r, we can ketch up, if we do
stop. Lizy never was no great of a walker.”
Mrs. Shelby, who, greatly to her amusement, had overheard this
conversation from the verandah, now resolved to do her part. She came
forward, and, courteously expressing her concern for Haley’s accident,
pressed him to stay to dinner, saying that the cook should bring it on the
table immediately.
Thus, all things considered, Haley, with rather an equivocal grace,
proceeded to the parlor, while Sam, rolling his eyes after him with
unutterable meaning, proceeded gravely with the horses to the stable-yard.
“Did yer see him, Andy? did yer see him?” said Sam, when he had got
fairly beyond the shelter of the barn, and fastened the horse to a post. “O,
Lor, if it warn’t as good as a meetin’, now, to see him a dancin’ and kickin’
and swarin’ at us. Didn’t I hear him? Swar away, ole fellow (says I to
myself ); will yer have yer hoss now, or wait till you cotch him? (says I).
Lor, Andy, I think I can see him now.” And Sam and Andy leaned up
against the barn and laughed to their hearts’ content.
“Yer oughter seen how mad he looked, when I brought the hoss up. Lord,
he’d a killed me, if he durs’ to; and there I was a standin’ as innercent and
as humble.”
“Lor, I seed you,” said Andy; “an’t you an old hoss, Sam?”
“Rather specks I am,” said Sam; “did yer see Missis up stars at the
winder? I seed her laughin’.”
“I’m sure, I was racin’ so, I didn’t see nothing,” said Andy.
“Well, yer see,” said Sam, proceeding gravely to wash down Haley’s
pony, “I ’se ’quired what yer may call a habit o’ bobservation, Andy. It’s a

very ’portant habit, Andy; and I ’commend yer to be cultivatin’ it, now yer
young. Hist up that hind foot, Andy. Yer see, Andy, it’s bobservation makes
all de difference in niggers. Didn’t I see which way the wind blew dis yer
mornin’? Didn’t I see what Missis wanted, though she never let on? Dat ar’s
bobservation, Andy. I ’spects it’s what you may call a faculty. Faculties is
different in different peoples, but cultivation of ’em goes a great way.”
“I guess if I hadn’t helped your bobservation dis mornin’, yer wouldn’t
have seen your way so smart,” said Andy.
“Andy,” said Sam, “you’s a promisin’ child, der an’t no manner o’ doubt.
I thinks lots of yer, Andy; and I don’t feel no ways ashamed to take idees
from you. We oughtenter overlook nobody, Andy, cause the smartest on us
gets tripped up sometimes. And so, Andy, let’s go up to the house now. I’ll
be boun’ Missis’ll give us an uncommon good bite, dis yer time.”

CHAPTER VII
The Mother’s Struggle
It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more wholly desolate
and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom’s
cabin.
Her husband’s suffering and dangers, and the danger of her child, all
blended in her mind, with a confused and stunning sense of the risk she was
running, in leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting loose
from the protection of a friend whom she loved and revered. Then there was
the parting from every familiar object,—the place where she had grown up,
the trees under which she had played, the groves where she had walked
many an evening in happier days, by the side of her young husband,—
everything, as it lay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed to speak
reproachfully to her, and ask her whither could she go from a home like
that?
But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysm of
frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy was old enough to
have walked by her side, and, in an indifferent case, she would only have
led him by the hand; but now the bare thought of putting him out of her
arms made her shudder, and she strained him to her bosom with a
convulsive grasp, as she went rapidly forward.
The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled at the
sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow sent the blood backward to
her heart, and quickened her footsteps. She wondered within herself at the
strength that seemed to be come upon her; for she felt the weight of her boy
as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of fear seemed to increase the
supernatural power that bore her on, while from her pale lips burst forth, in
frequent ejaculations, the prayer to a Friend above—“Lord, help! Lord, save
me!”

If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be torn
from you by a brutal trader, tomorrow morning,—if you had seen the man,
and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you had only from
twelve o’clock till morning to make good your escape,—how fast could you
walk? How many miles could you make in those few brief hours, with the
darling at your bosom,—the little sleepy head on your shoulder,—the small,
soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck?
For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kept him waking; but
his mother so hurriedly repressed every breath or sound, and so assured him
that if he were only still she would certainly save him, that he clung quietly
round her neck, only asking, as he found himself sinking to sleep,
“Mother, I don’t need to keep awake, do I?”
“No, my darling; sleep, if you want to.”
“But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won’t let him get me?”
“No! so may God help me!” said his mother, with a paler cheek, and a
brighter light in her large dark eyes.
“You’re sure, an’t you, mother?”
“Yes, sure!” said the mother, in a voice that startled herself; for it seemed
to her to come from a spirit within, that was no part of her; and the boy
dropped his little weary head on her shoulder, and was soon asleep. How
the touch of those warm arms, the gentle breathings that came in her neck,
seemed to add fire and spirit to her movements! It seemed to her as if
strength poured into her in electric streams, from every gentle touch and
movement of the sleeping, confiding child. Sublime is the dominion of the
mind over the body, that, for a time, can make flesh and nerve impregnable,
and string the sinews like steel, so that the weak become so mighty.
The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed by her
dizzily, as she walked on; and still she went, leaving one familiar object
after another, slacking not, pausing not, till reddening daylight found her
many a long mile from all traces of any familiar objects upon the open
highway.
She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connections, in the
little village of T——, not far from the Ohio river, and knew the road well.
To go thither, to escape across the Ohio river, were the first hurried outlines
of her plan of escape; beyond that, she could only hope in God.

When horses and vehicles began to move along the highway, with that
alert perception peculiar to a state of excitement, and which seems to be a
sort of inspiration, she became aware that her headlong pace and distracted
air might bring on her remark and suspicion. She therefore put the boy on
the ground, and, adjusting her dress and bonnet, she walked on at as rapid a
pace as she thought consistent with the preservation of appearances. In her
little bundle she had provided a store of cakes and apples, which she used as
expedients for quickening the speed of the child, rolling the apple some
yards before them, when the boy would run with all his might after it; and
this ruse, often repeated, carried them over many a half-mile.
After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland, through which
murmured a clear brook. As the child complained of hunger and thirst, she
climbed over the fence with him; and, sitting down behind a large rock
which concealed them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out of her
little package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not eat; and
when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to wedge some of his cake
into her mouth, it seemed to her that the rising in her throat would choke
her.
“No, no, Harry darling! mother can’t eat till you are safe! We must go on
—on—till we come to the river!” And she hurried again into the road, and
again constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly forward.
She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was personally
known. If she should chance to meet any who knew her, she reflected that
the well-known kindness of the family would be of itself a blind to
suspicion, as making it an unlikely supposition that she could be a fugitive.
As she was also so white as not to be known as of colored lineage, without
a critical survey, and her child was white also, it was much easier for her to
pass on unsuspected.
On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse, to rest
herself, and buy some dinner for her child and self; for, as the danger
decreased with the distance, the supernatural tension of the nervous system
lessened, and she found herself both weary and hungry.
The good woman, kindly and gossipping, seemed rather pleased than
otherwise with having somebody come in to talk with; and accepted,
without examination, Eliza’s statement, that she “was going on a little

piece, to spend a week with her friends,”—all which she hoped in her heart
might prove strictly true.
An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T——, by the Ohio
river, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in heart. Her first glance was at
the river, which lay, like Jordan, between her and the Canaan of liberty on
the other side.
It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and turbulent; great
cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the turbid waters.
Owing to the peculiar form of the shore on the Kentucky side, the land
bending far out into the water, the ice had been lodged and detained in great
quantities, and the narrow channel which swept round the bend was full of
ice, piled one cake over another, thus forming a temporary barrier to the
descending ice, which lodged, and formed a great, undulating raft, filling up
the whole river, and extending almost to the Kentucky shore.
Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this unfavorable aspect of
things, which she saw at once must prevent the usual ferry-boat from
running, and then turned into a small public house on the bank, to make a
few inquiries.
The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing operations
over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal, stopped, with a fork in her
hand, as Eliza’s sweet and plaintive voice arrested her.
“What is it?” she said.
“Isn’t there any ferry or boat, that takes people over to B——, now?” she
said.
“No, indeed!” said the woman; “the boats has stopped running.”
Eliza’s look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, and she
said, inquiringly,
“May be you’re wanting to get over?—anybody sick? Ye seem mighty
anxious?”
“I’ve got a child that’s very dangerous,” said Eliza. “I never heard of it
till last night, and I’ve walked quite a piece today, in hopes to get to the
ferry.”
“Well, now, that’s onlucky,” said the woman, whose motherly sympathies
were much aroused; “I’m re’lly consarned for ye. Solomon!” she called,

from the window, towards a small back building. A man, in leather apron
and very dirty hands, appeared at the door.
“I say, Sol,” said the woman, “is that ar man going to tote them bar’ls
over tonight?”
“He said he should try, if ’t was any way prudent,” said the man.
“There’s a man a piece down here, that’s going over with some truck this
evening, if he durs’ to; he’ll be in here to supper tonight, so you’d better set
down and wait. That’s a sweet little fellow,” added the woman, offering him
a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
“Poor fellow! he isn’t used to walking, and I’ve hurried him on so,” said
Eliza.
“Well, take him into this room,” said the woman, opening into a small
bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laid the weary boy upon it,
and held his hands in hers till he was fast asleep. For her there was no rest.
As a fire in her bones, the thought of the pursuer urged her on; and she
gazed with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters that lay between her
and liberty.
Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the course
of her pursuers.

Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried on
table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen before, that it
required more than one to make a bargain. So, although the order was fairly
given out in Haley’s hearing, and carried to Aunt Chloe by at least half a
dozen juvenile messengers, that dignitary only gave certain very gruff
snorts, and tosses of her head, and went on with every operation in an
unusually leisurely and circumstantial manner.
For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among the
servants generally that Missis would not be particularly disobliged by
delay; and it was wonderful what a number of counter accidents occurred
constantly, to retard the course of things. One luckless wight contrived to
upset the gravy; and then gravy had to be got up de novo, with due care and

formality, Aunt Chloe watching and stirring with dogged precision,
answering shortly, to all suggestions of haste, that she “warn’t a going to
have raw gravy on the table, to help nobody’s catchings.” One tumbled
down with the water, and had to go to the spring for more; and another
precipitated the butter into the path of events; and there was from time to
time giggling news brought into the kitchen that “Mas’r Haley was mighty
oneasy, and that he couldn’t sit in his cheer no ways, but was a walkin’ and
stalkin’ to the winders and through the porch.”
“Sarves him right!” said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. “He’ll get wus nor
oneasy, one of these days, if he don’t mend his ways. His master’ll be
sending for him, and then see how he’ll look!”
“He’ll go to torment, and no mistake,” said little Jake.
“He desarves it!” said Aunt Chloe, grimly; “he’s broke a many, many,
many hearts,—I tell ye all!” she said, stopping, with a fork uplifted in her
hands; “it’s like what Mas’r George reads in Ravelations,—souls a callin’
under the altar! and a callin’ on the Lord for vengeance on sich!—and by
and by the Lord he’ll hear ’em—so he will!”
Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listened to with
open mouth; and, the dinner being now fairly sent in, the whole kitchen was
at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to her remarks.
“Sich’ll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won’t ther?” said Andy.
“I’d be glad to see it, I’ll be boun’,” said little Jake.
“Chil’en!” said a voice, that made them all start. It was Uncle Tom, who
had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at the door.
“Chil’en!” he said, “I’m afeard you don’t know what ye’re sayin’.
Forever is a dre’ful word, chil’en; it’s awful to think on ’t. You oughtenter
wish that ar to any human crittur.”
“We wouldn’t to anybody but the soul-drivers,” said Andy; “nobody can
help wishing it to them, they ’s so awful wicked.”
“Don’t natur herself kinder cry out on ’em?” said Aunt Chloe. “Don’t dey
tear der suckin’ baby right off his mother’s breast, and sell him, and der
little children as is crying and holding on by her clothes,—don’t dey pull
’em off and sells ’em? Don’t dey tear wife and husband apart?” said Aunt
Chloe, beginning to cry, “when it’s jest takin’ the very life on ’em?—and all
the while does they feel one bit, don’t dey drink and smoke, and take it

oncommon easy? Lor, if the devil don’t get them, what’s he good for?” And
Aunt Chloe covered her face with her checked apron, and began to sob in
good earnest.
“Pray for them that ’spitefully use you, the good book says,” says Tom.
“Pray for ’em!” said Aunt Chloe; “Lor, it’s too tough! I can’t pray for
’em.”
“It’s natur, Chloe, and natur ’s strong,” said Tom, “but the Lord’s grace is
stronger; besides, you oughter think what an awful state a poor crittur’s soul
’s in that’ll do them ar things,—you oughter thank God that you an’t like
him, Chloe. I’m sure I’d rather be sold, ten thousand times over, than to
have all that ar poor crittur’s got to answer for.”
“So ’d I, a heap,” said Jake. “Lor, shouldn’t we cotch it, Andy?”
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.
“I’m glad Mas’r didn’t go off this morning, as he looked to,” said Tom;
“that ar hurt me more than sellin’, it did. Mebbe it might have been natural
for him, but ’t would have come desp’t hard on me, as has known him from
a baby; but I’ve seen Mas’r, and I begin ter feel sort o’ reconciled to the
Lord’s will now. Mas’r couldn’t help hisself; he did right, but I’m feared
things will be kinder goin’ to rack, when I’m gone Mas’r can’t be spected to
be a pryin’ round everywhar, as I’ve done, a keepin’ up all the ends. The
boys all means well, but they ’s powerful car’less. That ar troubles me.”
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor.
“Tom,” said his master, kindly, “I want you to notice that I give this
gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not on the spot
when he wants you; he’s going today to look after his other business, and
you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like, boy.”
“Thank you, Mas’r,” said Tom.
“And mind yourself,” said the trader, “and don’t come it over your
master with any o’ yer nigger tricks; for I’ll take every cent out of him, if
you an’t thar. If he’d hear to me, he wouldn’t trust any on ye—slippery as
eels!”
“Mas’r,” said Tom,—and he stood very straight,—“I was jist eight years
old when ole Missis put you into my arms, and you wasn’t a year old.
‘Thar,’ says she, ‘Tom, that’s to be your young Mas’r; take good care on

him,’ says she. And now I jist ask you, Mas’r, have I ever broke word to
you, or gone contrary to you, ’specially since I was a Christian?”
Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.
“My good boy,” said he, “the Lord knows you say but the truth; and if I
was able to help it, all the world shouldn’t buy you.”
“And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs. Shelby, “you shall be
redeemed as soon as I can any way bring together means. Sir,” she said to
Haley, “take good account of who you sell him to, and let me know.”
“Lor, yes, for that matter,” said the trader, “I may bring him up in a year,
not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back.”
“I’ll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,” said Mrs.
Shelby.
“Of course,” said the trader, “all ’s equal with me; li’ves trade ’em up as
down, so I does a good business. All I want is a livin’, you know, ma’am;
that’s all any on us wants, I, s’pose.”
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar
impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of putting
a constraint on their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and insensible he
appeared, the greater became Mrs. Shelby’s dread of his succeeding in
recapturing Eliza and her child, and of course the greater her motive for
detaining him by every female artifice. She therefore graciously smiled,
assented, chatted familiarly, and did all she could to make time pass
imperceptibly.
At two o’clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts,
apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the morning.
Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous and
ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was boasting, in flourishing
style, to Andy, of the evident and eminent success of the operation, now that
he had “farly come to it.”
“Your master, I s’pose, don’t keep no dogs,” said Haley, thoughtfully, as
he prepared to mount.
“Heaps on ’em,” said Sam, triumphantly; “thar’s Bruno—he’s a roarer!
and, besides that, ’bout every nigger of us keeps a pup of some natur or
uther.”

“Poh!” said Haley,—and he said something else, too, with regard to the
said dogs, at which Sam muttered,
“I don’t see no use cussin’ on ’em, no way.”
“But your master don’t keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don’t) for
trackin’ out niggers.”
Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest and
desperate simplicity.
“Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they’s the kind,
though they han’t never had no practice. They ’s far dogs, though, at most
anything, if you’d get ’em started. Here, Bruno,” he called, whistling to the
lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously toward them.
“You go hang!” said Haley, getting up. “Come, tumble up now.”
Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as he
did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to Haley’s
indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip.
“I ’s ’stonished at yer, Andy,” said Sam, with awful gravity. “This yer’s a
seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn’t be a makin’ game. This yer an’t no way to
help Mas’r.”
“I shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley, decidedly, after
they had come to the boundaries of the estate. “I know the way of all of
’em,—they makes tracks for the underground.”
“Sartin,” said Sam, “dat’s de idee. Mas’r Haley hits de thing right in de
middle. Now, der’s two roads to de river,—de dirt road and der pike,—
which Mas’r mean to take?”
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new
geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said, by a vehement
reiteration.
“’Cause,” said Sam, “I’d rather be ’clined to ’magine that Lizy ’d take de
dirt road, bein’ it’s the least travelled.”
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally inclined
to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view of the case.
“If yer warn’t both on yer such cussed liars, now!” he said,
contemplatively as he pondered a moment.

The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken appeared to amuse
Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so as apparently
to run a great risk of failing off his horse, while Sam’s face was immovably
composed into the most doleful gravity.
“Course,” said Sam, “Mas’r can do as he’d ruther, go de straight road, if
Mas’r thinks best,—it’s all one to us. Now, when I study ’pon it, I think de
straight road de best, deridedly.”
“She would naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley, thinking aloud,
and not minding Sam’s remark.
“Dar an’t no sayin’,” said Sam; “gals is pecular; they never does nothin’
ye thinks they will; mose gen’lly the contrary. Gals is nat’lly made contrary;
and so, if you thinks they’ve gone one road, it is sartin you’d better go t’
other, and then you’ll be sure to find ’em. Now, my private ’pinion is, Lizy
took der road; so I think we’d better take de straight one.”
This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem to dispose
Haley particularly to the straight road, and he announced decidedly that he
should go the other, and asked Sam when they should come to it.
“A little piece ahead,” said Sam, giving a wink to Andy with the eye
which was on Andy’s side of the head; and he added, gravely, “but I’ve
studded on de matter, and I’m quite clar we ought not to go dat ar way. I
nebber been over it no way. It’s despit lonesome, and we might lose our
way,—whar we’d come to, de Lord only knows.”
“Nevertheless,” said Haley, “I shall go that way.”
“Now I think on ’t, I think I hearn ’em tell that dat ar road was all fenced
up and down by der creek, and thar, an’t it, Andy?”
Andy wasn’t certain; he’d only “hearn tell” about that road, but never
been over it. In short, he was strictly noncommittal.
Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between lies of
greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in favor of the dirt road
aforesaid. The mention of the thing he thought he perceived was
involuntary on Sam’s part at first, and his confused attempts to dissuade
him he set down to a desperate lying on second thoughts, as being unwilling
to implicate Liza.
When, therefore, Sam indicated the road, Haley plunged briskly into it,
followed by Sam and Andy.

Now, the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerly been a
thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many years after the laying of
the new pike. It was open for about an hour’s ride, and after that it was cut
across by various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly well,—
indeed, the road had been so long closed up, that Andy had never heard of
it. He therefore rode along with an air of dutiful submission, only groaning
and vociferating occasionally that ’t was “desp’t rough, and bad for Jerry’s
foot.”
“Now, I jest give yer warning,” said Haley, “I know yer; yer won’t get
me to turn off this road, with all yer fussin’—so you shet up!”
“Mas’r will go his own way!” said Sam, with rueful submission, at the
same time winking most portentously to Andy, whose delight was now very
near the explosive point.
Sam was in wonderful spirits,—professed to keep a very brisk lookout,—
at one time exclaiming that he saw “a gal’s bonnet” on the top of some
distant eminence, or calling to Andy “if that thar wasn’t ‘Lizy’ down in the
hollow;” always making these exclamations in some rough or craggy part of
the road, where the sudden quickening of speed was a special
inconvenience to all parties concerned, and thus keeping Haley in a state of
constant commotion.
After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party made a precipitate
and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a large farming
establishment. Not a soul was in sight, all the hands being employed in the
fields; but, as the barn stood conspicuously and plainly square across the
road, it was evident that their journey in that direction had reached a
decided finale.
“Wan’t dat ar what I telled Mas’r?” said Sam, with an air of injured
innocence. “How does strange gentleman spect to know more about a
country dan de natives born and raised?”
“You rascal!” said Haley, “you knew all about this.”
“Didn’t I tell yer I knowd, and yer wouldn’t believe me? I telled Mas’r ’t
was all shet up, and fenced up, and I didn’t spect we could get through,—
Andy heard me.”
It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had to pocket his
wrath with the best grace he was able, and all three faced to the right about,

and took up their line of march for the highway.
In consequence of all the various delays, it was about three-quarters of an
hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep in the village tavern that the party
came riding into the same place. Eliza was standing by the window, looking
out in another direction, when Sam’s quick eye caught a glimpse of her.
Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis, Sam contrived to
have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic ejaculation,
which startled her at once; she drew suddenly back; the whole train swept
by the window, round to the front door.
A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment to Eliza.
Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her child, and
sprang down the steps towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her
just as she was disappearing down the bank; and throwing himself from his
horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy, he was after her like a hound
after a deer. In that dizzy moment her feet to her scarce seemed to touch the
ground, and a moment brought her to the water’s edge. Right on behind
they came; and, nerved with strength such as God gives only to the
desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the
turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate
leap—impossible to anything but madness and despair; and Haley, Sam,
and Andy, instinctively cried out, and lifted up their hands, as she did it.
The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitched and
creaked as her weight came on it, but she staid there not a moment. With
wild cries and desperate energy she leaped to another and still another cake;
stumbling—leaping—slipping—springing upwards again! Her shoes are
gone—her stockings cut from her feet—while blood marked every step; but
she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio
side, and a man helping her up the bank.
“Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!” said the man, with an oath.
Eliza recognized the voice and face for a man who owned a farm not far
from her old home.
“O, Mr. Symmes!—save me—do save me—do hide me!” said Eliza.
“Why, what’s this?” said the man. “Why, if ’tan’t Shelby’s gal!”
“My child!—this boy!—he’d sold him! There is his Mas’r,” said she,
pointing to the Kentucky shore. “O, Mr. Symmes, you’ve got a little boy!”

“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drew her up the
steep bank. “Besides, you’re a right brave gal. I like grit, wherever I see it.”
When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused.
“I’d be glad to do something for ye,” said he; “but then there’s nowhar I
could take ye. The best I can do is to tell ye to go thar,” said he, pointing to
a large white house which stood by itself, off the main street of the village.
“Go thar; they’re kind folks. Thar’s no kind o’ danger but they’ll help you,
—they’re up to all that sort o’ thing.”
“The Lord bless you!” said Eliza, earnestly.
“No ’casion, no ’casion in the world,” said the man. “What I’ve done’s of
no ’count.”
“And, oh, surely, sir, you won’t tell any one!”
“Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for? In course not,” said
the man. “Come, now, go along like a likely, sensible gal, as you are.
You’ve arnt your liberty, and you shall have it, for all me.”
The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmly and swiftly
away. The man stood and looked after her.
“Shelby, now, mebbe won’t think this yer the most neighborly thing in
the world; but what’s a feller to do? If he catches one of my gals in the same
fix, he’s welcome to pay back. Somehow I never could see no kind o’ critter
a strivin’ and pantin’, and trying to clar theirselves, with the dogs arter ’em
and go agin ’em. Besides, I don’t see no kind of ’casion for me to be hunter
and catcher for other folks, neither.”
So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not been instructed
in his constitutional relations, and consequently was betrayed into acting in
a sort of Christianized manner, which, if he had been better situated and
more enlightened, he would not have been left to do.
Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene, till Eliza had
disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank, inquiring look on Sam
and Andy.
“That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business,” said Sam.
“The gal ’s got seven devils in her, I believe!” said Haley. “How like a
wildcat she jumped!”

“Wal, now,” said Sam, scratching his head, “I hope Mas’r’ll ’scuse us
trying dat ar road. Don’t think I feel spry enough for dat ar, no way!” and
Sam gave a hoarse chuckle.
“You laugh!” said the trader, with a growl.
“Lord bless you, Mas’r, I couldn’t help it now,” said Sam, giving way to
the long pent-up delight of his soul. “She looked so curi’s, a leapin’ and
springin’—ice a crackin’—and only to hear her,—plump! ker chunk! ker
splash! Spring! Lord! how she goes it!” and Sam and Andy laughed till the
tears rolled down their cheeks.
“I’ll make ye laugh t’ other side yer mouths!” said the trader, laying
about their heads with his riding-whip.
Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on their horses
before he was up.
“Good-evening, Mas’r!” said Sam, with much gravity. “I berry much
spect Missis be anxious ’bout Jerry. Mas’r Haley won’t want us no longer.
Missis wouldn’t hear of our ridin’ the critters over Lizy’s bridge tonight;”
and, with a facetious poke into Andy’s ribs, he started off, followed by the
latter, at full speed,—their shouts of laughter coming faintly on the wind.

CHAPTER VIII
Eliza’s Escape
Eliza made her desperate retreat across the river just in the dusk of
twilight. The gray mist of evening, rising slowly from the river, enveloped
her as she disappeared up the bank, and the swollen current and floundering
masses of ice presented a hopeless barrier between her and her pursuer.
Haley therefore slowly and discontentedly returned to the little tavern, to
ponder further what was to be done. The woman opened to him the door of
a little parlor, covered with a rag carpet, where stood a table with a very
shining black oil-cloth, sundry lank, high-backed wood chairs, with some
plaster images in resplendent colors on the mantel-shelf, above a very
dimly-smoking grate; a long hard-wood settle extended its uneasy length by
the chimney, and here Haley sat him down to meditate on the instability of
human hopes and happiness in general.
“What did I want with the little cuss, now,” he said to himself, “that I
should have got myself treed like a coon, as I am, this yer way?” and Haley
relieved himself by repeating over a not very select litany of imprecations
on himself, which, though there was the best possible reason to consider
them as true, we shall, as a matter of taste, omit.
He was startled by the loud and dissonant voice of a man who was
apparently dismounting at the door. He hurried to the window.
“By the land! if this yer an’t the nearest, now, to what I’ve heard folks
call Providence,” said Haley. “I do b’lieve that ar’s Tom Loker.”
Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in the corner of the room, was a
brawny, muscular man, full six feet in height, and broad in proportion. He
was dressed in a coat of buffalo-skin, made with the hair outward, which
gave him a shaggy and fierce appearance, perfectly in keeping with the
whole air of his physiognomy. In the head and face every organ and
lineament expressive of brutal and unhesitating violence was in a state of
the highest possible development. Indeed, could our readers fancy a bull-

dog come unto man’s estate, and walking about in a hat and coat, they
would have no unapt idea of the general style and effect of his physique. He
was accompanied by a travelling companion, in many respects an exact
contrast to himself. He was short and slender, lithe and catlike in his
motions, and had a peering, mousing expression about his keen black eyes,
with which every feature of his face seemed sharpened into sympathy; his
thin, long nose, ran out as if it was eager to bore into the nature of things in
general; his sleek, thin, black hair was stuck eagerly forward, and all his
motions and evolutions expressed a dry, cautious acuteness. The great man
poured out a big tumbler half full of raw spirits, and gulped it down without
a word. The little man stood tiptoe, and putting his head first to one side and
then the other, and snuffing considerately in the directions of the various
bottles, ordered at last a mint julep, in a thin and quivering voice, and with
an air of great circumspection. When poured out, he took it and looked at it
with a sharp, complacent air, like a man who thinks he has done about the
right thing, and hit the nail on the head, and proceeded to dispose of it in
short and well-advised sips.
“Wal, now, who’d a thought this yer luck ’ad come to me? Why, Loker,
how are ye?” said Haley, coming forward, and extending his hand to the big
man.
“The devil!” was the civil reply. “What brought you here, Haley?”
The mousing man, who bore the name of Marks, instantly stopped his
sipping, and, poking his head forward, looked shrewdly on the new
acquaintance, as a cat sometimes looks at a moving dry leaf, or some other
possible object of pursuit.
“I say, Tom, this yer’s the luckiest thing in the world. I’m in a devil of a
hobble, and you must help me out.”
“Ugh? aw! like enough!” grunted his complacent acquaintance. “A body
may be pretty sure of that, when you’re glad to see ’em; something to be
made off of ’em. What’s the blow now?”
“You’ve got a friend here?” said Haley, looking doubtfully at Marks;
“partner, perhaps?”
“Yes, I have. Here, Marks! here’s that ar feller that I was in with in
Natchez.”

“Shall be pleased with his acquaintance,” said Marks, thrusting out a
long, thin hand, like a raven’s claw. “Mr. Haley, I believe?”
“The same, sir,” said Haley. “And now, gentlemen, seein’ as we’ve met
so happily, I think I’ll stand up to a small matter of a treat in this here
parlor. So, now, old coon,” said he to the man at the bar, “get us hot water,
and sugar, and cigars, and plenty of the real stuff and we’ll have a blow-
out.”
Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to the burning point
in the grate, and our three worthies seated round a table, well spread with
all the accessories to good fellowship enumerated before.
Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles. Loker shut up his
mouth, and listened to him with gruff and surly attention. Marks, who was
anxiously and with much fidgeting compounding a tumbler of punch to his
own peculiar taste, occasionally looked up from his employment, and,
poking his sharp nose and chin almost into Haley’s face, gave the most
earnest heed to the whole narrative. The conclusion of it appeared to amuse
him extremely, for he shook his shoulders and sides in silence, and perked
up his thin lips with an air of great internal enjoyment.
“So, then, ye’r fairly sewed up, an’t ye?” he said; “he! he! he! It’s neatly
done, too.”
“This yer young-un business makes lots of trouble in the trade,” said
Haley, dolefully.
“If we could get a breed of gals that didn’t care, now, for their young
uns,” said Marks; “tell ye, I think ’t would be ’bout the greatest mod’rn
improvement I knows on,”—and Marks patronized his joke by a quiet
introductory sniggle.
“Jes so,” said Haley; “I never couldn’t see into it; young uns is heaps of
trouble to ’em; one would think, now, they’d be glad to get clar on ’em; but
they arn’t. And the more trouble a young un is, and the more good for
nothing, as a gen’l thing, the tighter they sticks to ’em.”
“Wal, Mr. Haley,” said Marks, “jest pass the hot water. Yes, sir; you say
jest what I feel and all’us have. Now, I bought a gal once, when I was in the
trade,—a tight, likely wench she was, too, and quite considerable smart,—
and she had a young un that was mis’able sickly; it had a crooked back, or
something or other; and I jest gin ’t away to a man that thought he’d take

his chance raising on ’t, being it didn’t cost nothin’;—never thought, yer
know, of the gal’s takin’ on about it,—but, Lord, yer oughter seen how she
went on. Why, re’lly, she did seem to me to valley the child more ’cause ”t
was sickly and cross, and plagued her; and she warn’t making b’lieve,
neither,—cried about it, she did, and lopped round, as if she’d lost every
friend she had. It re’lly was droll to think on ’t. Lord, there ain’t no end to
women’s notions.”
“Wal, jest so with me,” said Haley. “Last summer, down on Red River, I
got a gal traded off on me, with a likely lookin’ child enough, and his eyes
looked as bright as yourn; but, come to look, I found him stone blind. Fact
—he was stone blind. Wal, ye see, I thought there warn’t no harm in my jest
passing him along, and not sayin’ nothin’; and I’d got him nicely swapped
off for a keg o’ whiskey; but come to get him away from the gal, she was
jest like a tiger. So ’t was before we started, and I hadn’t got my gang
chained up; so what should she do but ups on a cotton-bale, like a cat,
ketches a knife from one of the deck hands, and, I tell ye, she made all fly
for a minnit, till she saw ’t warn’t no use; and she jest turns round, and
pitches head first, young un and all, into the river,—went down plump, and
never ris.”
“Bah!” said Tom Loker, who had listened to these stories with ill-
repressed disgust,—“shif’less, both on ye! my gals don’t cut up no such
shines, I tell ye!”
“Indeed! how do you help it?” said Marks, briskly.
“Help it? why, I buys a gal, and if she’s got a young un to be sold, I jest
walks up and puts my fist to her face, and says, ‘Look here, now, if you
give me one word out of your head, I’ll smash yer face in. I won’t hear one
word—not the beginning of a word.’ I says to ’em, ‘This yer young un’s
mine, and not yourn, and you’ve no kind o’ business with it. I’m going to
sell it, first chance; mind, you don’t cut up none o’ yer shines about it, or
I’ll make ye wish ye’d never been born.’ I tell ye, they sees it an’t no play,
when I gets hold. I makes ’em as whist as fishes; and if one on ’em begins
and gives a yelp, why,—” and Mr. Loker brought down his fist with a
thump that fully explained the hiatus.
“That ar’s what ye may call emphasis,” said Marks, poking Haley in the
side, and going into another small giggle. “An’t Tom peculiar? he! he! I say,
Tom, I s’pect you make ’em understand, for all niggers’ heads is woolly.

They don’t never have no doubt o’ your meaning, Tom. If you an’t the
devil, Tom, you ’s his twin brother, I’ll say that for ye!”
Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty, and began to look
as affable as was consistent, as John Bunyan says, “with his doggish
nature.”
Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple of the evening,
began to feel a sensible elevation and enlargement of his moral faculties,—a
phenomenon not unusual with gentlemen of a serious and reflective turn,
under similar circumstances.
“Wal, now, Tom,” he said, “ye re’lly is too bad, as I al’ays have told ye;
ye know, Tom, you and I used to talk over these yer matters down in
Natchez, and I used to prove to ye that we made full as much, and was as
well off for this yer world, by treatin’ on ’em well, besides keepin’ a better
chance for comin’ in the kingdom at last, when wust comes to wust, and
thar an’t nothing else left to get, ye know.”
“Boh!” said Tom, “don’t I know?—don’t make me too sick with any yer
stuff,—my stomach is a leetle riled now;” and Tom drank half a glass of
raw brandy.
“I say,” said Haley, and leaning back in his chair and gesturing
impressively, “I’ll say this now, I al’ays meant to drive my trade so as to
make money on ’t fust and foremost, as much as any man; but, then, trade
an’t everything, and money an’t everything, ’cause we ’s all got souls. I
don’t care, now, who hears me say it,—and I think a cussed sight on it,—so
I may as well come out with it. I b’lieve in religion, and one of these days,
when I’ve got matters tight and snug, I calculates to tend to my soul and
them ar matters; and so what’s the use of doin’ any more wickedness than ’s
re’lly necessary?—it don’t seem to me it’s ’t all prudent.”
“Tend to yer soul!” repeated Tom, contemptuously; “take a bright lookout
to find a soul in you,—save yourself any care on that score. If the devil sifts
you through a hair sieve, he won’t find one.”
“Why, Tom, you’re cross,” said Haley; “why can’t ye take it pleasant,
now, when a feller’s talking for your good?”
“Stop that ar jaw o’ yourn, there,” said Tom, gruffly. “I can stand most
any talk o’ yourn but your pious talk,—that kills me right up. After all,
what’s the odds between me and you? ’Tan’t that you care one bit more, or

have a bit more feelin’—it’s clean, sheer, dog meanness, wanting to cheat
the devil and save your own skin; don’t I see through it? And your ‘gettin’
religion,’ as you call it, arter all, is too p’isin mean for any crittur;—run up a
bill with the devil all your life, and then sneak out when pay time comes!
Bob!”
“Come, come, gentlemen, I say; this isn’t business,” said Marks. “There’s
different ways, you know, of looking at all subjects. Mr. Haley is a very
nice man, no doubt, and has his own conscience; and, Tom, you have your
ways, and very good ones, too, Tom; but quarrelling, you know, won’t
answer no kind of purpose. Let’s go to business. Now, Mr. Haley, what is it?
—you want us to undertake to catch this yer gal?”
“The gal’s no matter of mine,—she’s Shelby’s; it’s only the boy. I was a
fool for buying the monkey!”
“You’re generally a fool!” said Tom, gruffly.
“Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs,” said Marks, licking his lips;
“you see, Mr. Haley ’s a puttin’ us in a way of a good job, I reckon; just
hold still—these yer arrangements is my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley, how
is she? what is she?”
“Wal! white and handsome—well brought up. I’d a gin Shelby eight
hundred or a thousand, and then made well on her.”
“White and handsome—well brought up!” said Marks, his sharp eyes,
nose and mouth, all alive with enterprise. “Look here, now, Loker, a
beautiful opening. We’ll do a business here on our own account;—we does
the catchin’; the boy, of course, goes to Mr. Haley,—we takes the gal to
Orleans to speculate on. An’t it beautiful?”
Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during this
communication, now suddenly snapped it together, as a big dog closes on a
piece of meat, and seemed to be digesting the idea at his leisure.
“Ye see,” said Marks to Haley, stirring his punch as he did so, “ye see, we
has justices convenient at all p’ints along shore, that does up any little jobs
in our line quite reasonable. Tom, he does the knockin’ down and that ar;
and I come in all dressed up—shining boots—everything first chop, when
the swearin’ ’s to be done. You oughter see, now,” said Marks, in a glow of
professional pride, “how I can tone it off. One day, I’m Mr. Twickem, from
New Orleans; ’nother day, I’m just come from my plantation on Pearl

River, where I works seven hundred niggers; then, again, I come out a
distant relation of Henry Clay, or some old cock in Kentuck. Talents is
different, you know. Now, Tom’s roarer when there’s any thumping or
fighting to be done; but at lying he an’t good, Tom an’t,—ye see it don’t
come natural to him; but, Lord, if thar’s a feller in the country that can
swear to anything and everything, and put in all the circumstances and
flourishes with a long face, and carry ’t through better ’n I can, why, I’d like
to see him, that’s all! I b’lieve my heart, I could get along and snake
through, even if justices were more particular than they is. Sometimes I
rather wish they was more particular; ’t would be a heap more relishin’ if
they was,—more fun, yer know.”
Tom Loker, who, as we have made it appear, was a man of slow thoughts
and movements, here interrupted Marks by bringing his heavy fist down on
the table, so as to make all ring again, “It’ll do!” he said.
“Lord bless ye, Tom, ye needn’t break all the glasses!” said Marks; “save
your fist for time o’ need.”
“But, gentlemen, an’t I to come in for a share of the profits?” said Haley.
“An’t it enough we catch the boy for ye?” said Loker. “What do ye
want?”
“Wal,” said Haley, “if I gives you the job, it’s worth something,—say ten
per cent. on the profits, expenses paid.”
“Now,” said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and striking the table with
his heavy fist, “don’t I know you, Dan Haley? Don’t you think to come it
over me! Suppose Marks and I have taken up the catchin’ trade, jest to
’commodate gentlemen like you, and get nothin’ for ourselves?—Not by a
long chalk! we’ll have the gal out and out, and you keep quiet, or, ye see,
we’ll have both,—what’s to hinder? Han’t you show’d us the game? It’s as
free to us as you, I hope. If you or Shelby wants to chase us, look where the
partridges was last year; if you find them or us, you’re quite welcome.”
“O, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that,” said Haley, alarmed; “you catch
the boy for the job;—you allers did trade far with me, Tom, and was up to
yer word.”
“Ye know that,” said Tom; “I don’t pretend none of your snivelling ways,
but I won’t lie in my ’counts with the devil himself. What I ses I’ll do, I will
do,—you know that, Dan Haley.”

“Jes so, jes so,—I said so, Tom,” said Haley; “and if you’d only promise
to have the boy for me in a week, at any point you’ll name, that’s all I
want.”
“But it an’t all I want, by a long jump,” said Tom. “Ye don’t think I did
business with you, down in Natchez, for nothing, Haley; I’ve learned to
hold an eel, when I catch him. You’ve got to fork over fifty dollars, flat
down, or this child don’t start a peg. I know yer.”
“Why, when you have a job in hand that may bring a clean profit of
somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hundred, why, Tom, you’re
onreasonable,” said Haley.
“Yes, and hasn’t we business booked for five weeks to come,—all we can
do? And suppose we leaves all, and goes to bush-whacking round arter yer
young uns, and finally doesn’t catch the gal,—and gals allers is the devil to
catch,—what’s then? would you pay us a cent—would you? I think I see
you a doin’ it—ugh! No, no; flap down your fifty. If we get the job, and it
pays, I’ll hand it back; if we don’t, it’s for our trouble,—that’s far, an’t it,
Marks?”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Marks, with a conciliatory tone; “it’s only a
retaining fee, you see,—he! he! he!—we lawyers, you know. Wal, we must
all keep good-natured,—keep easy, yer know. Tom’ll have the boy for yer,
anywhere ye’ll name; won’t ye, Tom?”
“If I find the young un, I’ll bring him on to Cincinnati, and leave him at
Granny Belcher’s, on the landing,” said Loker.
Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocket-book, and taking a long
paper from thence, he sat down, and fixing his keen black eyes on it, began
mumbling over its contents: “Barnes—Shelby County—boy Jim, three
hundred dollars for him, dead or alive.
“Edwards—Dick and Lucy—man and wife, six hundred dollars; wench
Polly and two children—six hundred for her or her head.
“I’m jest a runnin’ over our business, to see if we can take up this yer
handily. Loker,” he said, after a pause, “we must set Adams and Springer on
the track of these yer; they’ve been booked some time.”
“They’ll charge too much,” said Tom.
“I’ll manage that ar; they ’s young in the business, and must spect to
work cheap,” said Marks, as he continued to read. “Ther’s three on ’em

easy cases, ’cause all you’ve got to do is to shoot ’em, or swear they is shot;
they couldn’t, of course, charge much for that. Them other cases,” he said,
folding the paper, “will bear puttin’ off a spell. So now let’s come to the
particulars. Now, Mr. Haley, you saw this yer gal when she landed?”
“To be sure,—plain as I see you.”
“And a man helpin’ on her up the bank?” said Loker.
“To be sure, I did.”
“Most likely,” said Marks, “she’s took in somewhere; but where, ’s a
question. Tom, what do you say?”
“We must cross the river tonight, no mistake,” said Tom.
“But there’s no boat about,” said Marks. “The ice is running awfully,
Tom; an’t it dangerous?”
“Don’no nothing ’bout that,—only it’s got to be done,” said Tom,
decidedly.
“Dear me,” said Marks, fidgeting, “it’ll be—I say,” he said, walking to
the window, “it’s dark as a wolf’s mouth, and, Tom—”
“The long and short is, you’re scared, Marks; but I can’t help that,—
you’ve got to go. Suppose you want to lie by a day or two, till the gal ’s
been carried on the underground line up to Sandusky or so, before you
start.”
“O, no; I an’t a grain afraid,” said Marks, “only—”
“Only what?” said Tom.
“Well, about the boat. Yer see there an’t any boat.”
“I heard the woman say there was one coming along this evening, and
that a man was going to cross over in it. Neck or nothing, we must go with
him,” said Tom.
“I s’pose you’ve got good dogs,” said Haley.
“First rate,” said Marks. “But what’s the use? you han’t got nothin’ o’
hers to smell on.”
“Yes, I have,” said Haley, triumphantly. “Here’s her shawl she left on the
bed in her hurry; she left her bonnet, too.”
“That ar’s lucky,” said Loker; “fork over.”

“Though the dogs might damage the gal, if they come on her unawars,”
said Haley.
“That ar’s a consideration,” said Marks. “Our dogs tore a feller half to
pieces, once, down in Mobile, ’fore we could get ’em off.”
“Well, ye see, for this sort that’s to be sold for their looks, that ar won’t
answer, ye see,” said Haley.
“I do see,” said Marks. “Besides, if she’s got took in, ’tan’t no go, neither.
Dogs is no ’count in these yer up states where these critters gets carried; of
course, ye can’t get on their track. They only does down in plantations,
where niggers, when they runs, has to do their own running, and don’t get
no help.”
“Well,” said Loker, who had just stepped out to the bar to make some
inquiries, “they say the man’s come with the boat; so, Marks—”
That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quarters he was leaving,
but slowly rose to obey. After exchanging a few words of further
arrangement, Haley, with visible reluctance, handed over the fifty dollars to
Tom, and the worthy trio separated for the night.
If any of our refined and Christian readers object to the society into
which this scene introduces them, let us beg them to begin and conquer
their prejudices in time. The catching business, we beg to remind them, is
rising to the dignity of a lawful and patriotic profession. If all the broad land
between the Mississippi and the Pacific becomes one great market for
bodies and souls, and human property retains the locomotive tendencies of
this nineteenth century, the trader and catcher may yet be among our
aristocracy.

While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and Andy, in a state of
high felicitation, pursued their way home.
Sam was in the highest possible feather, and expressed his exultation by
all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations, by divers odd motions and
contortions of his whole system. Sometimes he would sit backward, with
his face to the horse’s tail and sides, and then, with a whoop and a somerset,
come right side up in his place again, and, drawing on a grave face, begin to

lecture Andy in high-sounding tones for laughing and playing the fool.
Anon, slapping his sides with his arms, he would burst forth in peals of
laughter, that made the old woods ring as they passed. With all these
evolutions, he contrived to keep the horses up to the top of their speed,
until, between ten and eleven, their heels resounded on the gravel at the end
of the balcony. Mrs. Shelby flew to the railings.
“Is that you, Sam? Where are they?”
“Mas’r Haley ’s a-restin’ at the tavern; he’s drefful fatigued, Missis.”
“And Eliza, Sam?”
“Wal, she’s clar ’cross Jordan. As a body may say, in the land o’ Canaan.”
“Why, Sam, what do you mean?” said Mrs. Shelby, breathless, and
almost faint, as the possible meaning of these words came over her.
“Wal, Missis, de Lord he persarves his own. Lizy’s done gone over the
river into ’Hio, as ’markably as if de Lord took her over in a charrit of fire
and two hosses.”
Sam’s vein of piety was always uncommonly fervent in his mistress’
presence; and he made great capital of scriptural figures and images.
“Come up here, Sam,” said Mr. Shelby, who had followed on to the
verandah, “and tell your mistress what she wants. Come, come, Emily,”
said he, passing his arm round her, “you are cold and all in a shiver; you
allow yourself to feel too much.”
“Feel too much! Am not I a woman,—a mother? Are we not both
responsible to God for this poor girl? My God! lay not this sin to our
charge.”
“What sin, Emily? You see yourself that we have only done what we
were obliged to.”
“There’s an awful feeling of guilt about it, though,” said Mrs. Shelby. “I
can’t reason it away.”
“Here, Andy, you nigger, be alive!” called Sam, under the verandah;
“take these yer hosses to der barn; don’t ye hear Mas’r a callin’?” and Sam
soon appeared, palm-leaf in hand, at the parlor door.
“Now, Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was,” said Mr. Shelby.
“Where is Eliza, if you know?”

“Wal, Mas’r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin’ on the floatin’ ice.
She crossed most ’markably; it wasn’t no less nor a miracle; and I saw a
man help her up the ’Hio side, and then she was lost in the dusk.”
“Sam, I think this rather apocryphal,—this miracle. Crossing on floating
ice isn’t so easily done,” said Mr. Shelby.
“Easy! couldn’t nobody a done it, without de Lord. Why, now,” said Sam,
“‘t was jist dis yer way. Mas’r Haley, and me, and Andy, we comes up to de
little tavern by the river, and I rides a leetle ahead,—(I’s so zealous to be a
cotchin’ Lizy, that I couldn’t hold in, no way),—and when I comes by the
tavern winder, sure enough there she was, right in plain sight, and dey
diggin’ on behind. Wal, I loses off my hat, and sings out nuff to raise the
dead. Course Lizy she hars, and she dodges back, when Mas’r Haley he
goes past the door; and then, I tell ye, she clared out de side door; she went
down de river bank;—Mas’r Haley he seed her, and yelled out, and him,
and me, and Andy, we took arter. Down she come to the river, and thar was
the current running ten feet wide by the shore, and over t’ other side ice a
sawin’ and a jiggling up and down, kinder as ’t were a great island. We
come right behind her, and I thought my soul he’d got her sure enough,—
when she gin sich a screech as I never hearn, and thar she was, clar over t’
other side of the current, on the ice, and then on she went, a screeching and
a jumpin’,—the ice went crack! c’wallop! cracking! chunk! and she a
boundin’ like a buck! Lord, the spring that ar gal’s got in her an’t common,
I’m o’ ’pinion.”
Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement, while Sam told his
story.
“God be praised, she isn’t dead!” she said; “but where is the poor child
now?”
“De Lord will pervide,” said Sam, rolling up his eyes piously. “As I’ve
been a sayin’, dis yer ’s a providence and no mistake, as Missis has allers
been a instructin’ on us. Thar’s allers instruments ris up to do de Lord’s
will. Now, if ’t hadn’t been for me today, she’d a been took a dozen times.
Warn’t it I started off de hosses, dis yer mornin’ and kept ’em chasin’ till
nigh dinner time? And didn’t I car Mas’r Haley night five miles out of de
road, dis evening, or else he’d a come up with Lizy as easy as a dog arter a
coon. These yer ’s all providences.”

“They are a kind of providences that you’ll have to be pretty sparing of,
Master Sam. I allow no such practices with gentlemen on my place,” said
Mr. Shelby, with as much sternness as he could command, under the
circumstances.
Now, there is no more use in making believe be angry with a negro than
with a child; both instinctively see the true state of the case, through all
attempts to affect the contrary; and Sam was in no wise disheartened by this
rebuke, though he assumed an air of doleful gravity, and stood with the
corners of his mouth lowered in most penitential style.
“Mas’r quite right,—quite; it was ugly on me,—there’s no disputin’ that
ar; and of course Mas’r and Missis wouldn’t encourage no such works. I’m
sensible of dat ar; but a poor nigger like me ’s ’mazin’ tempted to act ugly
sometimes, when fellers will cut up such shines as dat ar Mas’r Haley; he
an’t no gen’l’man no way; anybody’s been raised as I’ve been can’t help a
seein’ dat ar.”
“Well, Sam,” said Mrs. Shelby, “as you appear to have a proper sense of
your errors, you may go now and tell Aunt Chloe she may get you some of
that cold ham that was left of dinner today. You and Andy must be hungry.”
“Missis is a heap too good for us,” said Sam, making his bow with
alacrity, and departing.
It will be perceived, as has been before intimated, that Master Sam had a
native talent that might, undoubtedly, have raised him to eminence in
political life,—a talent of making capital out of everything that turned up, to
be invested for his own especial praise and glory; and having done up his
piety and humility, as he trusted, to the satisfaction of the parlor, he clapped
his palm-leaf on his head, with a sort of rakish, free-and-easy air, and
proceeded to the dominions of Aunt Chloe, with the intention of flourishing
largely in the kitchen.
“I’ll speechify these yer niggers,” said Sam to himself, “now I’ve got a
chance. Lord, I’ll reel it off to make ’em stare!”
It must be observed that one of Sam’s especial delights had been to ride
in attendance on his master to all kinds of political gatherings, where,
roosted on some rail fence, or perched aloft in some tree, he would sit
watching the orators, with the greatest apparent gusto, and then, descending
among the various brethren of his own color, assembled on the same errand,
he would edify and delight them with the most ludicrous burlesques and

imitations, all delivered with the most imperturbable earnestness and
solemnity; and though the auditors immediately about him were generally
of his own color, it not infrequently happened that they were fringed pretty
deeply with those of a fairer complexion, who listened, laughing and
winking, to Sam’s great self-congratulation. In fact, Sam considered oratory
as his vocation, and never let slip an opportunity of magnifying his office.
Now, between Sam and Aunt Chloe there had existed, from ancient
times, a sort of chronic feud, or rather a decided coolness; but, as Sam was
meditating something in the provision department, as the necessary and
obvious foundation of his operations, he determined, on the present
occasion, to be eminently conciliatory; for he well knew that although
“Missis’ orders” would undoubtedly be followed to the letter, yet he should
gain a considerable deal by enlisting the spirit also. He therefore appeared
before Aunt Chloe with a touchingly subdued, resigned expression, like one
who has suffered immeasurable hardships in behalf of a persecuted fellow-
creature,—enlarged upon the fact that Missis had directed him to come to
Aunt Chloe for whatever might be wanting to make up the balance in his
solids and fluids,—and thus unequivocally acknowledged her right and
supremacy in the cooking department, and all thereto pertaining.
The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple, virtuous body was ever
cajoled by the attentions of an electioneering politician with more ease than
Aunt Chloe was won over by Master Sam’s suavities; and if he had been the
prodigal son himself, he could not have been overwhelmed with more
maternal bountifulness; and he soon found himself seated, happy and
glorious, over a large tin pan, containing a sort of olla podrida of all that
had appeared on the table for two or three days past. Savory morsels of
ham, golden blocks of corn-cake, fragments of pie of every conceivable
mathematical figure, chicken wings, gizzards, and drumsticks, all appeared
in picturesque confusion; and Sam, as monarch of all he surveyed, sat with
his palm-leaf cocked rejoicingly to one side, and patronizing Andy at his
right hand.
The kitchen was full of all his compeers, who had hurried and crowded
in, from the various cabins, to hear the termination of the day’s exploits.
Now was Sam’s hour of glory. The story of the day was rehearsed, with all
kinds of ornament and varnishing which might be necessary to heighten its
effect; for Sam, like some of our fashionable dilettanti, never allowed a

story to lose any of its gilding by passing through his hands. Roars of
laughter attended the narration, and were taken up and prolonged by all the
smaller fry, who were lying, in any quantity, about on the floor, or perched
in every corner. In the height of the uproar and laughter, Sam, however,
preserved an immovable gravity, only from time to time rolling his eyes up,
and giving his auditors divers inexpressibly droll glances, without departing
from the sententious elevation of his oratory.
“Yer see, fellow-countrymen,” said Sam, elevating a turkey’s leg, with
energy, “yer see, now what dis yer chile ’s up ter, for fendin’ yer all,—yes,
all on yer. For him as tries to get one o’ our people is as good as tryin’ to get
all; yer see the principle ’s de same,—dat ar’s clar. And any one o’ these yer
drivers that comes smelling round arter any our people, why, he’s got me in
his way; I’m the feller he’s got to set in with,—I’m the feller for yer all to
come to, bredren,—I’ll stand up for yer rights,—I’ll fend ’em to the last
breath!”
“Why, but Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin’, that you’d help this yer
Mas’r to cotch Lizy; seems to me yer talk don’t hang together,” said Andy.
“I tell you now, Andy,” said Sam, with awful superiority, “don’t yer be a
talkin’ ’bout what yer don’t know nothin’ on; boys like you, Andy, means
well, but they can’t be spected to collusitate the great principles of action.”
Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard word collusitate, which
most of the youngerly members of the company seemed to consider as a
settler in the case, while Sam proceeded.
“Dat ar was conscience, Andy; when I thought of gwine arter Lizy, I
railly spected Mas’r was sot dat way. When I found Missis was sot the
contrar, dat ar was conscience more yet,—cause fellers allers gets more by
stickin’ to Missis’ side,—so yer see I ’s persistent either way, and sticks up
to conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes, principles,” said Sam, giving
an enthusiastic toss to a chicken’s neck,—“what’s principles good for, if we
isn’t persistent, I wanter know? Thar, Andy, you may have dat ar bone,—
tan’t picked quite clean.”
Sam’s audience hanging on his words with open mouth, he could not but
proceed.
“Dis yer matter ’bout persistence, feller-niggers,” said Sam, with the air
of one entering into an abstruse subject, “dis yer ’sistency ’s a thing what
an’t seed into very clar, by most anybody. Now, yer see, when a feller

stands up for a thing one day and night, de contrar de next, folks ses (and
nat’rally enough dey ses), why he an’t persistent,—hand me dat ar bit o’
corn-cake, Andy. But let’s look inter it. I hope the gen’lmen and der fair sex
will scuse my usin’ an or’nary sort o’ ’parison. Here! I’m a trying to get top
o’ der hay. Wal, I puts up my larder dis yer side; ’tan’t no go;—den, cause I
don’t try dere no more, but puts my larder right de contrar side, an’t I
persistent? I’m persistent in wantin’ to get up which ary side my larder is;
don’t you see, all on yer?”
“It’s the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows!” muttered
Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather restive; the merriment of the evening
being to her somewhat after the Scripture comparison,—like “vinegar upon
nitre.”
“Yes, indeed!” said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory, for a closing
effort. “Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies of de other sex in general, I has
principles,—I’m proud to ’oon ’em,—they ’s perquisite to dese yer times,
and ter all times. I has principles, and I sticks to ’em like forty,—jest
anything that I thinks is principle, I goes in to ’t;—I wouldn’t mind if dey
burnt me ’live,—I’d walk right up to de stake, I would, and say, here I
comes to shed my last blood fur my principles, fur my country, fur de gen’l
interests of society.”
“Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “one o’ yer principles will have to be to get to
bed some time tonight, and not be a keepin’ everybody up till mornin’; now,
every one of you young uns that don’t want to be cracked, had better be
scase, mighty sudden.”
“Niggers! all on yer,” said Sam, waving his palm-leaf with benignity, “I
give yer my blessin’; go to bed now, and be good boys.”
And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed.

CHAPTER IX
In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But a Man
The light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carpet of a cosey
parlor, and glittered on the sides of the tea-cups and well-brightened tea-pot,
as Senator Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to inserting his feet
in a pair of new handsome slippers, which his wife had been working for
him while away on his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird, looking the very picture
of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the table, ever and anon
mingling admonitory remarks to a number of frolicsome juveniles, who
were effervescing in all those modes of untold gambol and mischief that
have astonished mothers ever since the flood.
“Tom, let the door-knob alone,—there’s a man! Mary! Mary! don’t pull
the cat’s tail,—poor pussy! Jim, you mustn’t climb on that table,—no, no!
—You don’t know, my dear, what a surprise it is to us all, to see you here
tonight!” said she, at last, when she found a space to say something to her
husband.
“Yes, yes, I thought I’d just make a run down, spend the night, and have a
little comfort at home. I’m tired to death, and my head aches!”
Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor-bottle, which stood in the half-open
closet, and appeared to meditate an approach to it, but her husband
interposed.
“No, no, Mary, no doctoring! a cup of your good hot tea, and some of our
good home living, is what I want. It’s a tiresome business, this legislating!”
And the senator smiled, as if he rather liked the idea of considering
himself a sacrifice to his country.
“Well,” said his wife, after the business of the tea-table was getting rather
slack, “and what have they been doing in the Senate?”
Now, it was a very unusual thing for gentle little Mrs. Bird ever to
trouble her head with what was going on in the house of the state, very

wisely considering that she had enough to do to mind her own. Mr. Bird,
therefore, opened his eyes in surprise, and said,
“Not very much of importance.”
“Well; but is it true that they have been passing a law forbidding people
to give meat and drink to those poor colored folks that come along? I heard
they were talking of some such law, but I didn’t think any Christian
legislature would pass it!”
“Why, Mary, you are getting to be a politician, all at once.”
“No, nonsense! I wouldn’t give a fig for all your politics, generally, but I
think this is something downright cruel and unchristian. I hope, my dear, no
such law has been passed.”
“There has been a law passed forbidding people to help off the slaves that
come over from Kentucky, my dear; so much of that thing has been done by
these reckless Abolitionists, that our brethren in Kentucky are very strongly
excited, and it seems necessary, and no more than Christian and kind, that
something should be done by our state to quiet the excitement.”
“And what is the law? It don’t forbid us to shelter those poor creatures a
night, does it, and to give ’em something comfortable to eat, and a few old
clothes, and send them quietly about their business?”
“Why, yes, my dear; that would be aiding and abetting, you know.”
Mrs. Bird was a timid, blushing little woman, of about four feet in height,
and with mild blue eyes, and a peach-blow complexion, and the gentlest,
sweetest voice in the world;—as for courage, a moderate-sized cock-turkey
had been known to put her to rout at the very first gobble, and a stout
house-dog, of moderate capacity, would bring her into subjection merely by
a show of his teeth. Her husband and children were her entire world, and in
these she ruled more by entreaty and persuasion than by command or
argument. There was only one thing that was capable of arousing her, and
that provocation came in on the side of her unusually gentle and
sympathetic nature;—anything in the shape of cruelty would throw her into
a passion, which was the more alarming and inexplicable in proportion to
the general softness of her nature. Generally the most indulgent and easy to
be entreated of all mothers, still her boys had a very reverent remembrance
of a most vehement chastisement she once bestowed on them, because she

found them leagued with several graceless boys of the neighborhood,
stoning a defenceless kitten.
“I’ll tell you what,” Master Bill used to say, “I was scared that time.
Mother came at me so that I thought she was crazy, and I was whipped and
tumbled off to bed, without any supper, before I could get over wondering
what had come about; and, after that, I heard mother crying outside the
door, which made me feel worse than all the rest. I’ll tell you what,” he’d
say, “we boys never stoned another kitten!”
On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly, with very red cheeks,
which quite improved her general appearance, and walked up to her
husband, with quite a resolute air, and said, in a determined tone,
“Now, John, I want to know if you think such a law as that is right and
Christian?”
“You won’t shoot me, now, Mary, if I say I do!”
“I never could have thought it of you, John; you didn’t vote for it?”
“Even so, my fair politician.”
“You ought to be ashamed, John! Poor, homeless, houseless creatures!
It’s a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and I’ll break it, for one, the first
time I get a chance; and I hope I shall have a chance, I do! Things have got
to a pretty pass, if a woman can’t give a warm supper and a bed to poor,
starving creatures, just because they are slaves, and have been abused and
oppressed all their lives, poor things!”
“But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are all quite right, dear, and
interesting, and I love you for them; but, then, dear, we mustn’t suffer our
feelings to run away with our judgment; you must consider it’s a matter of
private feeling,—there are great public interests involved,—there is such a
state of public agitation rising, that we must put aside our private feelings.”
“Now, John, I don’t know anything about politics, but I can read my
Bible; and there I see that I must feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and
comfort the desolate; and that Bible I mean to follow.”
“But in cases where your doing so would involve a great public evil—”
“Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it can’t. It’s always
safest, all round, to do as He bids us.

“Now, listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a very clear argument, to
show—”
“O, nonsense, John! you can talk all night, but you wouldn’t do it. I put it
to you, John,—would you now turn away a poor, shivering, hungry creature
from your door, because he was a runaway? Would you, now?”
Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the misfortune to be a man
who had a particularly humane and accessible nature, and turning away
anybody that was in trouble never had been his forte; and what was worse
for him in this particular pinch of the argument was, that his wife knew it,
and, of course was making an assault on rather an indefensible point. So he
had recourse to the usual means of gaining time for such cases made and
provided; he said “ahem,” and coughed several times, took out his pocket-
handkerchief, and began to wipe his glasses. Mrs. Bird, seeing the
defenceless condition of the enemy’s territory, had no more conscience than
to push her advantage.
“I should like to see you doing that, John—I really should! Turning a
woman out of doors in a snowstorm, for instance; or may be you’d take her
up and put her in jail, wouldn’t you? You would make a great hand at that!”
“Of course, it would be a very painful duty,” began Mr. Bird, in a
moderate tone.
“Duty, John! don’t use that word! You know it isn’t a duty—it can’t be a
duty! If folks want to keep their slaves from running away, let ’em treat ’em
well,—that’s my doctrine. If I had slaves (as I hope I never shall have), I’d
risk their wanting to run away from me, or you either, John. I tell you folks
don’t run away when they are happy; and when they do run, poor creatures!
they suffer enough with cold and hunger and fear, without everybody’s
turning against them; and, law or no law, I never will, so help me God!”
“Mary! Mary! My dear, let me reason with you.”
“I hate reasoning, John,—especially reasoning on such subjects. There’s
a way you political folks have of coming round and round a plain right
thing; and you don’t believe in it yourselves, when it comes to practice. I
know you well enough, John. You don’t believe it’s right any more than I
do; and you wouldn’t do it any sooner than I.”
At this critical juncture, old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-work, put his
head in at the door, and wished “Missis would come into the kitchen;” and

our senator, tolerably relieved, looked after his little wife with a whimsical
mixture of amusement and vexation, and, seating himself in the arm-chair,
began to read the papers.
After a moment, his wife’s voice was heard at the door, in a quick,
earnest tone,—“John! John! I do wish you’d come here, a moment.”
He laid down his paper, and went into the kitchen, and started, quite
amazed at the sight that presented itself:—A young and slender woman,
with garments torn and frozen, with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn
away from the cut and bleeding foot, was laid back in a deadly swoon upon
two chairs. There was the impress of the despised race on her face, yet none
could help feeling its mournful and pathetic beauty, while its stony
sharpness, its cold, fixed, deathly aspect, struck a solemn chill over him. He
drew his breath short, and stood in silence. His wife, and their only colored
domestic, old Aunt Dinah, were busily engaged in restorative measures;
while old Cudjoe had got the boy on his knee, and was busy pulling off his
shoes and stockings, and chafing his little cold feet.
“Sure, now, if she an’t a sight to behold!” said old Dinah,
compassionately; “‘pears like ’t was the heat that made her faint. She was
tol’able peart when she cum in, and asked if she couldn’t warm herself here
a spell; and I was just a-askin’ her where she cum from, and she fainted
right down. Never done much hard work, guess, by the looks of her hands.”
“Poor creature!” said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as the woman slowly
unclosed her large, dark eyes, and looked vacantly at her. Suddenly an
expression of agony crossed her face, and she sprang up, saying, “O, my
Harry! Have they got him?”
The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe’s knee, and running to her side put
up his arms. “O, he’s here! he’s here!” she exclaimed.
“O, ma’am!” said she, wildly, to Mrs. Bird, “do protect us! don’t let them
get him!”
“Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman,” said Mrs. Bird,
encouragingly. “You are safe; don’t be afraid.”
“God bless you!” said the woman, covering her face and sobbing; while
the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get into her lap.
With many gentle and womanly offices, which none knew better how to
render than Mrs. Bird, the poor woman was, in time, rendered more calm. A

temporary bed was provided for her on the settle, near the fire; and, after a
short time, she fell into a heavy slumber, with the child, who seemed no less
weary, soundly sleeping on her arm; for the mother resisted, with nervous
anxiety, the kindest attempts to take him from her; and, even in sleep, her
arm encircled him with an unrelaxing clasp, as if she could not even then be
beguiled of her vigilant hold.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlor, where, strange as it may
appear, no reference was made, on either side, to the preceding
conversation; but Mrs. Bird busied herself with her knitting-work, and Mr.
Bird pretended to be reading the paper.
“I wonder who and what she is!” said Mr. Bird, at last, as he laid it down.
“When she wakes up and feels a little rested, we will see,” said Mrs.
Bird.
“I say, wife!” said Mr. Bird after musing in silence over his newspaper.
“Well, dear!”
“She couldn’t wear one of your gowns, could she, by any letting down, or
such matter? She seems to be rather larger than you are.”
A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird’s face, as she
answered, “We’ll see.”
Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out,
“I say, wife!”
“Well! What now?”
“Why, there’s that old bombazin cloak, that you keep on purpose to put
over me when I take my afternoon’s nap; you might as well give her that,—
she needs clothes.”
At this instant, Dinah looked in to say that the woman was awake, and
wanted to see Missis.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the two eldest boys,
the smaller fry having, by this time, been safely disposed of in bed.
The woman was now sitting up on the settle, by the fire. She was looking
steadily into the blaze, with a calm, heart-broken expression, very different
from her former agitated wildness.
“Did you want me?” said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. “I hope you feel
better now, poor woman!”

A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer; but she lifted her dark
eyes, and fixed them on her with such a forlorn and imploring expression,
that the tears came into the little woman’s eyes.
“You needn’t be afraid of anything; we are friends here, poor woman!
Tell me where you came from, and what you want,” said she.
“I came from Kentucky,” said the woman.
“When?” said Mr. Bird, taking up the interogatory.
“Tonight.”
“How did you come?”
“I crossed on the ice.”
“Crossed on the ice!” said every one present.
“Yes,” said the woman, slowly, “I did. God helping me, I crossed on the
ice; for they were behind me—right behind—and there was no other way!”
“Law, Missis,” said Cudjoe, “the ice is all in broken-up blocks, a
swinging and a tetering up and down in the water!”
“I know it was—I know it!” said she, wildly; “but I did it! I wouldn’t
have thought I could,—I didn’t think I should get over, but I didn’t care! I
could but die, if I didn’t. The Lord helped me; nobody knows how much the
Lord can help ’em, till they try,” said the woman, with a flashing eye.
“Were you a slave?” said Mr. Bird.
“Yes, sir; I belonged to a man in Kentucky.”
“Was he unkind to you?”
“No, sir; he was a good master.”
“And was your mistress unkind to you?”
“No, sir—no! my mistress was always good to me.”
“What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and run away, and
go through such dangers?”
The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird, with a keen, scrutinizing glance, and
it did not escape her that she was dressed in deep mourning.
“Ma’am,” she said, suddenly, “have you ever lost a child?”
The question was unexpected, and it was thrust on a new wound; for it
was only a month since a darling child of the family had been laid in the
grave.

Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and Mrs. Bird burst
into tears; but, recovering her voice, she said,
“Why do you ask that? I have lost a little one.”
“Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after another,—left ’em
buried there when I came away; and I had only this one left. I never slept a
night without him; he was all I had. He was my comfort and pride, day and
night; and, ma’am, they were going to take him away from me,—to sell
him,—sell him down south, ma’am, to go all alone,—a baby that had never
been away from his mother in his life! I couldn’t stand it, ma’am. I knew I
never should be good for anything, if they did; and when I knew the papers
were signed, and he was sold, I took him and came off in the night; and they
chased me,—the man that bought him, and some of Mas’r’s folks,—and
they were coming down right behind me, and I heard ’em. I jumped right on
to the ice; and how I got across, I don’t know,—but, first I knew, a man was
helping me up the bank.”
The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to a place where tears
are dry; but every one around her was, in some way characteristic of
themselves, showing signs of hearty sympathy.
The two little boys, after a desperate rummaging in their pockets, in
search of those pocket-handkerchiefs which mothers know are never to be
found there, had thrown themselves disconsolately into the skirts of their
mother’s gown, where they were sobbing, and wiping their eyes and noses,
to their hearts’ content;—Mrs. Bird had her face fairly hidden in her pocket-
handkerchief; and old Dinah, with tears streaming down her black, honest
face, was ejaculating, “Lord have mercy on us!” with all the fervor of a
camp-meeting;—while old Cudjoe, rubbing his eyes very hard with his
cuffs, and making a most uncommon variety of wry faces, occasionally
responded in the same key, with great fervor. Our senator was a statesman,
and of course could not be expected to cry, like other mortals; and so he
turned his back to the company, and looked out of the window, and seemed
particularly busy in clearing his throat and wiping his spectacle-glasses,
occasionally blowing his nose in a manner that was calculated to excite
suspicion, had any one been in a state to observe critically.
“How came you to tell me you had a kind master?” he suddenly
exclaimed, gulping down very resolutely some kind of rising in his throat,
and turning suddenly round upon the woman.

“Because he was a kind master; I’ll say that of him, any way;—and my
mistress was kind; but they couldn’t help themselves. They were owing
money; and there was some way, I can’t tell how, that a man had a hold on
them, and they were obliged to give him his will. I listened, and heard him
telling mistress that, and she begging and pleading for me,—and he told her
he couldn’t help himself, and that the papers were all drawn;—and then it
was I took him and left my home, and came away. I knew ’t was no use of
my trying to live, if they did it; for ’t ’pears like this child is all I have.”
“Have you no husband?”
“Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is real hard to him, and
won’t let him come to see me, hardly ever; and he’s grown harder and
harder upon us, and he threatens to sell him down south;—it’s like I’ll never
see him again!”
The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these words might have
led a superficial observer to think that she was entirely apathetic; but there
was a calm, settled depth of anguish in her large, dark eye, that spoke of
something far otherwise.
“And where do you mean to go, my poor woman?” said Mrs. Bird.
“To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very far off, is Canada?”
said she, looking up, with a simple, confiding air, to Mrs. Bird’s face.
“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Bird, involuntarily.
“Is ’t a very great way off, think?” said the woman, earnestly.
“Much further than you think, poor child!” said Mrs. Bird; “but we will
try to think what can be done for you. Here, Dinah, make her up a bed in
your own room, close by the kitchen, and I’ll think what to do for her in the
morning. Meanwhile, never fear, poor woman; put your trust in God; he
will protect you.”
Mrs. Bird and her husband reentered the parlor. She sat down in her little
rocking-chair before the fire, swaying thoughtfully to and fro. Mr. Bird
strode up and down the room, grumbling to himself, “Pish! pshaw!
confounded awkward business!” At length, striding up to his wife, he said,
“I say, wife, she’ll have to get away from here, this very night. That
fellow will be down on the scent bright and early tomorrow morning: if ’t
was only the woman, she could lie quiet till it was over; but that little chap
can’t be kept still by a troop of horse and foot, I’ll warrant me; he’ll bring it

all out, popping his head out of some window or door. A pretty kettle of fish
it would be for me, too, to be caught with them both here, just now! No;
they’ll have to be got off tonight.”
“Tonight! How is it possible?—where to?”
“Well, I know pretty well where to,” said the senator, beginning to put on
his boots, with a reflective air; and, stopping when his leg was half in, he
embraced his knee with both hands, and seemed to go off in deep
meditation.
“It’s a confounded awkward, ugly business,” said he, at last, beginning to
tug at his boot-straps again, “and that’s a fact!” After one boot was fairly
on, the senator sat with the other in his hand, profoundly studying the figure
of the carpet. “It will have to be done, though, for aught I see,—hang it all!”
and he drew the other boot anxiously on, and looked out of the window.
Now, little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman,—a woman who never in her
life said, “I told you so!” and, on the present occasion, though pretty well
aware of the shape her husband’s meditations were taking, she very
prudently forbore to meddle with them, only sat very quietly in her chair,
and looked quite ready to hear her liege lord’s intentions, when he should
think proper to utter them.
“You see,” he said, “there’s my old client, Van Trompe, has come over
from Kentucky, and set all his slaves free; and he has bought a place seven
miles up the creek, here, back in the woods, where nobody goes, unless they
go on purpose; and it’s a place that isn’t found in a hurry. There she’d be
safe enough; but the plague of the thing is, nobody could drive a carriage
there tonight, but me.”
“Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver.”
“Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be crossed twice; and the second
crossing is quite dangerous, unless one knows it as I do. I have crossed it a
hundred times on horseback, and know exactly the turns to take. And so,
you see, there’s no help for it. Cudjoe must put in the horses, as quietly as
may be, about twelve o’clock, and I’ll take her over; and then, to give color
to the matter, he must carry me on to the next tavern to take the stage for
Columbus, that comes by about three or four, and so it will look as if I had
had the carriage only for that. I shall get into business bright and early in
the morning. But I’m thinking I shall feel rather cheap there, after all that’s
been said and done; but, hang it, I can’t help it!”

“Your heart is better than your head, in this case, John,” said the wife,
laying her little white hand on his. “Could I ever have loved you, had I not
known you better than you know yourself?” And the little woman looked so
handsome, with the tears sparkling in her eyes, that the senator thought he
must be a decidedly clever fellow, to get such a pretty creature into such a
passionate admiration of him; and so, what could he do but walk off
soberly, to see about the carriage. At the door, however, he stopped a
moment, and then coming back, he said, with some hesitation.
“Mary, I don’t know how you’d feel about it, but there’s that drawer full
of things—of—of—poor little Henry’s.” So saying, he turned quickly on
his heel, and shut the door after him.
His wife opened the little bed-room door adjoining her room and, taking
the candle, set it down on the top of a bureau there; then from a small recess
she took a key, and put it thoughtfully in the lock of a drawer, and made a
sudden pause, while two boys, who, boy like, had followed close on her
heels, stood looking, with silent, significant glances, at their mother. And
oh! mother that reads this, has there never been in your house a drawer, or a
closet, the opening of which has been to you like the opening again of a
little grave? Ah! happy mother that you are, if it has not been so.
Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. There were little coats of many a
form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows of small stockings; and even a
pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at the toes, were peeping from the
folds of a paper. There was a toy horse and wagon, a top, a ball,—
memorials gathered with many a tear and many a heart-break! She sat down
by the drawer, and, leaning her head on her hands over it, wept till the tears
fell through her fingers into the drawer; then suddenly raising her head, she
began, with nervous haste, selecting the plainest and most substantial
articles, and gathering them into a bundle.
“Mamma,” said one of the boys, gently touching her arm, “you going to
give away those things?”
“My dear boys,” she said, softly and earnestly, “if our dear, loving little
Henry looks down from heaven, he would be glad to have us do this. I
could not find it in my heart to give them away to any common person—to
anybody that was happy; but I give them to a mother more heart-broken and
sorrowful than I am; and I hope God will send his blessings with them!”

There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring up into
joys for others; whose earthly hopes, laid in the grave with many tears, are
the seed from which spring healing flowers and balm for the desolate and
the distressed. Among such was the delicate woman who sits there by the
lamp, dropping slow tears, while she prepares the memorials of her own
lost one for the outcast wanderer.
After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and, taking from thence a
plain, serviceable dress or two, she sat down busily to her work-table, and,
with needle, scissors, and thimble, at hand, quietly commenced the “letting
down” process which her husband had recommended, and continued busily
at it till the old clock in the corner struck twelve, and she heard the low
rattling of wheels at the door.
“Mary,” said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in his hand, “you
must wake her up now; we must be off.”
Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had collected in a
small plain trunk, and locking it, desired her husband to see it in the
carriage, and then proceeded to call the woman. Soon, arrayed in a cloak,
bonnet, and shawl, that had belonged to her benefactress, she appeared at
the door with her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her into the carriage,
and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage steps. Eliza leaned out of
the carriage, and put out her hand,—a hand as soft and beautiful as was
given in return. She fixed her large, dark eyes, full of earnest meaning, on
Mrs. Bird’s face, and seemed going to speak. Her lips moved,—she tried
once or twice, but there was no sound,—and pointing upward, with a look
never to be forgotten, she fell back in the seat, and covered her face. The
door was shut, and the carriage drove on.
What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, that had been all the week
before spurring up the legislature of his native state to pass more stringent
resolutions against escaping fugitives, their harborers and abettors!
Our good senator in his native state had not been exceeded by any of his
brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquence which has won for them
immortal renown! How sublimely he had sat with his hands in his pockets,
and scouted all sentimental weakness of those who would put the welfare of
a few miserable fugitives before great state interests!
He was as bold as a lion about it, and “mightily convinced” not only
himself, but everybody that heard him;—but then his idea of a fugitive was

only an idea of the letters that spell the word,—or at the most, the image of
a little newspaper picture of a man with a stick and bundle with “Ran away
from the subscriber” under it. The magic of the real presence of distress,—
the imploring human eye, the frail, trembling human hand, the despairing
appeal of helpless agony,—these he had never tried. He had never thought
that a fugitive might be a hapless mother, a defenceless child,—like that one
which was now wearing his lost boy’s little well-known cap; and so, as our
poor senator was not stone or steel,—as he was a man, and a downright
noble-hearted one, too,—he was, as everybody must see, in a sad case for
his patriotism. And you need not exult over him, good brother of the
Southern States; for we have some inklings that many of you, under similar
circumstances, would not do much better. We have reason to know, in
Kentucky, as in Mississippi, are noble and generous hearts, to whom never
was tale of suffering told in vain. Ah, good brother! is it fair for you to
expect of us services which your own brave, honorable heart would not
allow you to render, were you in our place?
Be that as it may, if our good senator was a political sinner, he was in a
fair way to expiate it by his night’s penance. There had been a long
continuous period of rainy weather, and the soft, rich earth of Ohio, as
every one knows, is admirably suited to the manufacture of mud—and the
road was an Ohio railroad of the good old times.
“And pray, what sort of a road may that be?” says some eastern traveller,
who has been accustomed to connect no ideas with a railroad, but those of
smoothness or speed.
Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted regions of the
west, where the mud is of unfathomable and sublime depth, roads are made
of round rough logs, arranged transversely side by side, and coated over in
their pristine freshness with earth, turf, and whatsoever may come to hand,
and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road, and straightway essayeth to
ride thereupon. In process of time, the rains wash off all the turf and grass
aforesaid, move the logs hither and thither, in picturesque positions, up,
down and crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts of black mud intervening.
Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling along, making moral
reflections as continuously as under the circumstances could be expected,—
the carriage proceeding along much as follows,—bump! bump! bump!
slush! down in the mud!—the senator, woman and child, reversing their

positions so suddenly as to come, without any very accurate adjustment,
against the windows of the down-hill side. Carriage sticks fast, while
Cudjoe on the outside is heard making a great muster among the horses.
After various ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is
losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a bounce,—two
front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator, woman, and child, all
tumble promiscuously on to the front seat,—senator’s hat is jammed over
his eyes and nose quite unceremoniously, and he considers himself fairly
extinguished;—child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside delivers animated
addresses to the horses, who are kicking, and floundering, and straining
under repeated cracks of the whip. Carriage springs up, with another
bounce,—down go the hind wheels,—senator, woman, and child, fly over
on to the back seat, his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both her feet
being jammed into his hat, which flies off in the concussion. After a few
moments the “slough” is passed, and the horses stop, panting;—the senator
finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet and hushes her child, and
they brace themselves for what is yet to come.
For a while only the continuous bump! bump! intermingled, just by way
of variety, with divers side plunges and compound shakes; and they begin to
flatter themselves that they are not so badly off, after all. At last, with a
square plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then down into their seats
with incredible quickness, the carriage stops,—and, after much outside
commotion, Cudjoe appears at the door.
“Please, sir, it’s powerful bad spot, this’ yer. I don’t know how we’s to get
clar out. I’m a thinkin’ we’ll have to be a gettin’ rails.”
The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm
foothold; down goes one foot an immeasurable depth,—he tries to pull it
up, loses his balance, and tumbles over into the mud, and is fished out, in a
very despairing condition, by Cudjoe.
But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers’ bones. Western travellers,
who have beguiled the midnight hour in the interesting process of pulling
down rail fences, to pry their carriages out of mud holes, will have a
respectful and mournful sympathy with our unfortunate hero. We beg them
to drop a silent tear, and pass on.
It was full late in the night when the carriage emerged, dripping and
bespattered, out of the creek, and stood at the door of a large farmhouse.

It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the inmates; but at last
the respectable proprietor appeared, and undid the door. He was a great, tall,
bristling Orson of a fellow, full six feet and some inches in his stockings,
and arrayed in a red flannel hunting-shirt. A very heavy mat of sandy hair,
in a decidedly tousled condition, and a beard of some days’ growth, gave
the worthy man an appearance, to say the least, not particularly
prepossessing. He stood for a few minutes holding the candle aloft, and
blinking on our travellers with a dismal and mystified expression that was
truly ludicrous. It cost some effort of our senator to induce him to
comprehend the case fully; and while he is doing his best at that, we shall
give him a little introduction to our readers.
Honest old John Van Trompe was once quite a considerable land-owner
and slave-owner in the State of Kentucky. Having “nothing of the bear
about him but the skin,” and being gifted by nature with a great, honest, just
heart, quite equal to his gigantic frame, he had been for some years
witnessing with repressed uneasiness the workings of a system equally bad
for oppressor and oppressed. At last, one day, John’s great heart had swelled
altogether too big to wear his bonds any longer; so he just took his pocket-
book out of his desk, and went over into Ohio, and bought a quarter of a
township of good, rich land, made out free papers for all his people,—men,
women, and children,—packed them up in wagons, and sent them off to
settle down; and then honest John turned his face up the creek, and sat
quietly down on a snug, retired farm, to enjoy his conscience and his
reflections.
“Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and child from slave-
catchers?” said the senator, explicitly.
“I rather think I am,” said honest John, with some considerable emphasis.
“I thought so,” said the senator.
“If there’s anybody comes,” said the good man, stretching his tall,
muscular form upward, “why here I’m ready for him: and I’ve got seven
sons, each six foot high, and they’ll be ready for ’em. Give our respects to
’em,” said John; “tell ’em it’s no matter how soon they call,—make no
kinder difference to us,” said John, running his fingers through the shock of
hair that thatched his head, and bursting out into a great laugh.
Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up to the door, with her
child lying in a heavy sleep on her arm. The rough man held the candle to

her face, and uttering a kind of compassionate grunt, opened the door of a
small bed-room adjoining to the large kitchen where they were standing,
and motioned her to go in. He took down a candle, and lighting it, set it
upon the table, and then addressed himself to Eliza.
“Now, I say, gal, you needn’t be a bit afeard, let who will come here. I’m
up to all that sort o’ thing,” said he, pointing to two or three goodly rifles
over the mantel-piece; “and most people that know me know that ’t
wouldn’t be healthy to try to get anybody out o’ my house when I’m agin it.
So now you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as if yer mother was a rockin’ ye,”
said he, as he shut the door.
“Why, this is an uncommon handsome un,” he said to the senator. “Ah,
well; handsome uns has the greatest cause to run, sometimes, if they has
any kind o’ feelin, such as decent women should. I know all about that.”
The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Eliza’s history.
“O! ou! aw! now, I want to know?” said the good man, pitifully; “sho!
now sho! That’s natur now, poor crittur! hunted down now like a deer,—
hunted down, jest for havin’ natural feelin’s, and doin’ what no kind o’
mother could help a doin’! I tell ye what, these yer things make me come
the nighest to swearin’, now, o’ most anything,” said honest John, as he
wiped his eyes with the back of a great, freckled, yellow hand. “I tell yer
what, stranger, it was years and years before I’d jine the church, ’cause the
ministers round in our parts used to preach that the Bible went in for these
ere cuttings up,—and I couldn’t be up to ’em with their Greek and Hebrew,
and so I took up agin ’em, Bible and all. I never jined the church till I found
a minister that was up to ’em all in Greek and all that, and he said right the
contrary; and then I took right hold, and jined the church,—I did now, fact,”
said John, who had been all this time uncorking some very frisky bottled
cider, which at this juncture he presented.
“Ye’d better jest put up here, now, till daylight,” said he, heartily, “and
I’ll call up the old woman, and have a bed got ready for you in no time.”
“Thank you, my good friend,” said the senator, “I must be along, to take
the night stage for Columbus.”
“Ah! well, then, if you must, I’ll go a piece with you, and show you a
cross road that will take you there better than the road you came on. That
road’s mighty bad.”

John equipped himself, and, with a lantern in hand, was soon seen
guiding the senator’s carriage towards a road that ran down in a hollow,
back of his dwelling. When they parted, the senator put into his hand a ten-
dollar bill.
“It’s for her,” he said, briefly.
“Ay, ay,” said John, with equal conciseness.
They shook hands, and parted.

CHAPTER X
The Property Is Carried Off
The February morning looked gray and drizzling through the window of
Uncle Tom’s cabin. It looked on downcast faces, the images of mournful
hearts. The little table stood out before the fire, covered with an ironing-
cloth; a coarse but clean shirt or two, fresh from the iron, hung on the back
of a chair by the fire, and Aunt Chloe had another spread out before her on
the table. Carefully she rubbed and ironed every fold and every hem, with
the most scrupulous exactness, every now and then raising her hand to her
face to wipe off the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.
Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and his head leaning
upon his hand;—but neither spoke. It was yet early, and the children lay all
asleep together in their little rude trundle-bed.
Tom, who had, to the full, the gentle, domestic heart, which woe for
them! has been a peculiar characteristic of his unhappy race, got up and
walked silently to look at his children.
“It’s the last time,” he said.
Aunt Chloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and over on the
coarse shirt, already as smooth as hands could make it; and finally setting
her iron suddenly down with a despairing plunge, she sat down to the table,
and “lifted up her voice and wept.”
“S’pose we must be resigned; but oh Lord! how ken I? If I know’d
anything whar you ’s goin’, or how they’d sarve you! Missis says she’ll try
and ’deem ye, in a year or two; but Lor! nobody never comes up that goes
down thar! They kills ’em! I’ve hearn ’em tell how dey works ’em up on
dem ar plantations.”
“There’ll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is here.”
“Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “s’pose dere will; but de Lord lets drefful things
happen, sometimes. I don’t seem to get no comfort dat way.”

“I’m in the Lord’s hands,” said Tom; “nothin’ can go no furder than he
lets it;—and thar’s one thing I can thank him for. It’s me that’s sold and
going down, and not you nur the chil’en. Here you’re safe;—what comes
will come only on me; and the Lord, he’ll help me,—I know he will.”
Ah, brave, manly heart,—smothering thine own sorrow, to comfort thy
beloved ones! Tom spoke with a thick utterance, and with a bitter choking
in his throat,—but he spoke brave and strong.
“Let’s think on our marcies!” he added, tremulously, as if he was quite
sure he needed to think on them very hard indeed.
“Marcies!” said Aunt Chloe; “don’t see no marcy in’t! ’tan’t right! tan’t
right it should be so! Mas’r never ought ter left it so that ye could be took
for his debts. Ye’ve arnt him all he gets for ye, twice over. He owed ye yer
freedom, and ought ter gin ’t to yer years ago. Mebbe he can’t help himself
now, but I feel it’s wrong. Nothing can’t beat that ar out o’ me. Sich a
faithful crittur as ye’ve been,—and allers sot his business ’fore yer own
every way,—and reckoned on him more than yer own wife and chil’en!
Them as sells heart’s love and heart’s blood, to get out thar scrapes, de
Lord’ll be up to ’em!”
“Chloe! now, if ye love me, ye won’t talk so, when perhaps jest the last
time we’ll ever have together! And I’ll tell ye, Chloe, it goes agin me to
hear one word agin Mas’r. Wan’t he put in my arms a baby?—it’s natur I
should think a heap of him. And he couldn’t be spected to think so much of
poor Tom. Mas’rs is used to havin’ all these yer things done for ’em, and
nat’lly they don’t think so much on ’t. They can’t be spected to, no way. Set
him ’longside of other Mas’rs—who’s had the treatment and livin’ I’ve
had? And he never would have let this yer come on me, if he could have
seed it aforehand. I know he wouldn’t.”
“Wal, any way, thar’s wrong about it somewhar,” said Aunt Chloe, in
whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant trait; “I can’t jest
make out whar ’t is, but thar’s wrong somewhar, I’m clar o’ that.”
“Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above—he’s above all—thar don’t a
sparrow fall without him.”
“It don’t seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter,” said Aunt Chloe. “But
dar’s no use talkin’; I’ll jes wet up de corn-cake, and get ye one good
breakfast, ’cause nobody knows when you’ll get another.”

In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes sold south, it must be
remembered that all the instinctive affections of that race are peculiarly
strong. Their local attachments are very abiding. They are not naturally
daring and enterprising, but home-loving and affectionate. Add to this all
the terrors with which ignorance invests the unknown, and add to this,
again, that selling to the south is set before the negro from childhood as the
last severity of punishment. The threat that terrifies more than whipping or
torture of any kind is the threat of being sent down river. We have ourselves
heard this feeling expressed by them, and seen the unaffected horror with
which they will sit in their gossipping hours, and tell frightful stories of that
“down river,” which to them is
“That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns.”[1]

[1] A slightly inaccurate quotation from Hamlet, Act III, scene I, lines 369-370.

A missionary figure among the fugitives in Canada told us that many of
the fugitives confessed themselves to have escaped from comparatively
kind masters, and that they were induced to brave the perils of escape, in
almost every case, by the desperate horror with which they regarded being
sold south,—a doom which was hanging either over themselves or their
husbands, their wives or children. This nerves the African, naturally patient,
timid and unenterprising, with heroic courage, and leads him to suffer
hunger, cold, pain, the perils of the wilderness, and the more dread penalties
of recapture.
The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs. Shelby had
excused Aunt Chloe’s attendance at the great house that morning. The poor
soul had expended all her little energies on this farewell feast,—had killed
and dressed her choicest chicken, and prepared her corn-cake with
scrupulous exactness, just to her husband’s taste, and brought out certain
mysterious jars on the mantel-piece, some preserves that were never
produced except on extreme occasions.
“Lor, Pete,” said Mose, triumphantly, “han’t we got a buster of a
breakfast!” at the same time catching at a fragment of the chicken.
Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on the ear. “Thar now! crowing over
the last breakfast yer poor daddy’s gwine to have to home!”
“O, Chloe!” said Tom, gently.

“Wal, I can’t help it,” said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face in her apron; “I ’s
so tossed about, it makes me act ugly.”
The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father and then at their
mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes, began an imperious,
commanding cry.
“Thar!” said Aunt Chloe, wiping her eyes and taking up the baby; “now
I’s done, I hope,—now do eat something. This yer’s my nicest chicken.
Thar, boys, ye shall have some, poor critturs! Yer mammy’s been cross to
yer.”
The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with great zeal for the
eatables; and it was well they did so, as otherwise there would have been
very little performed to any purpose by the party.
“Now,” said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, “I must put up
yer clothes. Jest like as not, he’ll take ’em all away. I know thar ways—
mean as dirt, they is! Wal, now, yer flannels for rhumatis is in this corner;
so be careful, ’cause there won’t nobody make ye no more. Then here’s yer
old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed off these yer stockings last
night, and put de ball in ’em to mend with. But Lor! who’ll ever mend for
ye?” and Aunt Chloe, again overcome, laid her head on the box side, and
sobbed. “To think on ’t! no crittur to do for ye, sick or well! I don’t railly
think I ought ter be good now!”
The boys, having eaten everything there was on the breakfast-table,
began now to take some thought of the case; and, seeing their mother
crying, and their father looking very sad, began to whimper and put their
hands to their eyes. Uncle Tom had the baby on his knee, and was letting
her enjoy herself to the utmost extent, scratching his face and pulling his
hair, and occasionally breaking out into clamorous explosions of delight,
evidently arising out of her own internal reflections.
“Ay, crow away, poor crittur!” said Aunt Chloe; “ye’ll have to come to it,
too! ye’ll live to see yer husband sold, or mebbe be sold yerself; and these
yer boys, they’s to be sold, I s’pose, too, jest like as not, when dey gets
good for somethin’; an’t no use in niggers havin’ nothin’!”
Here one of the boys called out, “Thar’s Missis a-comin’ in!”
“She can’t do no good; what’s she coming for?” said Aunt Chloe.

Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in a manner decidedly
gruff and crusty. She did not seem to notice either the action or the manner.
She looked pale and anxious.
“Tom,” she said, “I come to—” and stopping suddenly, and regarding the
silent group, she sat down in the chair, and, covering her face with her
handkerchief, began to sob.
“Lor, now, Missis, don’t—don’t!” said Aunt Chloe, bursting out in her
turn; and for a few moments they all wept in company. And in those tears
they all shed together, the high and the lowly, melted away all the heart-
burnings and anger of the oppressed. O, ye who visit the distressed, do ye
know that everything your money can buy, given with a cold, averted face,
is not worth one honest tear shed in real sympathy?
“My good fellow,” said Mrs. Shelby, “I can’t give you anything to do you
any good. If I give you money, it will only be taken from you. But I tell you
solemnly, and before God, that I will keep trace of you, and bring you back
as soon as I can command the money;—and, till then, trust in God!”
Here the boys called out that Mas’r Haley was coming, and then an
unceremonious kick pushed open the door. Haley stood there in very ill
humor, having ridden hard the night before, and being not at all pacified by
his ill success in recapturing his prey.
“Come,” said he, “ye nigger, ye’r ready? Servant, ma’am!” said he,
taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby.
Aunt Chloe shut and corded the box, and, getting up, looked gruffly on
the trader, her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks of fire.
Tom rose up meekly, to follow his new master, and raised up his heavy
box on his shoulder. His wife took the baby in her arms to go with him to
the wagon, and the children, still crying, trailed on behind.
Mrs. Shelby, walking up to the trader, detained him for a few moments,
talking with him in an earnest manner; and while she was thus talking, the
whole family party proceeded to a wagon, that stood ready harnessed at the
door. A crowd of all the old and young hands on the place stood gathered
around it, to bid farewell to their old associate. Tom had been looked up to,
both as a head servant and a Christian teacher, by all the place, and there
was much honest sympathy and grief about him, particularly among the
women.

“Why, Chloe, you bar it better ’n we do!” said one of the women, who
had been weeping freely, noticing the gloomy calmness with which Aunt
Chloe stood by the wagon.
“I’s done my tears!” she said, looking grimly at the trader, who was
coming up. “I does not feel to cry ’fore dat ar old limb, no how!”
“Get in!” said Haley to Tom, as he strode through the crowd of servants,
who looked at him with lowering brows.
Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the wagon seat a heavy
pair of shackles, made them fast around each ankle.
A smothered groan of indignation ran through the whole circle, and Mrs.
Shelby spoke from the verandah,—“Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution
is entirely unnecessary.”
“Don’ know, ma’am; I’ve lost one five hundred dollars from this yer
place, and I can’t afford to run no more risks.”
“What else could she spect on him?” said Aunt Chloe, indignantly, while
the two boys, who now seemed to comprehend at once their father’s
destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing and groaning vehemently.
“I’m sorry,” said Tom, “that Mas’r George happened to be away.”
George had gone to spend two or three days with a companion on a
neighboring estate, and having departed early in the morning, before Tom’s
misfortune had been made public, had left without hearing of it.
“Give my love to Mas’r George,” he said, earnestly.
Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful look, fixed to
the last on the old place, Tom was whirled away.
Mr. Shelby at this time was not at home. He had sold Tom under the spur
of a driving necessity, to get out of the power of a man whom he dreaded,—
and his first feeling, after the consummation of the bargain, had been that of
relief. But his wife’s expostulations awoke his half-slumbering regrets; and
Tom’s manly disinterestedness increased the unpleasantness of his feelings.
It was in vain that he said to himself that he had a right to do it,—that
everybody did it,—and that some did it without even the excuse of
necessity;—he could not satisfy his own feelings; and that he might not
witness the unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a short
business tour up the country, hoping that all would be over before he
returned.

Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling past every old
familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate were fairly passed, and they
found themselves out on the open pike. After they had ridden about a mile,
Haley suddenly drew up at the door of a blacksmith’s shop, when, taking
out with him a pair of handcuffs, he stepped into the shop, to have a little
alteration in them.
“These yer ’s a little too small for his build,” said Haley, showing the
fetters, and pointing out to Tom.
“Lor! now, if thar an’t Shelby’s Tom. He han’t sold him, now?” said the
smith.
“Yes, he has,” said Haley.
“Now, ye don’t! well, reely,” said the smith, “who’d a thought it! Why,
ye needn’t go to fetterin’ him up this yer way. He’s the faithfullest, best
crittur—”
“Yes, yes,” said Haley; “but your good fellers are just the critturs to want
ter run off. Them stupid ones, as doesn’t care whar they go, and shifless,
drunken ones, as don’t care for nothin’, they’ll stick by, and like as not be
rather pleased to be toted round; but these yer prime fellers, they hates it
like sin. No way but to fetter ’em; got legs,—they’ll use ’em,—no mistake.”
“Well,” said the smith, feeling among his tools, “them plantations down
thar, stranger, an’t jest the place a Kentuck nigger wants to go to; they dies
thar tol’able fast, don’t they?”
“Wal, yes, tol’able fast, ther dying is; what with the ’climating and one
thing and another, they dies so as to keep the market up pretty brisk,” said
Haley.
“Wal, now, a feller can’t help thinkin’ it’s a mighty pity to have a nice,
quiet, likely feller, as good un as Tom is, go down to be fairly ground up on
one of them ar sugar plantations.”
“Wal, he’s got a fa’r chance. I promised to do well by him. I’ll get him in
house-servant in some good old family, and then, if he stands the fever and
’climating, he’ll have a berth good as any nigger ought ter ask for.”
“He leaves his wife and chil’en up here, s’pose?”
“Yes; but he’ll get another thar. Lord, thar’s women enough everywhar,”
said Haley.

Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the shop while this
conversation was going on. Suddenly he heard the quick, short click of a
horse’s hoof behind him; and, before he could fairly awake from his
surprise, young Master George sprang into the wagon, threw his arms
tumultuously round his neck, and was sobbing and scolding with energy.
“I declare, it’s real mean! I don’t care what they say, any of ’em! It’s a
nasty, mean shame! If I was a man, they shouldn’t do it,—they should not,
so!” said George, with a kind of subdued howl.
“O! Mas’r George! this does me good!” said Tom. “I couldn’t bar to go
off without seein’ ye! It does me real good, ye can’t tell!” Here Tom made
some movement of his feet, and George’s eye fell on the fetters.
“What a shame!” he exclaimed, lifting his hands. “I’ll knock that old
fellow down—I will!”
“No you won’t, Mas’r George; and you must not talk so loud. It won’t
help me any, to anger him.”
“Well, I won’t, then, for your sake; but only to think of it—isn’t it a
shame? They never sent for me, nor sent me any word, and, if it hadn’t been
for Tom Lincon, I shouldn’t have heard it. I tell you, I blew ’em up well, all
of ’em, at home!”
“That ar wasn’t right, I’m ’feard, Mas’r George.”
“Can’t help it! I say it’s a shame! Look here, Uncle Tom,” said he,
turning his back to the shop, and speaking in a mysterious tone, “I’ve
brought you my dollar!”
“O! I couldn’t think o’ takin’ on ’t, Mas’r George, no ways in the world!”
said Tom, quite moved.
“But you shall take it!” said George; “look here—I told Aunt Chloe I’d
do it, and she advised me just to make a hole in it, and put a string through,
so you could hang it round your neck, and keep it out of sight; else this
mean scamp would take it away. I tell ye, Tom, I want to blow him up! it
would do me good!”
“No, don’t Mas’r George, for it won’t do me any good.”
“Well, I won’t, for your sake,” said George, busily tying his dollar round
Tom’s neck; “but there, now, button your coat tight over it, and keep it, and
remember, every time you see it, that I’ll come down after you, and bring

you back. Aunt Chloe and I have been talking about it. I told her not to fear;
I’ll see to it, and I’ll tease father’s life out, if he don’t do it.”
“O! Mas’r George, ye mustn’t talk so ’bout yer father!”
“Lor, Uncle Tom, I don’t mean anything bad.”
“And now, Mas’r George,” said Tom, “ye must be a good boy; ’member
how many hearts is sot on ye. Al’ays keep close to yer mother. Don’t be
gettin’ into any of them foolish ways boys has of gettin’ too big to mind
their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas’r George, the Lord gives good many things
twice over; but he don’t give ye a mother but once. Ye’ll never see sich
another woman, Mas’r George, if ye live to be a hundred years old. So,
now, you hold on to her, and grow up, and be a comfort to her, thar’s my
own good boy,—you will now, won’t ye?”
“Yes, I will, Uncle Tom,” said George seriously.
“And be careful of yer speaking, Mas’r George. Young boys, when they
comes to your age, is wilful, sometimes—it is natur they should be. But real
gentlemen, such as I hopes you’ll be, never lets fall on words that isn’t
’spectful to thar parents. Ye an’t ’fended, Mas’r George?”
“No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good advice.”
“I’s older, ye know,” said Tom, stroking the boy’s fine, curly head with
his large, strong hand, but speaking in a voice as tender as a woman’s, “and
I sees all that’s bound up in you. O, Mas’r George, you has everything,—
l’arnin’, privileges, readin’, writin’,—and you’ll grow up to be a great,
learned, good man and all the people on the place and your mother and
father’ll be so proud on ye! Be a good Mas’r, like yer father; and be a
Christian, like yer mother. ’Member yer Creator in the days o’ yer youth,
Mas’r George.”
“I’ll be real good, Uncle Tom, I tell you,” said George. “I’m going to be
a first-rater; and don’t you be discouraged. I’ll have you back to the place,
yet. As I told Aunt Chloe this morning, I’ll build our house all over, and you
shall have a room for a parlor with a carpet on it, when I’m a man. O, you’ll
have good times yet!”
Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his hands.
“Look here, now, Mister,” said George, with an air of great superiority, as
he got out, “I shall let father and mother know how you treat Uncle Tom!”
“You’re welcome,” said the trader.

“I should think you’d be ashamed to spend all your life buying men and
women, and chaining them, like cattle! I should think you’d feel mean!”
said George.
“So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women, I’m as good
as they is,” said Haley; “‘tan’t any meaner sellin’ on ’em, that ’t is buyin’!”
“I’ll never do either, when I’m a man,” said George; “I’m ashamed, this
day, that I’m a Kentuckian. I always was proud of it before;” and George sat
very straight on his horse, and looked round with an air, as if he expected
the state would be impressed with his opinion.
“Well, good-by, Uncle Tom; keep a stiff upper lip,” said George.
“Good-by, Mas’r George,” said Tom, looking fondly and admiringly at
him. “God Almighty bless you! Ah! Kentucky han’t got many like you!” he
said, in the fulness of his heart, as the frank, boyish face was lost to his
view. Away he went, and Tom looked, till the clatter of his horse’s heels
died away, the last sound or sight of his home. But over his heart there
seemed to be a warm spot, where those young hands had placed that
precious dollar. Tom put up his hand, and held it close to his heart.
“Now, I tell ye what, Tom,” said Haley, as he came up to the wagon, and
threw in the handcuffs, “I mean to start fa’r with ye, as I gen’ally do with
my niggers; and I’ll tell ye now, to begin with, you treat me fa’r, and I’ll
treat you fa’r; I an’t never hard on my niggers. Calculates to do the best for
’em I can. Now, ye see, you’d better jest settle down comfortable, and not
be tryin’ no tricks; because nigger’s tricks of all sorts I’m up to, and it’s no
use. If niggers is quiet, and don’t try to get off, they has good times with
me; and if they don’t, why, it’s thar fault, and not mine.”
Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions of running off. In
fact, the exhortation seemed rather a superfluous one to a man with a great
pair of iron fetters on his feet. But Mr. Haley had got in the habit of
commencing his relations with his stock with little exhortations of this
nature, calculated, as he deemed, to inspire cheerfulness and confidence,
and prevent the necessity of any unpleasant scenes.
And here, for the present, we take our leave of Tom, to pursue the
fortunes of other characters in our story.

CHAPTER XI
In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of
Mind
It was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveler alighted at the door of a
small country hotel, in the village of N——, in Kentucky. In the barroom he
found assembled quite a miscellaneous company, whom stress of weather
had driven to harbor, and the place presented the usual scenery of such
reunions. Great, tall, raw-boned Kentuckians, attired in hunting-shirts, and
trailing their loose joints over a vast extent of territory, with the easy lounge
peculiar to the race,—rifles stacked away in the corner, shot-pouches,
game-bags, hunting-dogs, and little negroes, all rolled together in the
corners,—were the characteristic features in the picture. At each end of the
fireplace sat a long-legged gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his hat on
his head, and the heels of his muddy boots reposing sublimely on the
mantel-piece,—a position, we will inform our readers, decidedly favorable
to the turn of reflection incident to western taverns, where travellers exhibit
a decided preference for this particular mode of elevating their
understandings.
Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his country men, was
great of stature, good-natured and loose-jointed, with an enormous shock of
hair on his head, and a great tall hat on the top of that.
In fact, everybody in the room bore on his head this characteristic
emblem of man’s sovereignty; whether it were felt hat, palm-leaf, greasy
beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it reposed with true republican
independence. In truth, it appeared to be the characteristic mark of every
individual. Some wore them tipped rakishly to one side—these were your
men of humor, jolly, free-and-easy dogs; some had them jammed
independently down over their noses—these were your hard characters,
thorough men, who, when they wore their hats, wanted to wear them, and to
wear them just as they had a mind to; there were those who had them set far

over back—wide-awake men, who wanted a clear prospect; while careless
men, who did not know, or care, how their hats sat, had them shaking about
in all directions. The various hats, in fact, were quite a Shakespearean study.
Divers negroes, in very free-and-easy pantaloons, and with no
redundancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither and thither, without
bringing to pass any very particular results, except expressing a generic
willingness to turn over everything in creation generally for the benefit of
Mas’r and his guests. Add to this picture a jolly, crackling, rollicking fire,
going rejoicingly up a great wide chimney,—the outer door and every
window being set wide open, and the calico window-curtain flopping and
snapping in a good stiff breeze of damp raw air,—and you have an idea of
the jollities of a Kentucky tavern.
Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustration of the doctrine
of transmitted instincts and peculiarities. His fathers were mighty hunters,
—men who lived in the woods, and slept under the free, open heavens, with
the stars to hold their candles; and their descendant to this day always acts
as if the house were his camp,—wears his hat at all hours, tumbles himself
about, and puts his heels on the tops of chairs or mantelpieces, just as his
father rolled on the green sward, and put his upon trees and logs,—keeps all
the windows and doors open, winter and summer, that he may get air
enough for his great lungs,—calls everybody “stranger,” with nonchalant
bonhommie, and is altogether the frankest, easiest, most jovial creature
living.
Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller entered. He was a
short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with a round, good-natured
countenance, and something rather fussy and particular in his appearance.
He was very careful of his valise and umbrella, bringing them in with his
own hands, and resisting, pertinaciously, all offers from the various servants
to relieve him of them. He looked round the barroom with rather an anxious
air, and, retreating with his valuables to the warmest corner, disposed them
under his chair, sat down, and looked rather apprehensively up at the
worthy whose heels illustrated the end of the mantel-piece, who was
spitting from right to left, with a courage and energy rather alarming to
gentlemen of weak nerves and particular habits.
“I say, stranger, how are ye?” said the aforesaid gentleman, firing an
honorary salute of tobacco-juice in the direction of the new arrival.

“Well, I reckon,” was the reply of the other, as he dodged, with some
alarm, the threatening honor.
“Any news?” said the respondent, taking out a strip of tobacco and a
large hunting-knife from his pocket.
“Not that I know of,” said the man.
“Chaw?” said the first speaker, handing the old gentleman a bit of his
tobacco, with a decidedly brotherly air.
“No, thank ye—it don’t agree with me,” said the little man, edging off.
“Don’t, eh?” said the other, easily, and stowing away the morsel in his
own mouth, in order to keep up the supply of tobacco-juice, for the general
benefit of society.
The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start whenever his long-sided
brother fired in his direction; and this being observed by his companion, he
very good-naturedly turned his artillery to another quarter, and proceeded to
storm one of the fire-irons with a degree of military talent fully sufficient to
take a city.
“What’s that?” said the old gentleman, observing some of the company
formed in a group around a large handbill.
“Nigger advertised!” said one of the company, briefly.
Mr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman’s name, rose up, and, after
carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella, proceeded deliberately to take
out his spectacles and fix them on his nose; and, this operation being
performed, read as follows:

“Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George.
Said George six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown
curly hair; is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read
and write, will probably try to pass for a white man, is
deeply scarred on his back and shoulders, has been branded
in his right hand with the letter H.
“I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the
same sum for satisfactory proof that he has been killed.”

The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to end in a low
voice, as if he were studying it.

The long-legged veteran, who had been besieging the fire-iron, as before
related, now took down his cumbrous length, and rearing aloft his tall form,
walked up to the advertisement and very deliberately spit a full discharge of
tobacco-juice on it.
“There’s my mind upon that!” said he, briefly, and sat down again.
“Why, now, stranger, what’s that for?” said mine host.
“I’d do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he was here,” said
the long man, coolly resuming his old employment of cutting tobacco. “Any
man that owns a boy like that, and can’t find any better way o’ treating on
him, deserves to lose him. Such papers as these is a shame to Kentucky;
that’s my mind right out, if anybody wants to know!”
“Well, now, that’s a fact,” said mine host, as he made an entry in his
book.
“I’ve got a gang of boys, sir,” said the long man, resuming his attack on
the fire-irons, “and I jest tells ’em—‘Boys,’ says I,—‘run now! dig! put!
jest when ye want to! I never shall come to look after you!’ That’s the way I
keep mine. Let ’em know they are free to run any time, and it jest breaks up
their wanting to. More ’n all, I’ve got free papers for ’em all recorded, in
case I gets keeled up any o’ these times, and they know it; and I tell ye,
stranger, there an’t a fellow in our parts gets more out of his niggers than I
do. Why, my boys have been to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars’ worth
of colts, and brought me back the money, all straight, time and agin. It
stands to reason they should. Treat ’em like dogs, and you’ll have dogs’
works and dogs’ actions. Treat ’em like men, and you’ll have men’s works.”
And the honest drover, in his warmth, endorsed this moral sentiment by
firing a perfect feu de joi at the fireplace.
“I think you’re altogether right, friend,” said Mr. Wilson; “and this boy
described here is a fine fellow—no mistake about that. He worked for me
some half-dozen years in my bagging factory, and he was my best hand, sir.
He is an ingenious fellow, too: he invented a machine for the cleaning of
hemp—a really valuable affair; it’s gone into use in several factories. His
master holds the patent of it.”
“I’ll warrant ye,” said the drover, “holds it and makes money out of it,
and then turns round and brands the boy in his right hand. If I had a fair
chance, I’d mark him, I reckon so that he’d carry it one while.”

“These yer knowin’ boys is allers aggravatin’ and sarcy,” said a coarse-
looking fellow, from the other side of the room; “that’s why they gets cut up
and marked so. If they behaved themselves, they wouldn’t.”
“That is to say, the Lord made ’em men, and it’s a hard squeeze gettin
’em down into beasts,” said the drover, dryly.
“Bright niggers isn’t no kind of ’vantage to their masters,” continued the
other, well entrenched, in a coarse, unconscious obtuseness, from the
contempt of his opponent; “what’s the use o’ talents and them things, if you
can’t get the use on ’em yourself? Why, all the use they make on ’t is to get
round you. I’ve had one or two of these fellers, and I jest sold ’em down
river. I knew I’d got to lose ’em, first or last, if I didn’t.”
“Better send orders up to the Lord, to make you a set, and leave out their
souls entirely,” said the drover.
Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of a small one-
horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appearance, and a well-dressed,
gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with a colored servant driving.
The whole party examined the new comer with the interest with which a
set of loafers in a rainy day usually examine every newcomer. He was very
tall, with a dark, Spanish complexion, fine, expressive black eyes, and
close-curling hair, also of a glossy blackness. His well-formed aquiline
nose, straight thin lips, and the admirable contour of his finely-formed
limbs, impressed the whole company instantly with the idea of something
uncommon. He walked easily in among the company, and with a nod
indicated to his waiter where to place his trunk, bowed to the company, and,
with his hat in his hand, walked up leisurely to the bar, and gave in his
name as Henry Butter, Oaklands, Shelby County. Turning, with an
indifferent air, he sauntered up to the advertisement, and read it over.
“Jim,” he said to his man, “seems to me we met a boy something like
this, up at Beman’s, didn’t we?”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Jim, “only I an’t sure about the hand.”
“Well, I didn’t look, of course,” said the stranger with a careless yawn.
Then walking up to the landlord, he desired him to furnish him with a
private apartment, as he had some writing to do immediately.
The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about seven negroes, old
and young, male and female, little and big, were soon whizzing about, like a

covey of partridges, bustling, hurrying, treading on each other’s toes, and
tumbling over each other, in their zeal to get Mas’r’s room ready, while he
seated himself easily on a chair in the middle of the room, and entered into
conversation with the man who sat next to him.
The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance of the
stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and uneasy curiosity. He
seemed to himself to have met and been acquainted with him somewhere,
but he could not recollect. Every few moments, when the man spoke, or
moved, or smiled, he would start and fix his eyes on him, and then suddenly
withdraw them, as the bright, dark eyes met his with such unconcerned
coolness. At last, a sudden recollection seemed to flash upon him, for he
stared at the stranger with such an air of blank amazement and alarm, that
he walked up to him.
“Mr. Wilson, I think,” said he, in a tone of recognition, and extending his
hand. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t recollect you before. I see you remember
me,—Mr. Butler, of Oaklands, Shelby County.”
“Ye—yes—yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking in a dream.
Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that Mas’r’s room was
ready.
“Jim, see to the trunks,” said the gentleman, negligently; then addressing
himself to Mr. Wilson, he added—“I should like to have a few moments’
conversation with you on business, in my room, if you please.”
Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep; and they
proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new-made fire was crackling,
and various servants flying about, putting finishing touches to the
arrangements.
When all was done, and the servants departed, the young man
deliberately locked the door, and putting the key in his pocket, faced about,
and folding his arms on his bosom, looked Mr. Wilson full in the face.
“George!” said Mr. Wilson.
“Yes, George,” said the young man.
“I couldn’t have thought it!”
“I am pretty well disguised, I fancy,” said the young man, with a smile.
“A little walnut bark has made my yellow skin a genteel brown, and I’ve
dyed my hair black; so you see I don’t answer to the advertisement at all.”

“O, George! but this is a dangerous game you are playing. I could not
have advised you to it.”
“I can do it on my own responsibility,” said George, with the same proud
smile.
We remark, en passant, that George was, by his father’s side, of white
descent. His mother was one of those unfortunates of her race, marked out
by personal beauty to be the slave of the passions of her possessor, and the
mother of children who may never know a father. From one of the proudest
families in Kentucky he had inherited a set of fine European features, and a
high, indomitable spirit. From his mother he had received only a slight
mulatto tinge, amply compensated by its accompanying rich, dark eye. A
slight change in the tint of the skin and the color of his hair had
metamorphosed him into the Spanish-looking fellow he then appeared; and
as gracefulness of movement and gentlemanly manners had always been
perfectly natural to him, he found no difficulty in playing the bold part he
had adopted—that of a gentleman travelling with his domestic.
Mr. Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety and cautious old
gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing, as John Bunyan hath
it, “much tumbled up and down in his mind,” and divided between his wish
to help George, and a certain confused notion of maintaining law and order:
so, as he shambled about, he delivered himself as follows:
“Well, George, I s’pose you’re running away—leaving your lawful
master, George—(I don’t wonder at it)—at the same time, I’m sorry,
George,—yes, decidedly—I think I must say that, George—it’s my duty to
tell you so.”
“Why are you sorry, sir?” said George, calmly.
“Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposition to the laws of
your country.”
“My country!” said George, with a strong and bitter emphasis; “what
country have I, but the grave,—and I wish to God that I was laid there!”
“Why, George, no—no—it won’t do; this way of talking is wicked—
unscriptural. George, you’ve got a hard master—in fact, he is—well he
conducts himself reprehensibly—I can’t pretend to defend him. But you
know how the angel commanded Hagar to return to her mistress, and

submit herself under the hand;[1] and the apostle sent back Onesimus to his
master.”[2]
[1] Gen. 16. The angel bade the pregnant Hagar return to her mistress Sarai, even
though Sarai had dealt harshly with her.

[2] Phil. 1:10. Onesimus went back to his master to become no longer a servant
but a “brother beloved.”

“Don’t quote Bible at me that way, Mr. Wilson,” said George, with a
flashing eye, “don’t! for my wife is a Christian, and I mean to be, if ever I
get to where I can; but to quote Bible to a fellow in my circumstances, is
enough to make him give it up altogether. I appeal to God Almighty;—I’m
willing to go with the case to Him, and ask Him if I do wrong to seek my
freedom.”
“These feelings are quite natural, George,” said the good-natured man,
blowing his nose. “Yes, they’re natural, but it is my duty not to encourage
’em in you. Yes, my boy, I’m sorry for you, now; it’s a bad case—very bad;
but the apostle says, ‘Let everyone abide in the condition in which he is
called.’ We must all submit to the indications of Providence, George,—
don’t you see?”
George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded tightly over his
broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his lips.
“I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and take you a
prisoner away from your wife and children, and want to keep you all your
life hoeing corn for them, if you’d think it your duty to abide in the
condition in which you were called. I rather think that you’d think the first
stray horse you could find an indication of Providence—shouldn’t you?”
The little old gentleman stared with both eyes at this illustration of the
case; but, though not much of a reasoner, he had the sense in which some
logicians on this particular subject do not excel,—that of saying nothing,
where nothing could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking his
umbrella, and folding and patting down all the creases in it, he proceeded
on with his exhortations in a general way.
“You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood your friend; and
whatever I’ve said, I’ve said for your good. Now, here, it seems to me,
you’re running an awful risk. You can’t hope to carry it out. If you’re taken,

it will be worse with you than ever; they’ll only abuse you, and half kill
you, and sell you down the river.”
“Mr. Wilson, I know all this,” said George. “I do run a risk, but—” he
threw open his overcoat, and showed two pistols and a bowie-knife.
“There!” he said, “I’m ready for ’em! Down south I never will go. No! if it
comes to that, I can earn myself at least six feet of free soil,—the first and
last I shall ever own in Kentucky!”
“Why, George, this state of mind is awful; it’s getting really desperate
George. I’m concerned. Going to break the laws of your country!”
“My country again! Mr. Wilson, you have a country; but what country
have I, or any one like me, born of slave mothers? What laws are there for
us? We don’t make them,—we don’t consent to them,—we have nothing to
do with them; all they do for us is to crush us, and keep us down. Haven’t I
heard your Fourth-of-July speeches? Don’t you tell us all, once a year, that
governments derive their just power from the consent of the governed?
Can’t a fellow think, that hears such things? Can’t he put this and that
together, and see what it comes to?”
Mr. Wilson’s mind was one of those that may not unaptly be represented
by a bale of cotton,—downy, soft, benevolently fuzzy and confused. He
really pitied George with all his heart, and had a sort of dim and cloudy
perception of the style of feeling that agitated him; but he deemed it his
duty to go on talking good to him, with infinite pertinacity.
“George, this is bad. I must tell you, you know, as a friend, you’d better
not be meddling with such notions; they are bad, George, very bad, for boys
in your condition,—very;” and Mr. Wilson sat down to a table, and began
nervously chewing the handle of his umbrella.
“See here, now, Mr. Wilson,” said George, coming up and sitting himself
determinately down in front of him; “look at me, now. Don’t I sit before
you, every way, just as much a man as you are? Look at my face,—look at
my hands,—look at my body,” and the young man drew himself up
proudly; “why am I not a man, as much as anybody? Well, Mr. Wilson, hear
what I can tell you. I had a father—one of your Kentucky gentlemen—who
didn’t think enough of me to keep me from being sold with his dogs and
horses, to satisfy the estate, when he died. I saw my mother put up at
sheriff’s sale, with her seven children. They were sold before her eyes, one
by one, all to different masters; and I was the youngest. She came and

kneeled down before old Mas’r, and begged him to buy her with me, that
she might have at least one child with her; and he kicked her away with his
heavy boot. I saw him do it; and the last that I heard was her moans and
screams, when I was tied to his horse’s neck, to be carried off to his place.”
“Well, then?”
“My master traded with one of the men, and bought my oldest sister. She
was a pious, good girl,—a member of the Baptist church,—and as
handsome as my poor mother had been. She was well brought up, and had
good manners. At first, I was glad she was bought, for I had one friend near
me. I was soon sorry for it. Sir, I have stood at the door and heard her
whipped, when it seemed as if every blow cut into my naked heart, and I
couldn’t do anything to help her; and she was whipped, sir, for wanting to
live a decent Christian life, such as your laws give no slave girl a right to
live; and at last I saw her chained with a trader’s gang, to be sent to market
in Orleans,—sent there for nothing else but that,—and that’s the last I know
of her. Well, I grew up,—long years and years,—no father, no mother, no
sister, not a living soul that cared for me more than a dog; nothing but
whipping, scolding, starving. Why, sir, I’ve been so hungry that I have been
glad to take the bones they threw to their dogs; and yet, when I was a little
fellow, and laid awake whole nights and cried, it wasn’t the hunger, it
wasn’t the whipping, I cried for. No, sir, it was for my mother and my
sisters,—it was because I hadn’t a friend to love me on earth. I never knew
what peace or comfort was. I never had a kind word spoken to me till I
came to work in your factory. Mr. Wilson, you treated me well; you
encouraged me to do well, and to learn to read and write, and to try to make
something of myself; and God knows how grateful I am for it. Then, sir, I
found my wife; you’ve seen her,—you know how beautiful she is. When I
found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely could believe I was
alive, I was so happy; and, sir, she is as good as she is beautiful. But now
what? Why, now comes my master, takes me right away from my work, and
my friends, and all I like, and grinds me down into the very dirt! And why?
Because, he says, I forgot who I was; he says, to teach me that I am only a
nigger! After all, and last of all, he comes between me and my wife, and
says I shall give her up, and live with another woman. And all this your
laws give him power to do, in spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it!
There isn’t one of all these things, that have broken the hearts of my mother
and my sister, and my wife and myself, but your laws allow, and give every

man power to do, in Kentucky, and none can say to him nay! Do you call
these the laws of my country? Sir, I haven’t any country, anymore than I
have any father. But I’m going to have one. I don’t want anything of your
country, except to be let alone,—to go peaceably out of it; and when I get to
Canada, where the laws will own me and protect me, that shall be my
country, and its laws I will obey. But if any man tries to stop me, let him
take care, for I am desperate. I’ll fight for my liberty to the last breath I
breathe. You say your fathers did it; if it was right for them, it is right for
me!”
This speech, delivered partly while sitting at the table, and partly walking
up and down the room,—delivered with tears, and flashing eyes, and
despairing gestures,—was altogether too much for the good-natured old
body to whom it was addressed, who had pulled out a great yellow silk
pocket-handkerchief, and was mopping up his face with great energy.
“Blast ’em all!” he suddenly broke out. “Haven’t I always said so—the
infernal old cusses! I hope I an’t swearing, now. Well! go ahead, George, go
ahead; but be careful, my boy; don’t shoot anybody, George, unless—well
—you’d better not shoot, I reckon; at least, I wouldn’t hit anybody, you
know. Where is your wife, George?” he added, as he nervously rose, and
began walking the room.
“Gone, sir gone, with her child in her arms, the Lord only knows where;
—gone after the north star; and when we ever meet, or whether we meet at
all in this world, no creature can tell.”
“Is it possible! astonishing! from such a kind family?”
“Kind families get in debt, and the laws of our country allow them to sell
the child out of its mother’s bosom to pay its master’s debts,” said George,
bitterly.
“Well, well,” said the honest old man, fumbling in his pocket: “I s’pose,
perhaps, I an’t following my judgment,—hang it, I won’t follow my
judgment!” he added, suddenly; “so here, George,” and, taking out a roll of
bills from his pocket-book, he offered them to George.
“No, my kind, good sir!” said George, “you’ve done a great deal for me,
and this might get you into trouble. I have money enough, I hope, to take
me as far as I need it.”

“No; but you must, George. Money is a great help everywhere;—can’t
have too much, if you get it honestly. Take it,—do take it, now,—do, my
boy!”
“On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time, I will,” said
George, taking up the money.
“And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this way?—not
long or far, I hope. It’s well carried on, but too bold. And this black fellow,
—who is he?”
“A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year ago. He heard, after
he got there, that his master was so angry at him for going off that he had
whipped his poor old mother; and he has come all the way back to comfort
her, and get a chance to get her away.”
“Has he got her?”
“Not yet; he has been hanging about the place, and found no chance yet.
Meanwhile, he is going with me as far as Ohio, to put me among friends
that helped him, and then he will come back after her.
“Dangerous, very dangerous!” said the old man.
George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully.
The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sort of innocent
wonder.
“George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up your
head, and speak and move like another man,” said Mr. Wilson.
“Because I’m a freeman!” said George, proudly. “Yes, sir; I’ve said
Mas’r for the last time to any man. I’m free!”
“Take care! You are not sure,—you may be taken.”
“All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that, Mr. Wilson,”
said George.
“I’m perfectly dumb-founded with your boldness!” said Mr. Wilson,
—“to come right here to the nearest tavern!”
“Mr. Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near, that they will never
think of it; they will look for me on ahead, and you yourself wouldn’t know
me. Jim’s master don’t live in this county; he isn’t known in these parts.
Besides, he is given up; nobody is looking after him, and nobody will take
me up from the advertisement, I think.”

“But the mark in your hand?”
George drew off his glove, and showed a newly-healed scar in his hand.
“That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris’ regard,” he said, scornfully. “A
fortnight ago, he took it into his head to give it to me, because he said he
believed I should try to get away one of these days. Looks interesting,
doesn’t it?” he said, drawing his glove on again.
“I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it,—your condition
and your risks!” said Mr. Wilson.
“Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson; at present, it’s about
up to the boiling point,” said George.
“Well, my good sir,” continued George, after a few moments’ silence, “I
saw you knew me; I thought I’d just have this talk with you, lest your
surprised looks should bring me out. I leave early tomorrow morning,
before daylight; by tomorrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio. I shall
travel by daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the dinner-tables with the
lords of the land. So, good-by, sir; if you hear that I’m taken, you may know
that I’m dead!”
George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of a prince.
The friendly little old man shook it heartily, and after a little shower of
caution, he took his umbrella, and fumbled his way out of the room.
George stood thoughtfully looking at the door, as the old man closed it. A
thought seemed to flash across his mind. He hastily stepped to it, and
opening it, said,
“Mr. Wilson, one word more.”
The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, locked the door,
and then stood for a few moments looking on the floor, irresolutely. At last,
raising his head with a sudden effort—“Mr. Wilson, you have shown
yourself a Christian in your treatment of me,—I want to ask one last deed of
Christian kindness of you.”
“Well, George.”
“Well, sir,—what you said was true. I am running a dreadful risk. There
isn’t, on earth, a living soul to care if I die,” he added, drawing his breath
hard, and speaking with a great effort,—“I shall be kicked out and buried
like a dog, and nobody’ll think of it a day after,—only my poor wife! Poor
soul! she’ll mourn and grieve; and if you’d only contrive, Mr. Wilson, to

send this little pin to her. She gave it to me for a Christmas present, poor
child! Give it to her, and tell her I loved her to the last. Will you? Will you?”
he added, earnestly.
“Yes, certainly—poor fellow!” said the old gentleman, taking the pin,
with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in his voice.
“Tell her one thing,” said George; “it’s my last wish, if she can get to
Canada, to go there. No matter how kind her mistress is,—no matter how
much she loves her home; beg her not to go back,—for slavery always ends
in misery. Tell her to bring up our boy a free man, and then he won’t suffer
as I have. Tell her this, Mr. Wilson, will you?”
“Yes, George. I’ll tell her; but I trust you won’t die; take heart,—you’re a
brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I wish in my heart you were safe
through, though,—that’s what I do.”
“Is there a God to trust in?” said George, in such a tone of bitter despair
as arrested the old gentleman’s words. “O, I’ve seen things all my life that
have made me feel that there can’t be a God. You Christians don’t know
how these things look to us. There’s a God for you, but is there any for us?”
“O, now, don’t—don’t, my boy!” said the old man, almost sobbing as he
spoke; “don’t feel so! There is—there is; clouds and darkness are around
about him, but righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne.
There’s a God, George,—believe it; trust in Him, and I’m sure He’ll help
you. Everything will be set right,—if not in this life, in another.”
The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man invested him with
a temporary dignity and authority, as he spoke. George stopped his
distracted walk up and down the room, stood thoughtfully a moment, and
then said, quietly,
“Thank you for saying that, my good friend; I’ll think of that.”

CHAPTER XII
Select Incident of Lawful Trade
“In Ramah there was a voice heard,—weeping, and
lamentation, and great mourning; Rachel weeping for her
children, and would not be comforted.”

Jer. 31:15.

Mr. Haley and Tom jogged onward in their wagon, each, for a time,
absorbed in his own reflections. Now, the reflections of two men sitting side
by side are a curious thing,—seated on the same seat, having the same eyes,
ears, hands and organs of all sorts, and having pass before their eyes the
same objects,—it is wonderful what a variety we shall find in these same
reflections!
As, for example, Mr. Haley: he thought first of Tom’s length, and
breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he was kept fat and in
good case till he got him into market. He thought of how he should make
out his gang; he thought of the respective market value of certain
supposititious men and women and children who were to compose it, and
other kindred topics of the business; then he thought of himself, and how
humane he was, that whereas other men chained their “niggers” hand and
foot both, he only put fetters on the feet, and left Tom the use of his hands,
as long as he behaved well; and he sighed to think how ungrateful human
nature was, so that there was even room to doubt whether Tom appreciated
his mercies. He had been taken in so by “niggers” whom he had favored;
but still he was astonished to consider how good-natured he yet remained!
As to Tom, he was thinking over some words of an unfashionable old
book, which kept running through his head, again and again, as follows:
“We have here no continuing city, but we seek one to come; wherefore God
himself is not ashamed to be called our God; for he hath prepared for us a
city.” These words of an ancient volume, got up principally by “ignorant

and unlearned men,” have, through all time, kept up, somehow, a strange
sort of power over the minds of poor, simple fellows, like Tom. They stir up
the soul from its depths, and rouse, as with trumpet call, courage, energy,
and enthusiasm, where before was only the blackness of despair.
Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, and began looking
over their advertisements, with absorbed interest. He was not a remarkably
fluent reader, and was in the habit of reading in a sort of recitative half-
aloud, by way of calling in his ears to verify the deductions of his eyes. In
this tone he slowly recited the following paragraph:

“EXECUTOR’S SALE,—NEGROES!—Agreeably to order of
court, will be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the
Court-house door, in the town of Washington, Kentucky, the
following negroes: Hagar, aged 60; John, aged 30; Ben, aged
21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit of the
creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq.

“SAMUEL MORRIS,
THOMAS FLINT,
Executors.”

“This yer I must look at,” said he to Tom, for want of somebody else to
talk to.
“Ye see, I’m going to get up a prime gang to take down with ye, Tom;
it’ll make it sociable and pleasant like,—good company will, ye know. We
must drive right to Washington first and foremost, and then I’ll clap you
into jail, while I does the business.”
Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly; simply
wondering, in his own heart, how many of these doomed men had wives
and children, and whether they would feel as he did about leaving them. It
is to be confessed, too, that the naive, off-hand information that he was to
be thrown into jail by no means produced an agreeable impression on a
poor fellow who had always prided himself on a strictly honest and upright
course of life. Yes, Tom, we must confess it, was rather proud of his
honesty, poor fellow,—not having very much else to be proud of;—if he
had belonged to some of the higher walks of society, he, perhaps, would
never have been reduced to such straits. However, the day wore on, and the

evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated in Washington,—
the one in a tavern, and the other in a jail.
About eleven o’clock the next day, a mixed throng was gathered around
the court-house steps,—smoking, chewing, spitting, swearing, and
conversing, according to their respective tastes and turns,—waiting for the
auction to commence. The men and women to be sold sat in a group apart,
talking in a low tone to each other. The woman who had been advertised by
the name of Hagar was a regular African in feature and figure. She might
have been sixty, but was older than that by hard work and disease, was
partially blind, and somewhat crippled with rheumatism. By her side stood
her only remaining son, Albert, a bright-looking little fellow of fourteen
years. The boy was the only survivor of a large family, who had been
successively sold away from her to a southern market. The mother held on
to him with both her shaking hands, and eyed with intense trepidation every
one who walked up to examine him.

THE AUCTION SALE.

“Don’t be feard, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the men, “I spoke to
Mas’r Thomas ’bout it, and he thought he might manage to sell you in a lot
both together.”
“Dey needn’t call me worn out yet,” said she, lifting her shaking hands.
“I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour,—I’m wuth a buying, if I do come

cheap;—tell ’em dat ar,—you tell ’em,” she added, earnestly.
Haley here forced his way into the group, walked up to the old man,
pulled his mouth open and looked in, felt of his teeth, made him stand and
straighten himself, bend his back, and perform various evolutions to show
his muscles; and then passed on to the next, and put him through the same
trial. Walking up last to the boy, he felt of his arms, straightened his hands,
and looked at his fingers, and made him jump, to show his agility.
“He an’t gwine to be sold widout me!” said the old woman, with
passionate eagerness; “he and I goes in a lot together; I ’s rail strong yet,
Mas’r and can do heaps o’ work,—heaps on it, Mas’r.”
“On plantation?” said Haley, with a contemptuous glance. “Likely story!”
and, as if satisfied with his examination, he walked out and looked, and
stood with his hands in his pocket, his cigar in his mouth, and his hat
cocked on one side, ready for action.
“What think of ’em?” said a man who had been following Haley’s
examination, as if to make up his own mind from it.
“Wal,” said Haley, spitting, “I shall put in, I think, for the youngerly ones
and the boy.”
“They want to sell the boy and the old woman together,” said the man.
“Find it a tight pull;—why, she’s an old rack o’ bones,—not worth her
salt.”
“You wouldn’t then?” said the man.
“Anybody ’d be a fool ’t would. She’s half blind, crooked with
rheumatis, and foolish to boot.”
“Some buys up these yer old critturs, and ses there’s a sight more wear in
’em than a body ’d think,” said the man, reflectively.
“No go, ’t all,” said Haley; “wouldn’t take her for a present,—fact,—I’ve
seen, now.”
“Wal, ’t is kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her son,—her heart seems
so sot on him,—s’pose they fling her in cheap.”
“Them that’s got money to spend that ar way, it’s all well enough. I shall
bid off on that ar boy for a plantation-hand;—wouldn’t be bothered with
her, no way, not if they’d give her to me,” said Haley.
“She’ll take on desp’t,” said the man.

“Nat’lly, she will,” said the trader, coolly.
The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum in the audience;
and the auctioneer, a short, bustling, important fellow, elbowed his way into
the crowd. The old woman drew in her breath, and caught instinctively at
her son.
“Keep close to yer mammy, Albert,—close,—dey’ll put us up togedder,”
she said.
“O, mammy, I’m feard they won’t,” said the boy.
“Dey must, child; I can’t live, no ways, if they don’t” said the old
creature, vehemently.
The stentorian tones of the auctioneer, calling out to clear the way, now
announced that the sale was about to commence. A place was cleared, and
the bidding began. The different men on the list were soon knocked off at
prices which showed a pretty brisk demand in the market; two of them fell
to Haley.
“Come, now, young un,” said the auctioneer, giving the boy a touch with
his hammer, “be up and show your springs, now.”
“Put us two up togedder, togedder,—do please, Mas’r,” said the old
woman, holding fast to her boy.
“Be off,” said the man, gruffly, pushing her hands away; “you come last.
Now, darkey, spring;” and, with the word, he pushed the boy toward the
block, while a deep, heavy groan rose behind him. The boy paused, and
looked back; but there was no time to stay, and, dashing the tears from his
large, bright eyes, he was up in a moment.
His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face, raised an instant competition,
and half a dozen bids simultaneously met the ear of the auctioneer. Anxious,
half-frightened, he looked from side to side, as he heard the clatter of
contending bids,—now here, now there,—till the hammer fell. Haley had
got him. He was pushed from the block toward his new master, but stopped
one moment, and looked back, when his poor old mother, trembling in
every limb, held out her shaking hands toward him.
“Buy me too, Mas’r, for de dear Lord’s sake!—buy me,—I shall die if
you don’t!”
“You’ll die if I do, that’s the kink of it,” said Haley,—“no!” And he
turned on his heel.

The bidding for the poor old creature was summary. The man who had
addressed Haley, and who seemed not destitute of compassion, bought her
for a trifle, and the spectators began to disperse.
The poor victims of the sale, who had been brought up in one place
together for years, gathered round the despairing old mother, whose agony
was pitiful to see.
“Couldn’t dey leave me one? Mas’r allers said I should have one,—he
did,” she repeated over and over, in heart-broken tones.
“Trust in the Lord, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the men, sorrowfully.
“What good will it do?” said she, sobbing passionately.
“Mother, mother,—don’t! don’t!” said the boy. “They say you ’s got a
good master.”
“I don’t care,—I don’t care. O, Albert! oh, my boy! you ’s my last baby.
Lord, how ken I?”
“Come, take her off, can’t some of ye?” said Haley, dryly; “don’t do no
good for her to go on that ar way.”
The old men of the company, partly by persuasion and partly by force,
loosed the poor creature’s last despairing hold, and, as they led her off to
her new master’s wagon, strove to comfort her.
“Now!” said Haley, pushing his three purchases together, and producing
a bundle of handcuffs, which he proceeded to put on their wrists; and
fastening each handcuff to a long chain, he drove them before him to the
jail.
A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely deposited on one of
the Ohio boats. It was the commencement of his gang, to be augmented, as
the boat moved on, by various other merchandise of the same kind, which
he, or his agent, had stored for him in various points along shore.
The La Belle Riviere, as brave and beautiful a boat as ever walked the
waters of her namesake river, was floating gayly down the stream, under a
brilliant sky, the stripes and stars of free America waving and fluttering over
head; the guards crowded with well-dressed ladies and gentlemen walking
and enjoying the delightful day. All was full of life, buoyant and rejoicing;
—all but Haley’s gang, who were stored, with other freight, on the lower
deck, and who, somehow, did not seem to appreciate their various
privileges, as they sat in a knot, talking to each other in low tones.

“Boys,” said Haley, coming up, briskly, “I hope you keep up good heart,
and are cheerful. Now, no sulks, ye see; keep stiff upper lip, boys; do well
by me, and I’ll do well by you.”
The boys addressed responded the invariable “Yes, Mas’r,” for ages the
watchword of poor Africa; but it’s to be owned they did not look
particularly cheerful; they had their various little prejudices in favor of
wives, mothers, sisters, and children, seen for the last time,—and though
“they that wasted them required of them mirth,” it was not instantly
forthcoming.
“I’ve got a wife,” spoke out the article enumerated as “John, aged thirty,”
and he laid his chained hand on Tom’s knee,—“and she don’t know a word
about this, poor girl!”
“Where does she live?” said Tom.
“In a tavern a piece down here,” said John; “I wish, now, I could see her
once more in this world,” he added.
Poor John! It was rather natural; and the tears that fell, as he spoke, came
as naturally as if he had been a white man. Tom drew a long breath from a
sore heart, and tried, in his poor way, to comfort him.
And over head, in the cabin, sat fathers and mothers, husbands and
wives; and merry, dancing children moved round among them, like so many
little butterflies, and everything was going on quite easy and comfortable.
“O, mamma,” said a boy, who had just come up from below, “there’s a
negro trader on board, and he’s brought four or five slaves down there.”
“Poor creatures!” said the mother, in a tone between grief and
indignation.
“What’s that?” said another lady.
“Some poor slaves below,” said the mother.
“And they’ve got chains on,” said the boy.
“What a shame to our country that such sights are to be seen!” said
another lady.
“O, there’s a great deal to be said on both sides of the subject,” said a
genteel woman, who sat at her state-room door sewing, while her little girl
and boy were playing round her. “I’ve been south, and I must say I think the
negroes are better off than they would be to be free.”

“In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant,” said the lady to
whose remark she had answered. “The most dreadful part of slavery, to my
mind, is its outrages on the feelings and affections,—the separating of
families, for example.”
“That is a bad thing, certainly,” said the other lady, holding up a baby’s
dress she had just completed, and looking intently on its trimmings; “but
then, I fancy, it don’t occur often.”
“O, it does,” said the first lady, eagerly; “I’ve lived many years in
Kentucky and Virginia both, and I’ve seen enough to make any one’s heart
sick. Suppose, ma’am, your two children, there, should be taken from you,
and sold?”
“We can’t reason from our feelings to those of this class of persons,” said
the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her lap.
“Indeed, ma’am, you can know nothing of them, if you say so,” answered
the first lady, warmly. “I was born and brought up among them. I know they
do feel, just as keenly,—even more so, perhaps,—as we do.”
The lady said “Indeed!” yawned, and looked out the cabin window, and
finally repeated, for a finale, the remark with which she had begun,—“After
all, I think they are better off than they would be to be free.”
“It’s undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the African race should
be servants,—kept in a low condition,” said a grave-looking gentleman in
black, a clergyman, seated by the cabin door. “‘Cursed be Canaan; a servant
of servants shall he be,’ the scripture says.”[1]
[1] Gen. 9:25. his is what Noah says when he wakes out of drunkenness and
realizes that his youngest son, Ham, father of Canaan, has seen him naked.

“I say, stranger, is that ar what that text means?” said a tall man, standing
by.
“Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutable reason, to
doom the race to bondage, ages ago; and we must not set up our opinion
against that.”
“Well, then, we’ll all go ahead and buy up niggers,” said the man, “if
that’s the way of Providence,—won’t we, Squire?” said he, turning to
Haley, who had been standing, with his hands in his pockets, by the stove
and intently listening to the conversation.

“Yes,” continued the tall man, “we must all be resigned to the decrees of
Providence. Niggers must be sold, and trucked round, and kept under; it’s
what they’s made for. ’Pears like this yer view ’s quite refreshing, an’t it,
stranger?” said he to Haley.
“I never thought on ’t,” said Haley, “I couldn’t have said as much,
myself; I ha’nt no larning. I took up the trade just to make a living; if ’tan’t
right, I calculated to ’pent on ’t in time, ye know.”
“And now you’ll save yerself the trouble, won’t ye?” said the tall man.
“See what ’t is, now, to know scripture. If ye’d only studied yer Bible, like
this yer good man, ye might have know’d it before, and saved ye a heap o’
trouble. Ye could jist have said, ‘Cussed be’—what’s his name?—‘and ’t
would all have come right.’” And the stranger, who was no other than the
honest drover whom we introduced to our readers in the Kentucky tavern,
sat down, and began smoking, with a curious smile on his long, dry face.
A tall, slender young man, with a face expressive of great feeling and
intelligence, here broke in, and repeated the words, “‘All things whatsoever
ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.’ I
suppose,” he added, “that is scripture, as much as ‘Cursed be Canaan.’”
“Wal, it seems quite as plain a text, stranger,” said John the drover, “to
poor fellows like us, now;” and John smoked on like a volcano.
The young man paused, looked as if he was going to say more, when
suddenly the boat stopped, and the company made the usual steamboat rush,
to see where they were landing.
“Both them ar chaps parsons?” said John to one of the men, as they were
going out.
The man nodded.
As the boat stopped, a black woman came running wildly up the plank,
darted into the crowd, flew up to where the slave gang sat, and threw her
arms round that unfortunate piece of merchandise before enumerate
—“John, aged thirty,” and with sobs and tears bemoaned him as her
husband.
But what needs tell the story, told too oft,—every day told,—of heart-
strings rent and broken,—the weak broken and torn for the profit and
convenience of the strong! It needs not to be told;—every day is telling it,
—telling it, too, in the ear of One who is not deaf, though he be long silent.

The young man who had spoken for the cause of humanity and God
before stood with folded arms, looking on this scene. He turned, and Haley
was standing at his side. “My friend,” he said, speaking with thick
utterance, “how can you, how dare you, carry on a trade like this? Look at
those poor creatures! Here I am, rejoicing in my heart that I am going home
to my wife and child; and the same bell which is a signal to carry me
onward towards them will part this poor man and his wife forever. Depend
upon it, God will bring you into judgment for this.”
The trader turned away in silence.
“I say, now,” said the drover, touching his elbow, “there’s differences in
parsons, an’t there? ‘Cussed be Canaan’ don’t seem to go down with this
’un, does it?”
Haley gave an uneasy growl.
“And that ar an’t the worst on ’t,” said John; “mabbee it won’t go down
with the Lord, neither, when ye come to settle with Him, one o’ these days,
as all on us must, I reckon.”
Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat.
“If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next gangs,” he thought, “I
reckon I’ll stop off this yer; it’s really getting dangerous.” And he took out
his pocket-book, and began adding over his accounts,—a process which
many gentlemen besides Mr. Haley have found a specific for an uneasy
conscience.
The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went on merrily, as
before. Men talked, and loafed, and read, and smoked. Women sewed, and
children played, and the boat passed on her way.
One day, when she lay to for a while at a small town in Kentucky, Haley
went up into the place on a little matter of business.
Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderate circuit, had
drawn near the side of the boat, and stood listlessly gazing over the railing.
After a time, he saw the trader returning, with an alert step, in company
with a colored woman, bearing in her arms a young child. She was dressed
quite respectably, and a colored man followed her, bringing along a small
trunk. The woman came cheerfully onward, talking, as she came, with the
man who bore her trunk, and so passed up the plank into the boat. The bell

rung, the steamer whizzed, the engine groaned and coughed, and away
swept the boat down the river.
The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of the lower
deck, and, sitting down, busied herself with chirruping to her baby.
Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then, coming up, seated
himself near her, and began saying something to her in an indifferent
undertone.
Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the woman’s brow; and
that she answered rapidly, and with great vehemence.
“I don’t believe it,—I won’t believe it!” he heard her say. “You’re jist a
foolin’ with me.”
“If you won’t believe it, look here!” said the man, drawing out a paper;
“this yer’s the bill of sale, and there’s your master’s name to it; and I paid
down good solid cash for it, too, I can tell you,—so, now!”
“I don’t believe Mas’r would cheat me so; it can’t be true!” said the
woman, with increasing agitation.
“You can ask any of these men here, that can read writing. Here!” he
said, to a man that was passing by, “jist read this yer, won’t you! This yer
gal won’t believe me, when I tell her what ’t is.”
“Why, it’s a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick,” said the man, “making
over to you the girl Lucy and her child. It’s all straight enough, for aught I
see.”
The woman’s passionate exclamations collected a crowd around her, and
the trader briefly explained to them the cause of the agitation.
“He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to hire out as cook to
the same tavern where my husband works,—that’s what Mas’r told me, his
own self; and I can’t believe he’d lie to me,” said the woman.
“But he has sold you, my poor woman, there’s no doubt about it,” said a
good-natured looking man, who had been examining the papers; “he has
done it, and no mistake.”
“Then it’s no account talking,” said the woman, suddenly growing quite
calm; and, clasping her child tighter in her arms, she sat down on her box,
turned her back round, and gazed listlessly into the river.
“Going to take it easy, after all!” said the trader. “Gal’s got grit, I see.”

The woman looked calm, as the boat went on; and a beautiful soft
summer breeze passed like a compassionate spirit over her head,—the
gentle breeze, that never inquires whether the brow is dusky or fair that it
fans. And she saw sunshine sparkling on the water, in golden ripples, and
heard gay voices, full of ease and pleasure, talking around her everywhere;
but her heart lay as if a great stone had fallen on it. Her baby raised himself
up against her, and stroked her cheeks with his little hands; and, springing
up and down, crowing and chatting, seemed determined to arouse her. She
strained him suddenly and tightly in her arms, and slowly one tear after
another fell on his wondering, unconscious face; and gradually she seemed,
and little by little, to grow calmer, and busied herself with tending and
nursing him.
The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large and strong of his
age, and very vigorous in his limbs. Never, for a moment, still, he kept his
mother constantly busy in holding him, and guarding his springing activity.
“That’s a fine chap!” said a man, suddenly stopping opposite to him, with
his hands in his pockets. “How old is he?”
“Ten months and a half,” said the mother.
The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of a stick of candy,
which he eagerly grabbed at, and very soon had it in a baby’s general
depository, to wit, his mouth.
“Rum fellow!” said the man “Knows what’s what!” and he whistled, and
walked on. When he had got to the other side of the boat, he came across
Haley, who was smoking on top of a pile of boxes.
The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying, as he did so,
“Decentish kind o’ wench you’ve got round there, stranger.”
“Why, I reckon she is tol’able fair,” said Haley, blowing the smoke out of
his mouth.
“Taking her down south?” said the man.
Haley nodded, and smoked on.
“Plantation hand?” said the man.
“Wal,” said Haley, “I’m fillin’ out an order for a plantation, and I think I
shall put her in. They telled me she was a good cook; and they can use her

for that, or set her at the cotton-picking. She’s got the right fingers for that; I
looked at ’em. Sell well, either way;” and Haley resumed his cigar.
“They won’t want the young ’un on the plantation,” said the man.
“I shall sell him, first chance I find,” said Haley, lighting another cigar.
“S’pose you’d be selling him tol’able cheap,” said the stranger, mounting
the pile of boxes, and sitting down comfortably.
“Don’t know ’bout that,” said Haley; “he’s a pretty smart young ’un,
straight, fat, strong; flesh as hard as a brick!”
“Very true, but then there’s the bother and expense of raisin’.”
“Nonsense!” said Haley; “they is raised as easy as any kind of critter
there is going; they an’t a bit more trouble than pups. This yer chap will be
running all around, in a month.”
“I’ve got a good place for raisin’, and I thought of takin’ in a little more
stock,” said the man. “One cook lost a young ’un last week,—got drownded
in a washtub, while she was a hangin’ out the clothes,—and I reckon it
would be well enough to set her to raisin’ this yer.”
Haley and the stranger smoked a while in silence, neither seeming
willing to broach the test question of the interview. At last the man
resumed:
“You wouldn’t think of wantin’ more than ten dollars for that ar chap,
seeing you must get him off yer hand, any how?”
Haley shook his head, and spit impressively.
“That won’t do, no ways,” he said, and began his smoking again.
“Well, stranger, what will you take?”
“Well, now,” said Haley, “I could raise that ar chap myself, or get him
raised; he’s oncommon likely and healthy, and he’d fetch a hundred dollars,
six months hence; and, in a year or two, he’d bring two hundred, if I had
him in the right spot; I shan’t take a cent less nor fifty for him now.”
“O, stranger! that’s ridiculous, altogether,” said the man.
“Fact!” said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head.
“I’ll give thirty for him,” said the stranger, “but not a cent more.”
“Now, I’ll tell ye what I will do,” said Haley, spitting again, with
renewed decision. “I’ll split the difference, and say forty-five; and that’s the

most I will do.”
“Well, agreed!” said the man, after an interval.
“Done!” said Haley. “Where do you land?”
“At Louisville,” said the man.
“Louisville,” said Haley. “Very fair, we get there about dusk. Chap will
be asleep,—all fair,—get him off quietly, and no screaming,—happens
beautiful,—I like to do everything quietly,—I hates all kind of agitation and
fluster.” And so, after a transfer of certain bills had passed from the man’s
pocket-book to the trader’s, he resumed his cigar.
It was a bright, tranquil evening when the boat stopped at the wharf at
Louisville. The woman had been sitting with her baby in her arms, now
wrapped in a heavy sleep. When she heard the name of the place called out,
she hastily laid the child down in a little cradle formed by the hollow
among the boxes, first carefully spreading under it her cloak; and then she
sprung to the side of the boat, in hopes that, among the various hotel-
waiters who thronged the wharf, she might see her husband. In this hope,
she pressed forward to the front rails, and, stretching far over them, strained
her eyes intently on the moving heads on the shore, and the crowd pressed
in between her and the child.
“Now’s your time,” said Haley, taking the sleeping child up, and handing
him to the stranger. “Don’t wake him up, and set him to crying, now; it
would make a devil of a fuss with the gal.” The man took the bundle
carefully, and was soon lost in the crowd that went up the wharf.
When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, had loosed from the
wharf, and was beginning slowly to strain herself along, the woman
returned to her old seat. The trader was sitting there,—the child was gone!
“Why, why,—where?” she began, in bewildered surprise.
“Lucy,” said the trader, “your child’s gone; you may as well know it first
as last. You see, I know’d you couldn’t take him down south; and I got a
chance to sell him to a first-rate family, that’ll raise him better than you
can.”
The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian and political perfection
which has been recommended by some preachers and politicians of the
north, lately, in which he had completely overcome every humane weakness
and prejudice. His heart was exactly where yours, sir, and mine could be

brought, with proper effort and cultivation. The wild look of anguish and
utter despair that the woman cast on him might have disturbed one less
practised; but he was used to it. He had seen that same look hundreds of
times. You can get used to such things, too, my friend; and it is the great
object of recent efforts to make our whole northern community used to
them, for the glory of the Union. So the trader only regarded the mortal
anguish which he saw working in those dark features, those clenched hands,
and suffocating breathings, as necessary incidents of the trade, and merely
calculated whether she was going to scream, and get up a commotion on the
boat; for, like other supporters of our peculiar institution, he decidedly
disliked agitation.
But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed too straight and
direct through the heart, for cry or tear.
Dizzily she sat down. Her slack hands fell lifeless by her side. Her eyes
looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. All the noise and hum of the
boat, the groaning of the machinery, mingled dreamily to her bewildered
ear; and the poor, dumb-stricken heart had neither cry not tear to show for
its utter misery. She was quite calm.
The trader, who, considering his advantages, was almost as humane as
some of our politicians, seemed to feel called on to administer such
consolation as the case admitted of.
“I know this yer comes kinder hard, at first, Lucy,” said he; “but such a
smart, sensible gal as you are, won’t give way to it. You see it’s necessary,
and can’t be helped!”
“O! don’t, Mas’r, don’t!” said the woman, with a voice like one that is
smothering.
“You’re a smart wench, Lucy,” he persisted; “I mean to do well by ye,
and get ye a nice place down river; and you’ll soon get another husband,—
such a likely gal as you—”
“O! Mas’r, if you only won’t talk to me now,” said the woman, in a voice
of such quick and living anguish that the trader felt that there was
something at present in the case beyond his style of operation. He got up,
and the woman turned away, and buried her head in her cloak.
The trader walked up and down for a time, and occasionally stopped and
looked at her.

“Takes it hard, rather,” he soliloquized, “but quiet, tho’;—let her sweat a
while; she’ll come right, by and by!”
Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to last, and had a
perfect understanding of its results. To him, it looked like something
unutterably horrible and cruel, because, poor, ignorant black soul! he had
not learned to generalize, and to take enlarged views. If he had only been
instructed by certain ministers of Christianity, he might have thought better
of it, and seen in it an every-day incident of a lawful trade; a trade which is
the vital support of an institution which an American divine[2] tells us has
“no evils but such as are inseparable from any other relations in social and
domestic life.” But Tom, as we see, being a poor, ignorant fellow, whose
reading had been confined entirely to the New Testament, could not comfort
and solace himself with views like these. His very soul bled within him for
what seemed to him the wrongs of the poor suffering thing that lay like a
crushed reed on the boxes; the feeling, living, bleeding, yet immortal thing,
which American state law coolly classes with the bundles, and bales, and
boxes, among which she is lying.
[2] Dr. Joel Parker of Philadelphia. [Mrs. Stowe’s note.] Presbyterian clergyman
(1798-1873), a friend of the Beecher family. Mrs. Stowe attempted
unsuccessfully to have this identifying note removed from the stereotype-plate of
the first edition.

Tom drew near, and tried to say something; but she only groaned.
Honestly, and with tears running down his own cheeks, he spoke of a heart
of love in the skies, of a pitying Jesus, and an eternal home; but the ear was
deaf with anguish, and the palsied heart could not feel.
Night came on,—night calm, unmoved, and glorious, shining down with
her innumerable and solemn angel eyes, twinkling, beautiful, but silent.
There was no speech nor language, no pitying voice or helping hand, from
that distant sky. One after another, the voices of business or pleasure died
away; all on the boat were sleeping, and the ripples at the prow were plainly
heard. Tom stretched himself out on a box, and there, as he lay, he heard,
ever and anon, a smothered sob or cry from the prostrate creature,—“O!
what shall I do? O Lord! O good Lord, do help me!” and so, ever and anon,
until the murmur died away in silence.
At midnight, Tom waked, with a sudden start. Something black passed
quickly by him to the side of the boat, and he heard a splash in the water.

No one else saw or heard anything. He raised his head,—the woman’s place
was vacant! He got up, and sought about him in vain. The poor bleeding
heart was still, at last, and the river rippled and dimpled just as brightly as if
it had not closed above it.
Patience! patience! ye whose hearts swell indignant at wrongs like these.
Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of the oppressed, is forgotten by the
Man of Sorrows, the Lord of Glory. In his patient, generous bosom he bears
the anguish of a world. Bear thou, like him, in patience, and labor in love;
for sure as he is God, “the year of his redeemed shall come.”
The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to see to his live
stock. It was now his turn to look about in perplexity.
“Where alive is that gal?” he said to Tom.
Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel, did not feel called
upon to state his observations and suspicions, but said he did not know.
“She surely couldn’t have got off in the night at any of the landings, for I
was awake, and on the lookout, whenever the boat stopped. I never trust
these yer things to other folks.”
This speech was addressed to Tom quite confidentially, as if it was
something that would be specially interesting to him. Tom made no answer.
The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among boxes, bales and
barrels, around the machinery, by the chimneys, in vain.
“Now, I say, Tom, be fair about this yer,” he said, when, after a fruitless
search, he came where Tom was standing. “You know something about it,
now. Don’t tell me,—I know you do. I saw the gal stretched out here about
ten o’clock, and ag’in at twelve, and ag’in between one and two; and then at
four she was gone, and you was a sleeping right there all the time. Now,
you know something,—you can’t help it.”
“Well, Mas’r,” said Tom, “towards morning something brushed by me,
and I kinder half woke; and then I hearn a great splash, and then I clare
woke up, and the gal was gone. That’s all I know on ’t.”
The trader was not shocked nor amazed; because, as we said before, he
was used to a great many things that you are not used to. Even the awful
presence of Death struck no solemn chill upon him. He had seen Death
many times,—met him in the way of trade, and got acquainted with him,—
and he only thought of him as a hard customer, that embarrassed his

property operations very unfairly; and so he only swore that the gal was a
baggage, and that he was devilish unlucky, and that, if things went on in this
way, he should not make a cent on the trip. In short, he seemed to consider
himself an ill-used man, decidedly; but there was no help for it, as the
woman had escaped into a state which never will give up a fugitive,—not
even at the demand of the whole glorious Union. The trader, therefore, sat
discontentedly down, with his little account-book, and put down the
missing body and soul under the head of losses!
“He’s a shocking creature, isn’t he,—this trader? so unfeeling! It’s
dreadful, really!”
“O, but nobody thinks anything of these traders! They are universally
despised,—never received into any decent society.”
But who, sir, makes the trader? Who is most to blame? The enlightened,
cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the system of which the trader is
the inevitable result, or the poor trader himself? You make the public
statement that calls for his trade, that debauches and depraves him, till he
feels no shame in it; and in what are you better than he?
Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he low, you refined and
he coarse, you talented and he simple?
In the day of a future judgment, these very considerations may make it
more tolerable for him than for you.
In concluding these little incidents of lawful trade, we must beg the world
not to think that American legislators are entirely destitute of humanity, as
might, perhaps, be unfairly inferred from the great efforts made in our
national body to protect and perpetuate this species of traffic.
Who does not know how our great men are outdoing themselves, in
declaiming against the foreign slave-trade. There are a perfect host of
Clarksons and Wilberforces[3] risen up among us on that subject, most
edifying to hear and behold. Trading negroes from Africa, dear reader, is so
horrid! It is not to be thought of! But trading them from Kentucky,—that’s
quite another thing!
[3] Thomas Clarkson (1760-1846) and William Wilberforce (1759- 1833),
English philanthropists and anti-slavery agitators who helped to secure passage
of the Emancipation Bill by Parliament in 1833.

CHAPTER XIII
The Quaker Settlement
A quiet scene now rises before us. A large, roomy, neatly-painted kitchen,
its yellow floor glossy and smooth, and without a particle of dust; a neat,
well-blacked cooking-stove; rows of shining tin, suggestive of
unmentionable good things to the appetite; glossy green wood chairs, old
and firm; a small flag-bottomed rocking-chair, with a patch-work cushion in
it, neatly contrived out of small pieces of different colored woollen goods,
and a larger sized one, motherly and old, whose wide arms breathed
hospitable invitation, seconded by the solicitation of its feather cushions,—
a real comfortable, persuasive old chair, and worth, in the way of honest,
homely enjoyment, a dozen of your plush or brochetelle drawing-room
gentry; and in the chair, gently swaying back and forward, her eyes bent on
some fine sewing, sat our fine old friend Eliza. Yes, there she is, paler and
thinner than in her Kentucky home, with a world of quiet sorrow lying
under the shadow of her long eyelashes, and marking the outline of her
gentle mouth! It was plain to see how old and firm the girlish heart was
grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow; and when, anon, her large dark
eye was raised to follow the gambols of her little Harry, who was sporting,
like some tropical butterfly, hither and thither over the floor, she showed a
depth of firmness and steady resolve that was never there in her earlier and
happier days.
By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap, into which she
was carefully sorting some dried peaches. She might be fifty-five or sixty;
but hers was one of those faces that time seems to touch only to brighten
and adorn. The snowy lisse crape cap, made after the strait Quaker pattern,
—the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying in placid folds across her
bosom,—the drab shawl and dress,—showed at once the community to
which she belonged. Her face was round and rosy, with a healthful downy
softness, suggestive of a ripe peach. Her hair, partially silvered by age, was
parted smoothly back from a high placid forehead, on which time had

written no inscription, except peace on earth, good will to men, and beneath
shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving brown eyes; you only needed to
look straight into them, to feel that you saw to the bottom of a heart as good
and true as ever throbbed in woman’s bosom. So much has been said and
sung of beautiful young girls, why don’t somebody wake up to the beauty
of old women? If any want to get up an inspiration under this head, we refer
them to our good friend Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in her little
rocking-chair. It had a turn for quacking and squeaking,—that chair had,—
either from having taken cold in early life, or from some asthmatic
affection, or perhaps from nervous derangement; but, as she gently swung
backward and forward, the chair kept up a kind of subdued “creechy
crawchy,” that would have been intolerable in any other chair. But old
Simeon Halliday often declared it was as good as any music to him, and the
children all avowed that they wouldn’t miss of hearing mother’s chair for
anything in the world. For why? for twenty years or more, nothing but
loving words, and gentle moralities, and motherly loving kindness, had
come from that chair;—head-aches and heart-aches innumerable had been
cured there,—difficulties spiritual and temporal solved there,—all by one
good, loving woman, God bless her!
“And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza?” she said, as she was
quietly looking over her peaches.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Eliza, firmly. “I must go onward. I dare not stop.”
“And what’ll thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must think about that,
my daughter.”
“My daughter” came naturally from the lips of Rachel Halliday; for hers
was just the face and form that made “mother” seem the most natural word
in the world.
Eliza’s hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work; but she
answered, firmly,
“I shall do—anything I can find. I hope I can find something.”
“Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,” said Rachel.
“O, thank you,” said Eliza, “but”—she pointed to Harry—“I can’t sleep
nights; I can’t rest. Last night I dreamed I saw that man coming into the
yard,” she said, shuddering.

“Poor child!” said Rachel, wiping her eyes; “but thee mustn’t feel so. The
Lord hath ordered it so that never hath a fugitive been stolen from our
village. I trust thine will not be the first.”
The door here opened, and a little short, round, pin-cushiony woman
stood at the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like a ripe apple. She was
dressed, like Rachel, in sober gray, with the muslin folded neatly across her
round, plump little chest.
“Ruth Stedman,” said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; “how is thee,
Ruth? she said, heartily taking both her hands.
“Nicely,” said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and dusting it with
her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a round little head, on which the
Quaker cap sat with a sort of jaunty air, despite all the stroking and patting
of the small fat hands, which were busily applied to arranging it. Certain
stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had escaped here and there, and had
to be coaxed and cajoled into their place again; and then the new comer,
who might have been five-and-twenty, turned from the small looking-glass,
before which she had been making these arrangements, and looked well
pleased,—as most people who looked at her might have been,—for she was
decidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping little woman, as ever
gladdened man’s heart withal.
“Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little boy I told thee of.”
“I am glad to see thee, Eliza,—very,” said Ruth, shaking hands, as if
Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting; “and this is thy dear
boy,—I brought a cake for him,” she said, holding out a little heart to the
boy, who came up, gazing through his curls, and accepted it shyly.
“Where’s thy baby, Ruth?” said Rachel.
“O, he’s coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came in, and ran off with
him to the barn, to show him to the children.”
At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-looking girl,
with large brown eyes, like her mother’s, came in with the baby.
“Ah! ha!” said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white, fat fellow
in her arms, “how good he looks, and how he does grow!”
“To be sure, he does,” said little bustling Ruth, as she took the child, and
began taking off a little blue silk hood, and various layers and wrappers of
outer garments; and having given a twitch here, and a pull there, and

variously adjusted and arranged him, and kissed him heartily, she set him
on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby seemed quite used to this mode of
proceeding, for he put his thumb in his mouth (as if it were quite a thing of
course), and seemed soon absorbed in his own reflections, while the mother
seated herself, and taking out a long stocking of mixed blue and white yarn,
began to knit with briskness.
“Mary, thee’d better fill the kettle, hadn’t thee?” gently suggested the
mother.
Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reappearing, placed it over the
stove, where it was soon purring and steaming, a sort of censer of
hospitality and good cheer. The peaches, moreover, in obedience to a few
gentle whispers from Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand, in a
stew-pan over the fire.
Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying on an apron,
proceeded quietly to making up some biscuits, first saying to Mary,
—“Mary, hadn’t thee better tell John to get a chicken ready?” and Mary
disappeared accordingly.
“And how is Abigail Peters?” said Rachel, as she went on with her
biscuits.
“O, she’s better,” said Ruth; “I was in, this morning; made the bed, tidied
up the house. Leah Hills went in, this afternoon, and baked bread and pies
enough to last some days; and I engaged to go back to get her up, this
evening.”
“I will go in tomorrow, and do any cleaning there may be, and look over
the mending,” said Rachel.
“Ah! that is well,” said Ruth. “I’ve heard,” she added, “that Hannah
Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last night,—I must go there
tomorrow.”
“John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay all day,”
suggested Rachel.
“Thank thee, Rachel; will see, tomorrow; but, here comes Simeon.”
Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat and
pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.
“How is thee, Ruth?” he said, warmly, as he spread his broad open hand
for her little fat palm; “and how is John?”

“O! John is well, and all the rest of our folks,” said Ruth, cheerily.
“Any news, father?” said Rachel, as she was putting her biscuits into the
oven.
“Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along tonight, with friends,”
said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing his hands at a neat sink, in a
little back porch.
“Indeed!” said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing at Eliza.
“Did thee say thy name was Harris?” said Simeon to Eliza, as he
reentered.
Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously answered
“yes;” her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that possibly there might be
advertisements out for her.
“Mother!” said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling Rachel out.
“What does thee want, father?” said Rachel, rubbing her floury hands, as
she went into the porch.
“This child’s husband is in the settlement, and will be here tonight,” said
Simeon.
“Now, thee doesn’t say that, father?” said Rachel, all her face radiant
with joy.
“It’s really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the wagon, to the other
stand, and there he found an old woman and two men; and one said his
name was George Harris; and from what he told of his history, I am certain
who he is. He is a bright, likely fellow, too.”
“Shall we tell her now?” said Simeon.
“Let’s tell Ruth,” said Rachel. “Here, Ruth,—come here.”
Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back porch in a
moment.
“Ruth, what does thee think?” said Rachel. “Father says Eliza’s husband
is in the last company, and will be here tonight.”
A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the speech. She gave
such a bound from the floor, as she clapped her little hands, that two stray
curls fell from under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her white
neckerchief.

“Hush thee, dear!” said Rachel, gently; “hush, Ruth! Tell us, shall we tell
her now?”
“Now! to be sure,—this very minute. Why, now, suppose ’t was my John,
how should I feel? Do tell her, right off.”
“Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor, Ruth,” said
Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Ruth.
“To be sure. Isn’t it what we are made for? If I didn’t love John and the
baby, I should not know how to feel for her. Come, now do tell her,—do!”
and she laid her hands persuasively on Rachel’s arm. “Take her into thy
bed-room, there, and let me fry the chicken while thee does it.”
Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing, and opening
the door of a small bed-room, said, gently, “Come in here with me, my
daughter; I have news to tell thee.”
The blood flushed in Eliza’s pale face; she rose, trembling with nervous
anxiety, and looked towards her boy.
“No, no,” said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her hands. “Never thee
fear; it’s good news, Eliza,—go in, go in!” And she gently pushed her to the
door which closed after her; and then, turning round, she caught little Harry
in her arms, and began kissing him.
“Thee’ll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it? Thy father is
coming,” she said, over and over again, as the boy looked wonderingly at
her.
Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. Rachel
Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, “The Lord hath had mercy on
thee, daughter; thy husband hath escaped from the house of bondage.”
The blood flushed to Eliza’s cheek in a sudden glow, and went back to
her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down, pale and faint.
“Have courage, child,” said Rachel, laying her hand on her head. “He is
among friends, who will bring him here tonight.”
“Tonight!” Eliza repeated, “tonight!” The words lost all meaning to her;
her head was dreamy and confused; all was mist for a moment.

When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on the bed, with a
blanket over her, and little Ruth rubbing her hands with camphor. She
opened her eyes in a state of dreamy, delicious languor, such as one who
has long been bearing a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and would rest.
The tension of the nerves, which had never ceased a moment since the first
hour of her flight, had given way, and a strange feeling of security and rest
came over her; and as she lay, with her large, dark eyes open, she followed,
as in a quiet dream, the motions of those about her. She saw the door open
into the other room; saw the supper-table, with its snowy cloth; heard the
dreamy murmur of the singing tea-kettle; saw Ruth tripping backward and
forward, with plates of cake and saucers of preserves, and ever and anon
stopping to put a cake into Harry’s hand, or pat his head, or twine his long
curls round her snowy fingers. She saw the ample, motherly form of
Rachel, as she ever and anon came to the bedside, and smoothed and
arranged something about the bedclothes, and gave a tuck here and there,
by way of expressing her good-will; and was conscious of a kind of
sunshine beaming down upon her from her large, clear, brown eyes. She
saw Ruth’s husband come in,—saw her fly up to him, and commence
whispering very earnestly, ever and anon, with impressive gesture, pointing
her little finger toward the room. She saw her, with the baby in her arms,
sitting down to tea; she saw them all at table, and little Harry in a high
chair, under the shadow of Rachel’s ample wing; there were low murmurs
of talk, gentle tinkling of tea-spoons, and musical clatter of cups and
saucers, and all mingled in a delightful dream of rest; and Eliza slept, as she
had not slept before, since the fearful midnight hour when she had taken her
child and fled through the frosty starlight.
She dreamed of a beautiful country,—a land, it seemed to her, of rest,—
green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully glittering water; and there, in
a house which kind voices told her was a home, she saw her boy playing,
free and happy child. She heard her husband’s footsteps; she felt him
coming nearer; his arms were around her, his tears falling on her face, and
she awoke! It was no dream. The daylight had long faded; her child lay
calmly sleeping by her side; a candle was burning dimly on the stand, and
her husband was sobbing by her pillow.

The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. “Mother” was
up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls and boys, whom we had scarce
time to introduce to our readers yesterday, and who all moved obediently to
Rachel’s gentle “Thee had better,” or more gentle “Hadn’t thee better?” in
the work of getting breakfast; for a breakfast in the luxurious valleys of
Indiana is a thing complicated and multiform, and, like picking up the rose-
leaves and trimming the bushes in Paradise, asking other hands than those
of the original mother. While, therefore, John ran to the spring for fresh
water, and Simeon the second sifted meal for corn-cakes, and Mary ground
coffee, Rachel moved gently, and quietly about, making biscuits, cutting up
chicken, and diffusing a sort of sunny radiance over the whole proceeding
generally. If there was any danger of friction or collision from the ill-
regulated zeal of so many young operators, her gentle “Come! come!” or “I
wouldn’t, now,” was quite sufficient to allay the difficulty. Bards have
written of the cestus of Venus, that turned the heads of all the world in
successive generations. We had rather, for our part, have the cestus of
Rachel Halliday, that kept heads from being turned, and made everything go
on harmoniously. We think it is more suited to our modern days, decidedly.
While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the elder stood in his
shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass in the corner, engaged in the anti-
patriarchal operation of shaving. Everything went on so sociably, so quietly,
so harmoniously, in the great kitchen,—it seemed so pleasant to every one
to do just what they were doing, there was such an atmosphere of mutual
confidence and good fellowship everywhere,—even the knives and forks
had a social clatter as they went on to the table; and the chicken and ham
had a cheerful and joyous fizzle in the pan, as if they rather enjoyed being
cooked than otherwise;—and when George and Eliza and little Harry came
out, they met such a hearty, rejoicing welcome, no wonder it seemed to
them like a dream.
At last, they were all seated at breakfast, while Mary stood at the stove,
baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained the true exact golden-brown
tint of perfection, were transferred quite handily to the table.
Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the head of her
table. There was so much motherliness and full-heartedness even in the way
she passed a plate of cakes or poured a cup of coffee, that it seemed to put a
spirit into the food and drink she offered.

It was the first time that ever George had sat down on equal terms at any
white man’s table; and he sat down, at first, with some constraint and
awkwardness; but they all exhaled and went off like fog, in the genial
morning rays of this simple, overflowing kindness.
This, indeed, was a home,—home,—a word that George had never yet
known a meaning for; and a belief in God, and trust in his providence,
began to encircle his heart, as, with a golden cloud of protection and
confidence, dark, misanthropic, pining atheistic doubts, and fierce despair,
melted away before the light of a living Gospel, breathed in living faces,
preached by a thousand unconscious acts of love and good will, which, like
the cup of cold water given in the name of a disciple, shall never lose their
reward.
“Father, what if thee should get found out again?” said Simeon second, as
he buttered his cake.
“I should pay my fine,” said Simeon, quietly.
“But what if they put thee in prison?”
“Couldn’t thee and mother manage the farm?” said Simeon, smiling.
“Mother can do almost everything,” said the boy. “But isn’t it a shame to
make such laws?”
“Thee mustn’t speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon,” said his father, gravely.
“The Lord only gives us our worldly goods that we may do justice and
mercy; if our rulers require a price of us for it, we must deliver it up.
“Well, I hate those old slaveholders!” said the boy, who felt as
unchristian as became any modern reformer.
“I am surprised at thee, son,” said Simeon; “thy mother never taught thee
so. I would do even the same for the slaveholder as for the slave, if the Lord
brought him to my door in affliction.”
Simeon second blushed scarlet; but his mother only smiled, and said,
“Simeon is my good boy; he will grow older, by and by, and then he will be
like his father.”
“I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any difficulty on our
account,” said George, anxiously.
“Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the world. If we
would not meet trouble for a good cause, we were not worthy of our name.”

“But, for me,” said George, “I could not bear it.”
“Fear not, then, friend George; it is not for thee, but for God and man, we
do it,” said Simeon. “And now thou must lie by quietly this day, and
tonight, at ten o’clock, Phineas Fletcher will carry thee onward to the next
stand,—thee and the rest of thy company. The pursuers are hard after thee;
we must not delay.”
“If that is the case, why wait till evening?” said George.
“Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settlement is a
Friend, and all are watching. It has been found safer to travel by night.”

CHAPTER XIV
Evangeline
“A young star! which shone
O’er life—too sweet an image, for such glass!
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded;
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.”

The Mississippi! How, as by an enchanted wand, have its scenes been
changed, since Chateaubriand wrote his prose-poetic description of it,[1] as a
river of mighty, unbroken solitudes, rolling amid undreamed wonders of
vegetable and animal existence.
[1] In Atala; or the Love and Constantcy of Two Savages in the Desert (1801) by
Francois Auguste Rene, Vicomte de Chateaubriand (1768-1848).

But as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance has emerged to a
reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. What other river of the world
bears on its bosom to the ocean the wealth and enterprise of such another
country?—a country whose products embrace all between the tropics and
the poles! Those turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing along, an apt
resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is poured along its
wave by a race more vehement and energetic than any the old world ever
saw. Ah! would that they did not also bear along a more fearful freight,—
the tears of the oppressed, the sighs of the helpless, the bitter prayers of
poor, ignorant hearts to an unknown God—unknown, unseen and silent, but
who will yet “come out of his place to save all the poor of the earth!”
The slanting light of the setting sun quivers on the sea-like expanse of the
river; the shivery canes, and the tall, dark cypress, hung with wreaths of
dark, funereal moss, glow in the golden ray, as the heavily-laden steamboat
marches onward.
Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over deck and sides,
till she seems in the distance a square, massive block of gray, she moves
heavily onward to the nearing mart. We must look some time among its

crowded decks before we shall find again our humble friend Tom. High on
the upper deck, in a little nook among the everywhere predominant cotton-
bales, at last we may find him.
Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby’s representations, and
partly from the remarkably inoffensive and quiet character of the man, Tom
had insensibly won his way far into the confidence even of such a man as
Haley.
At first he had watched him narrowly through the day, and never allowed
him to sleep at night unfettered; but the uncomplaining patience and
apparent contentment of Tom’s manner led him gradually to discontinue
these restraints, and for some time Tom had enjoyed a sort of parole of
honor, being permitted to come and go freely where he pleased on the boat.
Ever quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a hand in every
emergency which occurred among the workmen below, he had won the
good opinion of all the hands, and spent many hours in helping them with
as hearty a good will as ever he worked on a Kentucky farm.
When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he would climb to a
nook among the cotton-bales of the upper deck, and busy himself in
studying over his Bible,—and it is there we see him now.
For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the river is higher than
the surrounding country, and rolls its tremendous volume between massive
levees twenty feet in height. The traveller from the deck of the steamer, as
from some floating castle top, overlooks the whole country for miles and
miles around. Tom, therefore, had spread out full before him, in plantation
after plantation, a map of the life to which he was approaching.
He saw the distant slaves at their toil; he saw afar their villages of huts
gleaming out in long rows on many a plantation, distant from the stately
mansions and pleasure-grounds of the master;—and as the moving picture
passed on, his poor, foolish heart would be turning backward to the
Kentucky farm, with its old shadowy beeches,—to the master’s house, with
its wide, cool halls, and, near by, the little cabin overgrown with the
multiflora and bignonia. There he seemed to see familiar faces of comrades
who had grown up with him from infancy; he saw his busy wife, bustling in
her preparations for his evening meals; he heard the merry laugh of his boys
at their play, and the chirrup of the baby at his knee; and then, with a start,
all faded, and he saw again the canebrakes and cypresses and gliding

plantations, and heard again the creaking and groaning of the machinery, all
telling him too plainly that all that phase of life had gone by forever.
In such a case, you write to your wife, and send messages to your
children; but Tom could not write,—the mail for him had no existence, and
the gulf of separation was unbridged by even a friendly word or signal.
Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages of his Bible, as he lays
it on the cotton-bale, and, with patient finger, threading his slow way from
word to word, traces out its promises? Having learned late in life, Tom was
but a slow reader, and passed on laboriously from verse to verse. Fortunate
for him was it that the book he was intent on was one which slow reading
cannot injure,—nay, one whose words, like ingots of gold, seem often to
need to be weighed separately, that the mind may take in their priceless
value. Let us follow him a moment, as, pointing to each word, and
pronouncing each half aloud, he reads,
“Let—not—your—heart—be—troubled. In—my—Father’s—house—
are—many—mansions. I—go—to—prepare—a—place—for—you.”
Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had a heart as full
of honest grief as poor Tom’s,—perhaps no fuller, for both were only men;
—but Cicero could pause over no such sublime words of hope, and look to
no such future reunion; and if he had seen them, ten to one he would not
have believed,—he must fill his head first with a thousand questions of
authenticity of manuscript, and correctness of translation. But, to poor Tom,
there it lay, just what he needed, so evidently true and divine that the
possibility of a question never entered his simple head. It must be true; for,
if not true, how could he live?
As for Tom’s Bible, though it had no annotations and helps in margin
from learned commentators, still it had been embellished with certain way-
marks and guide-boards of Tom’s own invention, and which helped him
more than the most learned expositions could have done. It had been his
custom to get the Bible read to him by his master’s children, in particular by
young Master George; and, as they read, he would designate, by bold,
strong marks and dashes, with pen and ink, the passages which more
particularly gratified his ear or affected his heart. His Bible was thus
marked through, from one end to the other, with a variety of styles and
designations; so he could in a moment seize upon his favorite passages,
without the labor of spelling out what lay between them;—and while it lay

there before him, every passage breathing of some old home scene, and
recalling some past enjoyment, his Bible seemed to him all of this life that
remained, as well as the promise of a future one.
Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman of fortune and
family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the name of St. Clare. He had
with him a daughter between five and six years of age, together with a lady
who seemed to claim relationship to both, and to have the little one
especially under her charge.
Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl,—for she was one of
those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no more contained in one place
than a sunbeam or a summer breeze,—nor was she one that, once seen,
could be easily forgotten.
Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual
chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was about it an undulating and
aerial grace, such as one might dream of for some mythic and allegorical
being. Her face was remarkable less for its perfect beauty of feature than for
a singular and dreamy earnestness of expression, which made the ideal start
when they looked at her, and by which the dullest and most literal were
impressed, without exactly knowing why. The shape of her head and the
turn of her neck and bust was peculiarly noble, and the long golden-brown
hair that floated like a cloud around it, the deep spiritual gravity of her
violet blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringes of golden brown,—all marked her
out from other children, and made every one turn and look after her, as she
glided hither and thither on the boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not
what you would have called either a grave child or a sad one. On the
contrary, an airy and innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like the shadow
of summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoyant figure.
She was always in motion, always with a half smile on her rosy mouth,
flying hither and thither, with an undulating and cloud-like tread, singing to
herself as she moved as in a happy dream. Her father and female guardian
were incessantly busy in pursuit of her,—but, when caught, she melted from
them again like a summer cloud; and as no word of chiding or reproof ever
fell on her ear for whatever she chose to do, she pursued her own way all
over the boat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to move like a shadow
through all sorts of places, without contracting spot or stain; and there was
not a corner or nook, above or below, where those fairy footsteps had not

glided, and that visionary golden head, with its deep blue eyes, fleeted
along.
The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes found
those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging depths of the furnace, and
fearfully and pityingly at him, as if she thought him in some dreadful
danger. Anon the steersman at the wheel paused and smiled, as the picture-
like head gleamed through the window of the round house, and in a moment
was gone again. A thousand times a day rough voices blessed her, and
smiles of unwonted softness stole over hard faces, as she passed; and when
she tripped fearlessly over dangerous places, rough, sooty hands were
stretched involuntarily out to save her, and smooth her path.
Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly race, ever
yearning toward the simple and childlike, watched the little creature with
daily increasing interest. To him she seemed something almost divine; and
whenever her golden head and deep blue eyes peered out upon him from
behind some dusky cotton-bale, or looked down upon him over some ridge
of packages, he half believed that he saw one of the angels stepped out of
his New Testament.
Often and often she walked mournfully round the place where Haley’s
gang of men and women sat in their chains. She would glide in among
them, and look at them with an air of perplexed and sorrowful earnestness;
and sometimes she would lift their chains with her slender hands, and then
sigh wofully, as she glided away. Several times she appeared suddenly
among them, with her hands full of candy, nuts, and oranges, which she
would distribute joyfully to them, and then be gone again.
Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he ventured on any
overtures towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abundance of simple acts
to propitiate and invite the approaches of the little people, and he resolved
to play his part right skilfully. He could cut cunning little baskets out of
cherry-stones, could make grotesque faces on hickory-nuts, or odd-jumping
figures out of elder-pith, and he was a very Pan in the manufacture of
whistles of all sizes and sorts. His pockets were full of miscellaneous
articles of attraction, which he had hoarded in days of old for his master’s
children, and which he now produced, with commendable prudence and
economy, one by one, as overtures for acquaintance and friendship.

The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in everything going on,
and it was not easy to tame her. For a while, she would perch like a canary-
bird on some box or package near Tom, while busy in the little arts afore-
named, and take from him, with a kind of grave bashfulness, the little
articles he offered. But at last they got on quite confidential terms.
“What’s little missy’s name?” said Tom, at last, when he thought matters
were ripe to push such an inquiry.
“Evangeline St. Clare,” said the little one, “though papa and everybody
else call me Eva. Now, what’s your name?”
“My name’s Tom; the little chil’en used to call me Uncle Tom, way back
thar in Kentuck.”
“Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, I like you,” said
Eva. “So, Uncle Tom, where are you going?”
“I don’t know, Miss Eva.”
“Don’t know?” said Eva.
“No, I am going to be sold to somebody. I don’t know who.”
“My papa can buy you,” said Eva, quickly; “and if he buys you, you will
have good times. I mean to ask him, this very day.”
“Thank you, my little lady,” said Tom.
The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in wood, and Eva,
hearing her father’s voice, bounded nimbly away. Tom rose up, and went
forward to offer his service in wooding, and soon was busy among the
hands.
Eva and her father were standing together by the railings to see the boat
start from the landing-place, the wheel had made two or three revolutions in
the water, when, by some sudden movement, the little one suddenly lost her
balance and fell sheer over the side of the boat into the water. Her father,
scarce knowing what he did, was plunging in after her, but was held back
by some behind him, who saw that more efficient aid had followed his
child.
Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck, as she fell. He saw
her strike the water, and sink, and was after her in a moment. A broad-
chested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for him to keep afloat in the
water, till, in a moment or two the child rose to the surface, and he caught

her in his arms, and, swimming with her to the boat-side, handed her up, all
dripping, to the grasp of hundreds of hands, which, as if they had all
belonged to one man, were stretched eagerly out to receive her. A few
moments more, and her father bore her, dripping and senseless, to the
ladies’ cabin, where, as is usual in cases of the kind, there ensued a very
well-meaning and kind-hearted strife among the female occupants
generally, as to who should do the most things to make a disturbance, and to
hinder her recovery in every way possible.

It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamer drew near to New
Orleans. A general bustle of expectation and preparation was spread through
the boat; in the cabin, one and another were gathering their things together,
and arranging them, preparatory to going ashore. The steward and
chambermaid, and all, were busily engaged in cleaning, furbishing, and
arranging the splendid boat, preparatory to a grand entree.
On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded, and
anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes towards a group on the other
side of the boat.
There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day before, but
otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accident which had befallen her. A
graceful, elegantly-formed young man stood by her, carelessly leaning one
elbow on a bale of cotton while a large pocket-book lay open before him. It
was quite evident, at a glance, that the gentleman was Eva’s father. There
was the same noble cast of head, the same large blue eyes, the same golden-
brown hair; yet the expression was wholly different. In the large, clear blue
eyes, though in form and color exactly similar, there was wanting that
misty, dreamy depth of expression; all was clear, bold, and bright, but with
a light wholly of this world: the beautifully cut mouth had a proud and
somewhat sarcastic expression, while an air of free-and-easy superiority sat
not ungracefully in every turn and movement of his fine form. He was
listening, with a good-humored, negligent air, half comic, half
contemptuous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating on the quality of
the article for which they were bargaining.

“All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black Morocco, complete!”
he said, when Haley had finished. “Well, now, my good fellow, what’s the
damage, as they say in Kentucky; in short, what’s to be paid out for this
business? How much are you going to cheat me, now? Out with it!”
“Wal,” said Haley, “if I should say thirteen hundred dollars for that ar
fellow, I shouldn’t but just save myself; I shouldn’t, now, re’ly.”
“Poor fellow!” said the young man, fixing his keen, mocking blue eye on
him; “but I suppose you’d let me have him for that, out of a particular
regard for me.”
“Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, and nat’lly enough.”
“O! certainly, there’s a call on your benevolence, my friend. Now, as a
matter of Christian charity, how cheap could you afford to let him go, to
oblige a young lady that’s particular sot on him?”
“Wal, now, just think on ’t,” said the trader; “just look at them limbs,—
broad-chested, strong as a horse. Look at his head; them high forrads allays
shows calculatin niggers, that’ll do any kind o’ thing. I’ve, marked that ar.
Now, a nigger of that ar heft and build is worth considerable, just as you
may say, for his body, supposin he’s stupid; but come to put in his calculatin
faculties, and them which I can show he has oncommon, why, of course, it
makes him come higher. Why, that ar fellow managed his master’s whole
farm. He has a strornary talent for business.”
“Bad, bad, very bad; knows altogether too much!” said the young man,
with the same mocking smile playing about his mouth. “Never will do, in
the world. Your smart fellows are always running off, stealing horses, and
raising the devil generally. I think you’ll have to take off a couple of
hundred for his smartness.”
“Wal, there might be something in that ar, if it warnt for his character; but
I can show recommends from his master and others, to prove he is one of
your real pious,—the most humble, prayin, pious crittur ye ever did see.
Why, he’s been called a preacher in them parts he came from.”
“And I might use him for a family chaplain, possibly,” added the young
man, dryly. “That’s quite an idea. Religion is a remarkably scarce article at
our house.”
“You’re joking, now.”

“How do you know I am? Didn’t you just warrant him for a preacher?
Has he been examined by any synod or council? Come, hand over your
papers.”
If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humored twinkle in the
large eye, that all this banter was sure, in the long run, to turn out a cash
concern, he might have been somewhat out of patience; as it was, he laid
down a greasy pocket-book on the cotton-bales, and began anxiously
studying over certain papers in it, the young man standing by, the while,
looking down on him with an air of careless, easy drollery.
“Papa, do buy him! it’s no matter what you pay,” whispered Eva, softly,
getting up on a package, and putting her arm around her father’s neck. “You
have money enough, I know. I want him.”
“What for, pussy? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box, or a rocking-
horse, or what?
“I want to make him happy.”
“An original reason, certainly.”
Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby, which the
young man took with the tips of his long fingers, and glanced over
carelessly.
“A gentlemanly hand,” he said, “and well spelt, too. Well, now, but I’m
not sure, after all, about this religion,” said he, the old wicked expression
returning to his eye; “the country is almost ruined with pious white people;
such pious politicians as we have just before elections,—such pious goings
on in all departments of church and state, that a fellow does not know
who’ll cheat him next. I don’t know, either, about religion’s being up in the
market, just now. I have not looked in the papers lately, to see how it sells.
How many hundred dollars, now, do you put on for this religion?”
“You like to be jokin, now,” said the trader; “but, then, there’s sense
under all that ar. I know there’s differences in religion. Some kinds is
mis’rable: there’s your meetin pious; there’s your singin, roarin pious; them
ar an’t no account, in black or white;—but these rayly is; and I’ve seen it in
niggers as often as any, your rail softly, quiet, stiddy, honest, pious, that the
hull world couldn’t tempt ’em to do nothing that they thinks is wrong; and
ye see in this letter what Tom’s old master says about him.”

“Now,” said the young man, stooping gravely over his book of bills, “if
you can assure me that I really can buy this kind of pious, and that it will be
set down to my account in the book up above, as something belonging to
me, I wouldn’t care if I did go a little extra for it. How d’ye say?”
“Wal, raily, I can’t do that,” said the trader. “I’m a thinkin that every
man’ll have to hang on his own hook, in them ar quarters.”
“Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and can’t trade with
it in the state where he wants it most, an’t it, now?” said the young man,
who had been making out a roll of bills while he was speaking. “There,
count your money, old boy!” he added, as he handed the roll to the trader.
“All right,” said Haley, his face beaming with delight; and pulling out an
old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale, which, in a few moments,
he handed to the young man.
“I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried,” said the latter as he
ran over the paper, “how much I might bring. Say so much for the shape of
my head, so much for a high forehead, so much for arms, and hands, and
legs, and then so much for education, learning, talent, honesty, religion!
Bless me! there would be small charge on that last, I’m thinking. But come,
Eva,” he said; and taking the hand of his daughter, he stepped across the
boat, and carelessly putting the tip of his finger under Tom’s chin, said,
good-humoredly, “Look-up, Tom, and see how you like your new master.”
Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, young,
handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure; and Tom felt the tears start in
his eyes as he said, heartily, “God bless you, Mas’r!”
“Well, I hope he will. What’s your name? Tom? Quite as likely to do it
for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive horses, Tom?”
“I’ve been allays used to horses,” said Tom. “Mas’r Shelby raised heaps
of ’em.”
“Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition that you won’t be
drunk more than once a week, unless in cases of emergency, Tom.”
Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, “I never drink, Mas’r.”
“I’ve heard that story before, Tom; but then we’ll see. It will be a special
accommodation to all concerned, if you don’t. Never mind, my boy,” he
added, good-humoredly, seeing Tom still looked grave; “I don’t doubt you
mean to do well.”

“I sartin do, Mas’r,” said Tom.
“And you shall have good times,” said Eva. “Papa is very good to
everybody, only he always will laugh at them.”
“Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation,” said St. Clare,
laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away.

CHAPTER XV
Of Tom’s New Master, and Various Other Matters
Since the thread of our humble hero’s life has now become interwoven
with that of higher ones, it is necessary to give some brief introduction to
them.
Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana. The
family had its origin in Canada. Of two brothers, very similar in
temperament and character, one had settled on a flourishing farm in
Vermont, and the other became an opulent planter in Louisiana. The mother
of Augustine was a Huguenot French lady, whose family had emigrated to
Louisiana during the days of its early settlement. Augustine and another
brother were the only children of their parents. Having inherited from his
mother an exceeding delicacy of constitution, he was, at the instance of
physicians, during many years of his boyhood, sent to the care of his uncle
in Vermont, in order that his constitution might be strengthened by the cold
of a more bracing climate.
In childhood, he was remarkable for an extreme and marked
sensitiveness of character, more akin to the softness of woman than the
ordinary hardness of his own sex. Time, however, overgrew this softness
with the rough bark of manhood, and but few knew how living and fresh it
still lay at the core. His talents were of the very first order, although his
mind showed a preference always for the ideal and the æsthetic, and there
was about him that repugnance to the actual business of life which is the
common result of this balance of the faculties. Soon after the completion of
his college course, his whole nature was kindled into one intense and
passionate effervescence of romantic passion. His hour came,—the hour
that comes only once; his star rose in the horizon,—that star that rises so
often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams; and it rose for
him in vain. To drop the figure,—he saw and won the love of a high-minded
and beautiful woman, in one of the northern states, and they were affianced.
He returned south to make arrangements for their marriage, when, most

unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by mail, with a short note
from her guardian, stating to him that ere this reached him the lady would
be the wife of another. Stung to madness, he vainly hoped, as many another
has done, to fling the whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort.
Too proud to supplicate or seek explanation, he threw himself at once into a
whirl of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal
letter was the accepted lover of the reigning belle of the season; and as soon
as arrangements could be made, he became the husband of a fine figure, a
pair of bright dark eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and, of course,
everybody thought him a happy fellow.
The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and entertaining a
brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa, near Lake Pontchartrain,
when, one day, a letter was brought to him in that well-remembered writing.
It was handed to him while he was in full tide of gay and successful
conversation, in a whole room-full of company. He turned deadly pale when
he saw the writing, but still preserved his composure, and finished the
playful warfare of badinage which he was at the moment carrying on with a
lady opposite; and, a short time after, was missed from the circle. In his
room, alone, he opened and read the letter, now worse than idle and useless
to be read. It was from her, giving a long account of a persecution to which
she had been exposed by her guardian’s family, to lead her to unite herself
with their son: and she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to
arrive; how she had written time and again, till she became weary and
doubtful; how her health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she
had discovered the whole fraud which had been practised on them both. The
letter ended with expressions of hope and thankfulness, and professions of
undying affection, which were more bitter than death to the unhappy young
man. He wrote to her immediately:
“I have received yours,—but too late. I believed all I heard. I was
desperate. I am married, and all is over. Only forget,—it is all that remains
for either of us.”
And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St.
Clare. But the real remained,—the real, like the flat, bare, oozy tide-mud,
when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding boats and
white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming waters, has gone down,
and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare,—exceedingly real.

Of course, in a novel, people’s hearts break, and they die, and that is the
end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we do not die
when all that makes life bright dies to us. There is a most busy and
important round of eating, drinking, dressing, walking, visiting, buying,
selling, talking, reading, and all that makes up what is commonly called
living, yet to be gone through; and this yet remained to Augustine. Had his
wife been a whole woman, she might yet have done something—as woman
can—to mend the broken threads of life, and weave again into a tissue of
brightness. But Marie St. Clare could not even see that they had been
broken. As before stated, she consisted of a fine figure, a pair of splendid
eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and none of these items were
precisely the ones to minister to a mind diseased.
When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the sofa, and pleaded
sudden sick-headache as the cause of his distress, she recommended to him
to smell of hartshorn; and when the paleness and headache came on week
after week, she only said that she never thought Mr. St. Clare was sickly;
but it seems he was very liable to sick-headaches, and that it was a very
unfortunate thing for her, because he didn’t enjoy going into company with
her, and it seemed odd to go so much alone, when they were just married.
Augustine was glad in his heart that he had married so undiscerning a
woman; but as the glosses and civilities of the honeymoon wore away, he
discovered that a beautiful young woman, who has lived all her life to be
caressed and waited on, might prove quite a hard mistress in domestic life.
Marie never had possessed much capability of affection, or much
sensibility, and the little that she had, had been merged into a most intense
and unconscious selfishness; a selfishness the more hopeless, from its quiet
obtuseness, its utter ignorance of any claims but her own. From her infancy,
she had been surrounded with servants, who lived only to study her
caprices; the idea that they had either feelings or rights had never dawned
upon her, even in distant perspective. Her father, whose only child she had
been, had never denied her anything that lay within the compass of human
possibility; and when she entered life, beautiful, accomplished, and an
heiress, she had, of course, all the eligibles and non-eligibles of the other
sex sighing at her feet, and she had no doubt that Augustine was a most
fortunate man in having obtained her. It is a great mistake to suppose that a
woman with no heart will be an easy creditor in the exchange of affection.
There is not on earth a more merciless exactor of love from others than a

thoroughly selfish woman; and the more unlovely she grows, the more
jealously and scrupulously she exacts love, to the uttermost farthing. When,
therefore, St. Clare began to drop off those gallantries and small attentions
which flowed at first through the habitude of courtship, he found his sultana
no way ready to resign her slave; there were abundance of tears, poutings,
and small tempests, there were discontents, pinings, upbraidings. St. Clare
was good-natured and self-indulgent, and sought to buy off with presents
and flatteries; and when Marie became mother to a beautiful daughter, he
really felt awakened, for a time, to something like tenderness.
St. Clare’s mother had been a woman of uncommon elevation and purity
of character, and he gave to his child his mother’s name, fondly fancying
that she would prove a reproduction of her image. The thing had been
remarked with petulant jealousy by his wife, and she regarded her
husband’s absorbing devotion to the child with suspicion and dislike; all
that was given to her seemed so much taken from herself. From the time of
the birth of this child, her health gradually sunk. A life of constant inaction,
bodily and mental,—the friction of ceaseless ennui and discontent, united to
the ordinary weakness which attended the period of maternity,—in course
of a few years changed the blooming young belle into a yellow faded,
sickly woman, whose time was divided among a variety of fanciful
diseases, and who considered herself, in every sense, the most ill-used and
suffering person in existence.
There was no end of her various complaints; but her principal forte
appeared to lie in sick-headache, which sometimes would confine her to her
room three days out of six. As, of course, all family arrangements fell into
the hands of servants, St. Clare found his menage anything but comfortable.
His only daughter was exceedingly delicate, and he feared that, with no one
to look after her and attend to her, her health and life might yet fall a
sacrifice to her mother’s inefficiency. He had taken her with him on a tour
to Vermont, and had persuaded his cousin, Miss Ophelia St. Clare, to return
with him to his southern residence; and they are now returning on this boat,
where we have introduced them to our readers.
And now, while the distant domes and spires of New Orleans rise to our
view, there is yet time for an introduction to Miss Ophelia.
Whoever has travelled in the New England States will remember, in
some cool village, the large farmhouse, with its clean-swept grassy yard,

shaded by the dense and massive foliage of the sugar maple; and remember
the air of order and stillness, of perpetuity and unchanging repose, that
seemed to breathe over the whole place. Nothing lost, or out of order; not a
picket loose in the fence, not a particle of litter in the turfy yard, with its
clumps of lilac bushes growing up under the windows. Within, he will
remember wide, clean rooms, where nothing ever seems to be doing or
going to be done, where everything is once and forever rigidly in place, and
where all household arrangements move with the punctual exactness of the
old clock in the corner. In the family “keeping-room,” as it is termed, he
will remember the staid, respectable old book-case, with its glass doors,
where Rollin’s History,[1] Milton’s Paradise Lost, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s
Progress, and Scott’s Family Bible,[2] stand side by side in decorous order,
with multitudes of other books, equally solemn and respectable. There are
no servants in the house, but the lady in the snowy cap, with the spectacles,
who sits sewing every afternoon among her daughters, as if nothing ever
had been done, or were to be done,—she and her girls, in some long-
forgotten fore part of the day, “did up the work,” and for the rest of the time,
probably, at all hours when you would see them, it is “done up.” The old
kitchen floor never seems stained or spotted; the tables, the chairs, and the
various cooking utensils, never seem deranged or disordered; though three
and sometimes four meals a day are got there, though the family washing
and ironing is there performed, and though pounds of butter and cheese are
in some silent and mysterious manner there brought into existence.
[1] The Ancient History, ten volumes (1730-1738), by the French historian
Charles Rollin (1661-1741).

[2] Scott’s Family Bible (1788-1792), edited with notes by the English Biblical
commentator, Thomas Scott (1747-1821).

On such a farm, in such a house and family, Miss Ophelia had spent a
quiet existence of some forty-five years, when her cousin invited her to visit
his southern mansion. The eldest of a large family, she was still considered
by her father and mother as one of “the children,” and the proposal that she
should go to Orleans was a most momentous one to the family circle. The
old gray-headed father took down Morse’s Atlas[3] out of the book-case, and
looked out the exact latitude and longitude; and read Flint’s Travels in the
South and West,[4] to make up his own mind as to the nature of the country.

[3] The Cerographic Atlas of the United States (1842-1845), by Sidney Edwards
Morse (1794-1871), son of the geographer, Jedidiah Morse, and brother of the
painter-inventor, Samuel F. B. Morse.

[4] Recollections of the Last Ten Years (1826) by Timothy Flint (1780-1840),
missionary of Presbyterianism to the trans-Allegheny West.

The good mother inquired, anxiously, “if Orleans wasn’t an awful wicked
place,” saying, “that it seemed to her most equal to going to the Sandwich
Islands, or anywhere among the heathen.”
It was known at the minister’s and at the doctor’s, and at Miss Peabody’s
milliner shop, that Ophelia St. Clare was “talking about” going away down
to Orleans with her cousin; and of course the whole village could do no less
than help this very important process of talking about the matter. The
minister, who inclined strongly to abolitionist views, was quite doubtful
whether such a step might not tend somewhat to encourage the southerners
in holding on to their slaves; while the doctor, who was a stanch
colonizationist, inclined to the opinion that Miss Ophelia ought to go, to
show the Orleans people that we don’t think hardly of them, after all. He
was of opinion, in fact, that southern people needed encouraging. When
however, the fact that she had resolved to go was fully before the public
mind, she was solemnly invited out to tea by all her friends and neighbors
for the space of a fortnight, and her prospects and plans duly canvassed and
inquired into. Miss Moseley, who came into the house to help to do the
dress-making, acquired daily accessions of importance from the
developments with regard to Miss Ophelia’s wardrobe which she had been
enabled to make. It was credibly ascertained that Squire Sinclare, as his
name was commonly contracted in the neighborhood, had counted out fifty
dollars, and given them to Miss Ophelia, and told her to buy any clothes she
thought best; and that two new silk dresses, and a bonnet, had been sent for
from Boston. As to the propriety of this extraordinary outlay, the public
mind was divided,—some affirming that it was well enough, all things
considered, for once in one’s life, and others stoutly affirming that the
money had better have been sent to the missionaries; but all parties agreed
that there had been no such parasol seen in those parts as had been sent on
from New York, and that she had one silk dress that might fairly be trusted
to stand alone, whatever might be said of its mistress. There were credible
rumors, also, of a hemstitched pocket-handkerchief; and report even went
so far as to state that Miss Ophelia had one pocket-handkerchief with lace

all around it,—it was even added that it was worked in the corners; but this
latter point was never satisfactorily ascertained, and remains, in fact,
unsettled to this day.
Miss Ophelia, as you now behold her, stands before you, in a very
shining brown linen travelling-dress, tall, square-formed, and angular. Her
face was thin, and rather sharp in its outlines; the lips compressed, like
those of a person who is in the habit of making up her mind definitely on all
subjects; while the keen, dark eyes had a peculiarly searching, advised
movement, and travelled over everything, as if they were looking for
something to take care of.
All her movements were sharp, decided, and energetic; and, though she
was never much of a talker, her words were remarkably direct, and to the
purpose, when she did speak.
In her habits, she was a living impersonation of order, method, and
exactness. In punctuality, she was as inevitable as a clock, and as inexorable
as a railroad engine; and she held in most decided contempt and
abomination anything of a contrary character.
The great sin of sins, in her eyes,—the sum of all evils,—was expressed
by one very common and important word in her vocabulary
—“shiftlessness.” Her finale and ultimatum of contempt consisted in a very
emphatic pronunciation of the word “shiftless;” and by this she
characterized all modes of procedure which had not a direct and inevitable
relation to accomplishment of some purpose then definitely had in mind.
People who did nothing, or who did not know exactly what they were going
to do, or who did not take the most direct way to accomplish what they set
their hands to, were objects of her entire contempt,—a contempt shown less
frequently by anything she said, than by a kind of stony grimness, as if she
scorned to say anything about the matter.
As to mental cultivation,—she had a clear, strong, active mind, was well
and thoroughly read in history and the older English classics, and thought
with great strength within certain narrow limits. Her theological tenets were
all made up, labelled in most positive and distinct forms, and put by, like
the bundles in her patch trunk; there were just so many of them, and there
were never to be any more. So, also, were her ideas with regard to most
matters of practical life,—such as housekeeping in all its branches, and the
various political relations of her native village. And, underlying all, deeper

than anything else, higher and broader, lay the strongest principle of her
being—conscientiousness. Nowhere is conscience so dominant and all-
absorbing as with New England women. It is the granite formation, which
lies deepest, and rises out, even to the tops of the highest mountains.
Miss Ophelia was the absolute bond-slave of the “ought.” Once make her
certain that the “path of duty,” as she commonly phrased it, lay in any given
direction, and fire and water could not keep her from it. She would walk
straight down into a well, or up to a loaded cannon’s mouth, if she were
only quite sure that there the path lay. Her standard of right was so high, so
all-embracing, so minute, and making so few concessions to human frailty,
that, though she strove with heroic ardor to reach it, she never actually did
so, and of course was burdened with a constant and often harassing sense of
deficiency;—this gave a severe and somewhat gloomy cast to her religious
character.
But, how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with Augustine St.
Clare,—gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical, sceptical,—in short,—walking
with impudent and nonchalant freedom over every one of her most
cherished habits and opinions?
To tell the truth, then, Miss Ophelia loved him. When a boy, it had been
hers to teach him his catechism, mend his clothes, comb his hair, and bring
him up generally in the way he should go; and her heart having a warm side
to it, Augustine had, as he usually did with most people, monopolized a
large share of it for himself, and therefore it was that he succeeded very
easily in persuading her that the “path of duty” lay in the direction of New
Orleans, and that she must go with him to take care of Eva, and keep
everything from going to wreck and ruin during the frequent illnesses of his
wife. The idea of a house without anybody to take care of it went to her
heart; then she loved the lovely little girl, as few could help doing; and
though she regarded Augustine as very much of a heathen, yet she loved
him, laughed at his jokes, and forbore with his failings, to an extent which
those who knew him thought perfectly incredible. But what more or other is
to be known of Miss Ophelia our reader must discover by a personal
acquaintance.
There she is, sitting now in her state-room, surrounded by a mixed
multitude of little and big carpet-bags, boxes, baskets, each containing some

separate responsibility which she is tying, binding up, packing, or fastening,
with a face of great earnestness.
“Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things? Of course you haven’t,
—children never do: there’s the spotted carpet-bag and the little blue band-
box with your best bonnet,—that’s two; then the India rubber satchel is
three; and my tape and needle box is four; and my band-box, five; and my
collar-box; and that little hair trunk, seven. What have you done with your
sunshade? Give it to me, and let me put a paper round it, and tie it to my
umbrella with my shade;—there, now.”
“Why, aunty, we are only going up home;—what is the use?”
“To keep it nice, child; people must take care of their things, if they ever
mean to have anything; and now, Eva, is your thimble put up?”
“Really, aunty, I don’t know.”
“Well, never mind; I’ll look your box over,—thimble, wax, two spools,
scissors, knife, tape-needle; all right,—put it in here. What did you ever do,
child, when you were coming on with only your papa. I should have
thought you’d a lost everything you had.”
“Well, aunty, I did lose a great many; and then, when we stopped
anywhere, papa would buy some more of whatever it was.”
“Mercy on us, child,—what a way!”
“It was a very easy way, aunty,” said Eva.
“It’s a dreadful shiftless one,” said aunty.
“Why, aunty, what’ll you do now?” said Eva; “that trunk is too full to be
shut down.”
“It must shut down,” said aunty, with the air of a general, as she squeezed
the things in, and sprung upon the lid;—still a little gap remained about the
mouth of the trunk.
“Get up here, Eva!” said Miss Ophelia, courageously; “what has been
done can be done again. This trunk has got to be shut and locked—there are
no two ways about it.”
And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolute statement, gave in.
The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss Ophelia turned the key, and
pocketed it in triumph.

“Now we’re ready. Where’s your papa? I think it time this baggage was
set out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you see your papa.”
“O, yes, he’s down the other end of the gentlemen’s cabin, eating an
orange.”
“He can’t know how near we are coming,” said aunty; “hadn’t you better
run and speak to him?”
“Papa never is in a hurry about anything,” said Eva, “and we haven’t
come to the landing. Do step on the guards, aunty. Look! there’s our house,
up that street!”
The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast, tired monster, to
prepare to push up among the multiplied steamers at the levee. Eva joyously
pointed out the various spires, domes, and way-marks, by which she
recognized her native city.
“Yes, yes, dear; very fine,” said Miss Ophelia. “But mercy on us! the boat
has stopped! where is your father?”
And now ensued the usual turmoil of landing—waiters running twenty
ways at once—men tugging trunks, carpet-bags, boxes—women anxiously
calling to their children, and everybody crowding in a dense mass to the
plank towards the landing.
Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the lately vanquished trunk,
and marshalling all her goods and chattels in fine military order, seemed
resolved to defend them to the last.
“Shall I take your trunk, ma’am?” “Shall I take your baggage?” “Let me
’tend to your baggage, Missis?” “Shan’t I carry out these yer, Missis?”
rained down upon her unheeded. She sat with grim determination, upright
as a darning-needle stuck in a board, holding on her bundle of umbrella and
parasols, and replying with a determination that was enough to strike
dismay even into a hackman, wondering to Eva, in each interval, “what
upon earth her papa could be thinking of; he couldn’t have fallen over, now,
—but something must have happened;”—and just as she had begun to work
herself into a real distress, he came up, with his usually careless motion,
and giving Eva a quarter of the orange he was eating, said,
“Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready.”
“I’ve been ready, waiting, nearly an hour,” said Miss Ophelia; “I began to
be really concerned about you.

“That’s a clever fellow, now,” said he. “Well, the carriage is waiting, and
the crowd are now off, so that one can walk out in a decent and Christian
manner, and not be pushed and shoved. Here,” he added to a driver who
stood behind him, “take these things.”
“I’ll go and see to his putting them in,” said Miss Ophelia.
“O, pshaw, cousin, what’s the use?” said St. Clare.
“Well, at any rate, I’ll carry this, and this, and this,” said Miss Ophelia,
singling out three boxes and a small carpet-bag.
“My dear Miss Vermont, positively you mustn’t come the Green
Mountains over us that way. You must adopt at least a piece of a southern
principle, and not walk out under all that load. They’ll take you for a
waiting-maid; give them to this fellow; he’ll put them down as if they were
eggs, now.”
Miss Ophelia looked despairingly as her cousin took all her treasures
from her, and rejoiced to find herself once more in the carriage with them,
in a state of preservation.
“Where’s Tom?” said Eva.
“O, he’s on the outside, Pussy. I’m going to take Tom up to mother for a
peace-offering, to make up for that drunken fellow that upset the carriage.”
“O, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know,” said Eva; “he’ll never get
drunk.”
The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion, built in that odd
mixture of Spanish and French style, of which there are specimens in some
parts of New Orleans. It was built in the Moorish fashion,—a square
building enclosing a court-yard, into which the carriage drove through an
arched gateway. The court, in the inside, had evidently been arranged to
gratify a picturesque and voluptuous ideality. Wide galleries ran all around
the four sides, whose Moorish arches, slender pillars, and arabesque
ornaments, carried the mind back, as in a dream, to the reign of oriental
romance in Spain. In the middle of the court, a fountain threw high its
silvery water, falling in a never-ceasing spray into a marble basin, fringed
with a deep border of fragrant violets. The water in the fountain, pellucid as
crystal, was alive with myriads of gold and silver fishes, twinkling and
darting through it like so many living jewels. Around the fountain ran a
walk, paved with a mosaic of pebbles, laid in various fanciful patterns; and

this, again, was surrounded by turf, smooth as green velvet, while a
carriage-drive enclosed the whole. Two large orange-trees, now fragrant
with blossoms, threw a delicious shade; and, ranged in a circle round upon
the turf, were marble vases of arabesque sculpture, containing the choicest
flowering plants of the tropics. Huge pomegranate trees, with their glossy
leaves and flame-colored flowers, dark-leaved Arabian jessamines, with
their silvery stars, geraniums, luxuriant roses bending beneath their heavy
abundance of flowers, golden jessamines, lemon-scented verbenum, all
united their bloom and fragrance, while here and there a mystic old aloe,
with its strange, massive leaves, sat looking like some old enchanter, sitting
in weird grandeur among the more perishable bloom and fragrance around
it.
The galleries that surrounded the court were festooned with a curtain of
some kind of Moorish stuff, and could be drawn down at pleasure, to
exclude the beams of the sun. On the whole, the appearance of the place
was luxurious and romantic.
As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready to burst from a
cage, with the wild eagerness of her delight.
“O, isn’t it beautiful, lovely! my own dear, darling home!” she said to
Miss Ophelia. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“’T is a pretty place,” said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted; “though it looks
rather old and heathenish to me.”
Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an air of calm,
still enjoyment. The negro, it must be remembered, is an exotic of the most
gorgeous and superb countries of the world, and he has, deep in his heart, a
passion for all that is splendid, rich, and fanciful; a passion which, rudely
indulged by an untrained taste, draws on them the ridicule of the colder and
more correct white race.
St. Clare, who was in heart a poetical voluptuary, smiled as Miss Ophelia
made her remark on his premises, and, turning to Tom, who was standing
looking round, his beaming black face perfectly radiant with admiration, he
said,
“Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you.”
“Yes, Mas’r, it looks about the right thing,” said Tom.

All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being hustled off,
hackman paid, and while a crowd, of all ages and sizes,—men, women, and
children,—came running through the galleries, both above and below to see
Mas’r come in. Foremost among them was a highly-dressed young mulatto
man, evidently a very distingue personage, attired in the ultra extreme of
the mode, and gracefully waving a scented cambric handkerchief in his
hand.
This personage had been exerting himself, with great alacrity, in driving
all the flock of domestics to the other end of the verandah.
“Back! all of you. I am ashamed of you,” he said, in a tone of authority.
“Would you intrude on Master’s domestic relations, in the first hour of his
return?”
All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with quite an air, and
stood huddled together at a respectful distance, except two stout porters,
who came up and began conveying away the baggage.
Owing to Mr. Adolph’s systematic arrangements, when St. Clare turned
round from paying the hackman, there was nobody in view but Mr. Adolph
himself, conspicuous in satin vest, gold guard-chain, and white pants, and
bowing with inexpressible grace and suavity.
“Ah, Adolph, is it you?” said his master, offering his hand to him; “how
are you, boy?” while Adolph poured forth, with great fluency, an
extemporary speech, which he had been preparing, with great care, for a
fortnight before.
“Well, well,” said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air of negligent
drollery, “that’s very well got up, Adolph. See that the baggage is well
bestowed. I’ll come to the people in a minute;” and, so saying, he led Miss
Ophelia to a large parlor that opened on the verandah.
While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird, through the porch
and parlor, to a little boudoir opening likewise on the verandah.
A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman, half rose from a couch on which she
was reclining.
“Mamma!” said Eva, in a sort of a rapture, throwing herself on her neck,
and embracing her over and over again.
“That’ll do,—take care, child,—don’t, you make my head ache,” said the
mother, after she had languidly kissed her.

St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, husbandly
fashion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie lifted her large eyes on
her cousin with an air of some curiosity, and received her with languid
politeness. A crowd of servants now pressed to the entry door, and among
them a middle-aged mulatto woman, of very respectable appearance, stood
foremost, in a tremor of expectation and joy, at the door.
“O, there’s Mammy!” said Eva, as she flew across the room; and,
throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her repeatedly.
This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache, but, on the
contrary, she hugged her, and laughed, and cried, till her sanity was a thing
to be doubted of; and when released from her, Eva flew from one to
another, shaking hands and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia afterwards
declared fairly turned her stomach.
“Well!” said Miss Ophelia, “you southern children can do something that
I couldn’t.”
“What, now, pray?” said St. Clare.
“Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn’t have anything hurt;
but as to kissing—”
“Niggers,” said St. Clare, “that you’re not up to,—hey?”
“Yes, that’s it. How can she?”
St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. “Halloa, here, what’s to
pay out here? Here, you all—Mammy, Jimmy, Polly, Sukey—glad to see
Mas’r?” he said, as he went shaking hands from one to another. “Look out
for the babies!” he added, as he stumbled over a sooty little urchin, who
was crawling upon all fours. “If I step upon anybody, let ’em mention it.”
There was an abundance of laughing and blessing Mas’r, as St. Clare
distributed small pieces of change among them.
“Come, now, take yourselves off, like good boys and girls,” he said; and
the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappeared through a door into a
large verandah, followed by Eva, who carried a large satchel, which she had
been filling with apples, nuts, candy, ribbons, laces, and toys of every
description, during her whole homeward journey.
As St. Clare turned to go back his eye fell upon Tom, who was standing
uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, while Adolph stood negligently

leaning against the banisters, examining Tom through an opera-glass, with
an air that would have done credit to any dandy living.
“Puh! you puppy,” said his master, striking down the opera glass; “is that
the way you treat your company? Seems to me, Dolph,” he added, laying
his finger on the elegant figured satin vest that Adolph was sporting, “seems
to me that’s my vest.”
“O! Master, this vest all stained with wine; of course, a gentleman in
Master’s standing never wears a vest like this. I understood I was to take it.
It does for a poor nigger-fellow, like me.”
And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through his scented
hair, with a grace.
“So, that’s it, is it?” said St. Clare, carelessly. “Well, here, I’m going to
show this Tom to his mistress, and then you take him to the kitchen; and
mind you don’t put on any of your airs to him. He’s worth two such puppies
as you.”
“Master always will have his joke,” said Adolph, laughing. “I’m
delighted to see Master in such spirits.”
“Here, Tom,” said St. Clare, beckoning.
Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet carpets, and the
before unimagined splendors of mirrors, pictures, statues, and curtains, and,
like the Queen of Sheba before Solomon, there was no more spirit in him.
He looked afraid even to set his feet down.
“See here, Marie,” said St. Clare to his wife, “I’ve bought you a
coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he’s a regular hearse for blackness
and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you want. Open your eyes,
now, and look at him. Now, don’t say I never think about you when I’m
gone.”
Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without rising.
“I know he’ll get drunk,” she said.
“No, he’s warranted a pious and sober article.”
“Well, I hope he may turn out well,” said the lady; “it’s more than I
expect, though.”
“Dolph,” said St. Clare, “show Tom down stairs; and, mind yourself,” he
added; “remember what I told you.”

Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumbering tread, went
after.
“He’s a perfect behemoth!” said Marie.
“Come, now, Marie,” said St. Clare, seating himself on a stool beside her
sofa, “be gracious, and say something pretty to a fellow.”
“You’ve been gone a fortnight beyond the time,” said the lady, pouting.
“Well, you know I wrote you the reason.”
“Such a short, cold letter!” said the lady.
“Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or nothing.”
“That’s just the way, always,” said the lady; “always something to make
your journeys long, and letters short.”
“See here, now,” he added, drawing an elegant velvet case out of his
pocket, and opening it, “here’s a present I got for you in New York.”
It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, representing Eva
and her father sitting hand in hand.
Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.
“What made you sit in such an awkward position?” she said.
“Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but what do you think of
the likeness?”
“If you don’t think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose you
wouldn’t in another,” said the lady, shutting the daguerreotype.
“Hang the woman!” said St. Clare, mentally; but aloud he added, “Come,
now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don’t be nonsensical, now.”
“It’s very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare,” said the lady, “to insist on my
talking and looking at things. You know I’ve been lying all day with the
sick-headache; and there’s been such a tumult made ever since you came,
I’m half dead.”
“You’re subject to the sick-headache, ma’am!” said Miss Ophelia,
suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair, where she had sat
quietly, taking an inventory of the furniture, and calculating its expense.
“Yes, I’m a perfect martyr to it,” said the lady.
“Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache,” said Miss Ophelia; “at
least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry’s wife, used to say so; and she was a

great nurse.”
“I’ll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the lake
brought in for that special purpose,” said St. Clare, gravely pulling the bell
as he did so; “meanwhile, cousin, you must be wanting to retire to your
apartment, and refresh yourself a little, after your journey. Dolph,” he
added, “tell Mammy to come here.” The decent mulatto woman whom Eva
had caressed so rapturously soon entered; she was dressed neatly, with a
high red and yellow turban on her head, the recent gift of Eva, and which
the child had been arranging on her head. “Mammy,” said St. Clare, “I put
this lady under your care; she is tired, and wants rest; take her to her
chamber, and be sure she is made comfortable,” and Miss Ophelia
disappeared in the rear of Mammy.

CHAPTER XVI
Tom’s Mistress and Her Opinions
“And now, Marie,” said St. Clare, “your golden days are dawning. Here
is our practical, business-like New England cousin, who will take the whole
budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to refresh yourself,
and grow young and handsome. The ceremony of delivering the keys had
better come off forthwith.”
This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few mornings after Miss
Ophelia had arrived.
“I’m sure she’s welcome,” said Marie, leaning her head languidly on her
hand. “I think she’ll find one thing, if she does, and that is, that it’s we
mistresses that are the slaves, down here.”
“O, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of wholesome truths
besides, no doubt,” said St. Clare.
“Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our convenience,” said
Marie. “I’m sure, if we consulted that, we might let them all go at once.”
Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother’s face, with an
earnest and perplexed expression, and said, simply, “What do you keep
them for, mamma?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, except for a plague; they are the plague of my
life. I believe that more of my ill health is caused by them than by any one
thing; and ours, I know, are the very worst that ever anybody was plagued
with.”
“O, come, Marie, you’ve got the blues, this morning,” said St. Clare.
“You know ’t isn’t so. There’s Mammy, the best creature living,—what
could you do without her?”
“Mammy is the best I ever knew,” said Marie; “and yet Mammy, now, is
selfish—dreadfully selfish; it’s the fault of the whole race.”
“Selfishness is a dreadful fault,” said St. Clare, gravely.

“Well, now, there’s Mammy,” said Marie, “I think it’s selfish of her to
sleep so sound nights; she knows I need little attentions almost every hour,
when my worst turns are on, and yet she’s so hard to wake. I absolutely am
worse, this very morning, for the efforts I had to make to wake her last
night.”
“Hasn’t she sat up with you a good many nights, lately, mamma?” said
Eva.
“How should you know that?” said Marie, sharply; “she’s been
complaining, I suppose.”
“She didn’t complain; she only told me what bad nights you’d had,—so
many in succession.”
“Why don’t you let Jane or Rosa take her place, a night or two,” said St.
Clare, “and let her rest?”
“How can you propose it?” said Marie. “St. Clare, you really are
inconsiderate. So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me; and a
strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt
the interest in me she ought to, she’d wake easier,—of course, she would.
I’ve heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never was my
luck;” and Marie sighed.
Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air of shrewd,
observant gravity; and she still kept her lips tightly compressed, as if
determined fully to ascertain her longitude and position, before she
committed herself.
“Now, Mammy has a sort of goodness,” said Marie; “she’s smooth and
respectful, but she’s selfish at heart. Now, she never will be done fidgeting
and worrying about that husband of hers. You see, when I was married and
came to live here, of course, I had to bring her with me, and her husband
my father couldn’t spare. He was a blacksmith, and, of course, very
necessary; and I thought and said, at the time, that Mammy and he had
better give each other up, as it wasn’t likely to be convenient for them ever
to live together again. I wish, now, I’d insisted on it, and married Mammy
to somebody else; but I was foolish and indulgent, and didn’t want to insist.
I told Mammy, at the time, that she mustn’t ever expect to see him more
than once or twice in her life again, for the air of father’s place doesn’t
agree with my health, and I can’t go there; and I advised her to take up with

somebody else; but no—she wouldn’t. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy
about her, in spots, that everybody don’t see as I do.”
“Has she children?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Yes; she has two.”
“I suppose she feels the separation from them?”
“Well, of course, I couldn’t bring them. They were little dirty things—I
couldn’t have them about; and, besides, they took up too much of her time;
but I believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort of sulkiness about this.
She won’t marry anybody else; and I do believe, now, though she knows
how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my health is, she would go
back to her husband tomorrow, if she only could. I do, indeed,” said Marie;
“they are just so selfish, now, the best of them.”
“It’s distressing to reflect upon,” said St. Clare, dryly.
Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of mortification
and repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl of the lip, as he spoke.
“Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me,” said Marie. “I wish
some of your northern servants could look at her closets of dresses,—silks
and muslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging there. I’ve worked
sometimes whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her ready to go
to a party. As to abuse, she don’t know what it is. She never was whipped
more than once or twice in her whole life. She has her strong coffee or her
tea every day, with white sugar in it. It’s abominable, to be sure; but St.
Clare will have high life below-stairs, and they every one of them live just
as they please. The fact is, our servants are over-indulged. I suppose it is
partly our fault that they are selfish, and act like spoiled children; but I’ve
talked to St. Clare till I am tired.”
“And I, too,” said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper.
Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother, with that
expression of deep and mystic earnestness which was peculiar to her. She
walked softly round to her mother’s chair, and put her arms round her neck.
“Well, Eva, what now?” said Marie.
“Mamma, couldn’t I take care of you one night—just one? I know I
shouldn’t make you nervous, and I shouldn’t sleep. I often lie awake nights,
thinking—”

“O, nonsense, child—nonsense!” said Marie; “you are such a strange
child!”
“But may I, mamma? I think,” she said, timidly, “that Mammy isn’t well.
She told me her head ached all the time, lately.”
“O, that’s just one of Mammy’s fidgets! Mammy is just like all the rest of
them—makes such a fuss about every little headache or finger-ache; it’ll
never do to encourage it—never! I’m principled about this matter,” said she,
turning to Miss Ophelia; “you’ll find the necessity of it. If you encourage
servants in giving way to every little disagreeable feeling, and complaining
of every little ailment, you’ll have your hands full. I never complain myself
—nobody knows what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do.”
Miss Ophelia’s round eyes expressed an undisguised amazement at this
peroration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely ludicrous, that he burst
into a loud laugh.
“St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my ill health,”
said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr. “I only hope the day won’t
come when he’ll remember it!” and Marie put her handkerchief to her eyes.
Of course, there was rather a foolish silence. Finally, St. Clare got up,
looked at his watch, and said he had an engagement down street. Eva
tripped away after him, and Miss Ophelia and Marie remained at the table
alone.
“Now, that’s just like St. Clare!” said the latter, withdrawing her
handkerchief with somewhat of a spirited flourish when the criminal to be
affected by it was no longer in sight. “He never realizes, never can, never
will, what I suffer, and have, for years. If I was one of the complaining sort,
or ever made any fuss about my ailments, there would be some reason for
it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining wife. But I’ve kept things to
myself, and borne, and borne, till St. Clare has got in the way of thinking I
can bear anything.”
Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected to answer to
this.
While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped away her
tears, and smoothed her plumage in a general sort of way, as a dove might
be supposed to make toilet after a shower, and began a housewifely chat
with Miss Ophelia, concerning cupboards, closets, linen-presses, store-

rooms, and other matters, of which the latter was, by common
understanding, to assume the direction,—giving her so many cautious
directions and charges, that a head less systematic and business-like than
Miss Ophelia’s would have been utterly dizzied and confounded.
“And now,” said Marie, “I believe I’ve told you everything; so that, when
my next sick turn comes on, you’ll be able to go forward entirely, without
consulting me;—only about Eva,—she requires watching.”
“She seems to be a good child, very,” said Miss Ophelia; “I never saw a
better child.”
“Eva’s peculiar,” said her mother, “very. There are things about her so
singular; she isn’t like me, now, a particle;” and Marie sighed, as if this was
a truly melancholy consideration.
Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, “I hope she isn’t,” but had prudence
enough to keep it down.
“Eva always was disposed to be with servants; and I think that well
enough with some children. Now, I always played with father’s little
negroes—it never did me any harm. But Eva somehow always seems to put
herself on an equality with every creature that comes near her. It’s a strange
thing about the child. I never have been able to break her of it. St. Clare, I
believe, encourages her in it. The fact is, St. Clare indulges every creature
under this roof but his own wife.”
Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.
“Now, there’s no way with servants,” said Marie, “but to put them down,
and keep them down. It was always natural to me, from a child. Eva is
enough to spoil a whole house-full. What she will do when she comes to
keep house herself, I’m sure I don’t know. I hold to being kind to servants—
I always am; but you must make ’em know their place. Eva never does;
there’s no getting into the child’s head the first beginning of an idea what a
servant’s place is! You heard her offering to take care of me nights, to let
Mammy sleep! That’s just a specimen of the way the child would be doing
all the time, if she was left to herself.”
“Why,” said Miss Ophelia, bluntly, “I suppose you think your servants
are human creatures, and ought to have some rest when they are tired.”
“Certainly, of course. I’m very particular in letting them have everything
that comes convenient,—anything that doesn’t put one at all out of the way,

you know. Mammy can make up her sleep, some time or other; there’s no
difficulty about that. She’s the sleepiest concern that ever I saw; sewing,
standing, or sitting, that creature will go to sleep, and sleep anywhere and
everywhere. No danger but Mammy gets sleep enough. But this treating
servants as if they were exotic flowers, or china vases, is really ridiculous,”
said Marie, as she plunged languidly into the depths of a voluminous and
pillowy lounge, and drew towards her an elegant cut-glass vinaigrette.
“You see,” she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice, like the last
dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or something equally ethereal, “you
see, Cousin Ophelia, I don’t often speak of myself. It isn’t my habit; ’t isn’t
agreeable to me. In fact, I haven’t strength to do it. But there are points
where St. Clare and I differ. St. Clare never understood me, never
appreciated me. I think it lies at the root of all my ill health. St. Clare means
well, I am bound to believe; but men are constitutionally selfish and
inconsiderate to woman. That, at least, is my impression.”
Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine New England
caution, and a very particular horror of being drawn into family difficulties,
now began to foresee something of this kind impending; so, composing her
face into a grim neutrality, and drawing out of her pocket about a yard and a
quarter of stocking, which she kept as a specific against what Dr. Watts
asserts to be a personal habit of Satan when people have idle hands, she
proceeded to knit most energetically, shutting her lips together in a way that
said, as plain as words could, “You needn’t try to make me speak. I don’t
want anything to do with your affairs,”—in fact, she looked about as
sympathizing as a stone lion. But Marie didn’t care for that. She had got
somebody to talk to, and she felt it her duty to talk, and that was enough;
and reinforcing herself by smelling again at her vinaigrette, she went on.
“You see, I brought my own property and servants into the connection,
when I married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled to manage them my own
way. St. Clare had his fortune and his servants, and I’m well enough content
he should manage them his way; but St. Clare will be interfering. He has
wild, extravagant notions about things, particularly about the treatment of
servants. He really does act as if he set his servants before me, and before
himself, too; for he lets them make him all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a
finger. Now, about some things, St. Clare is really frightful—he frightens
me—good-natured as he looks, in general. Now, he has set down his foot

that, come what will, there shall not be a blow struck in this house, except
what he or I strike; and he does it in a way that I really dare not cross him.
Well, you may see what that leads to; for St. Clare wouldn’t raise his hand,
if every one of them walked over him, and I—you see how cruel it would
be to require me to make the exertion. Now, you know these servants are
nothing but grown-up children.”
“I don’t know anything about it, and I thank the Lord that I don’t!” said
Miss Ophelia, shortly.
“Well, but you will have to know something, and know it to your cost, if
you stay here. You don’t know what a provoking, stupid, careless,
unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set of wretches they are.”
Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got upon this
topic; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed quite to forget her languor.
“You don’t know, and you can’t, the daily, hourly trials that beset a
housekeeper from them, everywhere and every way. But it’s no use to
complain to St. Clare. He talks the strangest stuff. He says we have made
them what they are, and ought to bear with them. He says their faults are all
owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the fault and punish it too.
He says we shouldn’t do any better, in their place; just as if one could
reason from them to us, you know.”
“Don’t you believe that the Lord made them of one blood with us?” said
Miss Ophelia, shortly.
“No, indeed not I! A pretty story, truly! They are a degraded race.”
“Don’t you think they’ve got immortal souls?” said Miss Ophelia, with
increasing indignation.
“O, well,” said Marie, yawning, “that, of course—nobody doubts that.
But as to putting them on any sort of equality with us, you know, as if we
could be compared, why, it’s impossible! Now, St. Clare really has talked to
me as if keeping Mammy from her husband was like keeping me from
mine. There’s no comparing in this way. Mammy couldn’t have the feelings
that I should. It’s a different thing altogether,—of course, it is,—and yet St.
Clare pretends not to see it. And just as if Mammy could love her little dirty
babies as I love Eva! Yet St. Clare once really and soberly tried to persuade
me that it was my duty, with my weak health, and all I suffer, to let Mammy
go back, and take somebody else in her place. That was a little too much

even for me to bear. I don’t often show my feelings, I make it a principle to
endure everything in silence; it’s a wife’s hard lot, and I bear it. But I did
break out, that time; so that he has never alluded to the subject since. But I
know by his looks, and little things that he says, that he thinks so as much
as ever; and it’s so trying, so provoking!”
Miss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she should say
something; but she rattled away with her needles in a way that had volumes
of meaning in it, if Marie could only have understood it.
“So, you just see,” she continued, “what you’ve got to manage. A
household without any rule; where servants have it all their own way, do
what they please, and have what they please, except so far as I, with my
feeble health, have kept up government. I keep my cowhide about, and
sometimes I do lay it on; but the exertion is always too much for me. If St.
Clare would only have this thing done as others do—”
“And how’s that?”
“Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other places to be
flogged. That’s the only way. If I wasn’t such a poor, feeble piece, I believe
I should manage with twice the energy that St. Clare does.”
“And how does St. Clare contrive to manage?” said Miss Ophelia. “You
say he never strikes a blow.”
“Well, men have a more commanding way, you know; it is easier for
them; besides, if you ever looked full in his eye, it’s peculiar,—that eye,—
and if he speaks decidedly, there’s a kind of flash. I’m afraid of it, myself;
and the servants know they must mind. I couldn’t do as much by a regular
storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn of his eye, if once he is in
earnest. O, there’s no trouble about St. Clare; that’s the reason he’s no more
feeling for me. But you’ll find, when you come to manage, that there’s no
getting along without severity,—they are so bad, so deceitful, so lazy.”
“The old tune,” said St. Clare, sauntering in. “What an awful account
these wicked creatures will have to settle, at last, especially for being lazy!
You see, cousin,” said he, as he stretched himself at full length on a lounge
opposite to Marie, “it’s wholly inexcusable in them, in the light of the
example that Marie and I set them,—this laziness.”
“Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad!” said Marie.

“Am I, now? Why, I thought I was talking good, quite remarkably for
me. I try to enforce your remarks, Marie, always.”
“You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare,” said Marie.
“O, I must have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my dear, for setting me
right.”
“You do really try to be provoking,” said Marie.
“O, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have just had a long
quarrel with Dolph, which has fatigued me excessively; so, pray be
agreeable, now, and let a fellow repose in the light of your smile.”
“What’s the matter about Dolph?” said Marie. “That fellow’s impudence
has been growing to a point that is perfectly intolerable to me. I only wish I
had the undisputed management of him a while. I’d bring him down!”
“What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual acuteness and good
sense,” said St. Clare. “As to Dolph, the case is this: that he has so long
been engaged in imitating my graces and perfections, that he has, at last,
really mistaken himself for his master; and I have been obliged to give him
a little insight into his mistake.”
“How?” said Marie.
“Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that I preferred to
keep some of my clothes for my own personal wearing; also, I put his
magnificence upon an allowance of cologne-water, and actually was so
cruel as to restrict him to one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs. Dolph
was particularly huffy about it, and I had to talk to him like a father, to
bring him round.”
“O! St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your servants? It’s
abominable, the way you indulge them!” said Marie.
“Why, after all, what’s the harm of the poor dog’s wanting to be like his
master; and if I haven’t brought him up any better than to find his chief
good in cologne and cambric handkerchiefs, why shouldn’t I give them to
him?”
“And why haven’t you brought him up better?” said Miss Ophelia, with
blunt determination.
“Too much trouble,—laziness, cousin, laziness,—which ruins more souls
than you can shake a stick at. If it weren’t for laziness, I should have been a

perfect angel, myself. I’m inclined to think that laziness is what your old
Dr. Botherem, up in Vermont, used to call the ‘essence of moral evil.’ It’s an
awful consideration, certainly.”
“I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility upon you,” said
Miss Ophelia. “I wouldn’t have it, for a thousand worlds. You ought to
educate your slaves, and treat them like reasonable creatures,—like
immortal creatures, that you’ve got to stand before the bar of God with.
That’s my mind,” said the good lady, breaking suddenly out with a tide of
zeal that had been gaining strength in her mind all the morning.
“O! come, come,” said St. Clare, getting up quickly; “what do you know
about us?” And he sat down to the piano, and rattled a lively piece of music.
St. Clare had a decided genius for music. His touch was brilliant and firm,
and his fingers flew over the keys with a rapid and bird-like motion, airy,
and yet decided. He played piece after piece, like a man who is trying to
play himself into a good humor. After pushing the music aside, he rose up,
and said, gayly, “Well, now, cousin, you’ve given us a good talk and done
your duty; on the whole, I think the better of you for it. I make no manner
of doubt that you threw a very diamond of truth at me, though you see it hit
me so directly in the face that it wasn’t exactly appreciated, at first.”
“For my part, I don’t see any use in such sort of talk,” said Marie. “I’m
sure, if anybody does more for servants than we do, I’d like to know who;
and it don’t do ’em a bit good,—not a particle,—they get worse and worse.
As to talking to them, or anything like that, I’m sure I have talked till I was
tired and hoarse, telling them their duty, and all that; and I’m sure they can
go to church when they like, though they don’t understand a word of the
sermon, more than so many pigs,—so it isn’t of any great use for them to
go, as I see; but they do go, and so they have every chance; but, as I said
before, they are a degraded race, and always will be, and there isn’t any
help for them; you can’t make anything of them, if you try. You see, Cousin
Ophelia, I’ve tried, and you haven’t; I was born and bred among them, and I
know.”
Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore sat silent. St.
Clare whistled a tune.
“St. Clare, I wish you wouldn’t whistle,” said Marie; “it makes my head
worse.”

“I won’t,” said St. Clare. “Is there anything else you wouldn’t wish me to
do?”
“I wish you would have some kind of sympathy for my trials; you never
have any feeling for me.”
“My dear accusing angel!” said St. Clare.
“It’s provoking to be talked to in that way.”
“Then, how will you be talked to? I’ll talk to order,—any way you’ll
mention,—only to give satisfaction.”
A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtains of the
verandah. St. Clare stepped out, and lifting up the curtain, laughed too.
“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing.
There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every one of his button-
holes stuck full of cape jessamines, and Eva, gayly laughing, was hanging a
wreath of roses round his neck; and then she sat down on his knee, like a
chip-sparrow, still laughing.
“O, Tom, you look so funny!”
Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet way, to be
enjoying the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He lifted his eyes,
when he saw his master, with a half-deprecating, apologetic air.
“How can you let her?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Why not?” said St. Clare.
“Why, I don’t know, it seems so dreadful!”
“You would think no harm in a child’s caressing a large dog, even if he
was black; but a creature that can think, and reason, and feel, and is
immortal, you shudder at; confess it, cousin. I know the feeling among
some of you northerners well enough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in
our not having it; but custom with us does what Christianity ought to do,—
obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. I have often noticed, in my
travels north, how much stronger this was with you than with us. You loathe
them as you would a snake or a toad, yet you are indignant at their wrongs.
You would not have them abused; but you don’t want to have anything to
do with them yourselves. You would send them to Africa, out of your sight
and smell, and then send a missionary or two to do up all the self-denial of
elevating them compendiously. Isn’t that it?”

“Well, cousin,” said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, “there may be some
truth in this.”
“What would the poor and lowly do, without children?” said St. Clare,
leaning on the railing, and watching Eva, as she tripped off, leading Tom
with her. “Your little child is your only true democrat. Tom, now is a hero to
Eva; his stories are wonders in her eyes, his songs and Methodist hymns are
better than an opera, and the traps and little bits of trash in his pocket a
mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful Tom that ever wore a black skin.
This is one of the roses of Eden that the Lord has dropped down expressly
for the poor and lowly, who get few enough of any other kind.”
“It’s strange, cousin,” said Miss Ophelia, “one might almost think you
were a professor, to hear you talk.”
“A professor?” said St. Clare.
“Yes; a professor of religion.”
“Not at all; not a professor, as your town-folks have it; and, what is
worse, I’m afraid, not a practiser, either.”
“What makes you talk so, then?”
“Nothing is easier than talking,” said St. Clare. “I believe Shakespeare
makes somebody say, ‘I could sooner show twenty what were good to be
done, than be one of the twenty to follow my own showing.’[1] Nothing like
division of labor. My forte lies in talking, and yours, cousin, lies in doing.”
[1] The Merchant of Venice, Act 1, scene 2, lines 17-18.

In Tom’s external situation, at this time, there was, as the world says,
nothing to complain of Little Eva’s fancy for him—the instinctive gratitude
and loveliness of a noble nature—had led her to petition her father that he
might be her especial attendant, whenever she needed the escort of a
servant, in her walks or rides; and Tom had general orders to let everything
else go, and attend to Miss Eva whenever she wanted him,—orders which
our readers may fancy were far from disagreeable to him. He was kept well
dressed, for St. Clare was fastidiously particular on this point. His stable
services were merely a sinecure, and consisted simply in a daily care and
inspection, and directing an under-servant in his duties; for Marie St. Clare

declared that she could not have any smell of the horses about him when he
came near her, and that he must positively not be put to any service that
would make him unpleasant to her, as her nervous system was entirely
inadequate to any trial of that nature; one snuff of anything disagreeable
being, according to her account, quite sufficient to close the scene, and put
an end to all her earthly trials at once. Tom, therefore, in his well-brushed
broadcloth suit, smooth beaver, glossy boots, faultless wristbands and
collar, with his grave, good-natured black face, looked respectable enough
to be a Bishop of Carthage, as men of his color were, in other ages.
Then, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to which his
sensitive race was never indifferent; and he did enjoy with a quiet joy the
birds, the flowers, the fountains, the perfume, and light and beauty of the
court, the silken hangings, and pictures, and lustres, and statuettes, and
gilding, that made the parlors within a kind of Aladdin’s palace to him.
If ever Africa shall show an elevated and cultivated race,—and come it
must, some time, her turn to figure in the great drama of human
improvement.—life will awake there with a gorgeousness and splendor of
which our cold western tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-off mystic
land of gold, and gems, and spices, and waving palms, and wondrous
flowers, and miraculous fertility, will awake new forms of art, new styles of
splendor; and the negro race, no longer despised and trodden down, will,
perhaps, show forth some of the latest and most magnificent revelations of
human life. Certainly they will, in their gentleness, their lowly docility of
heart, their aptitude to repose on a superior mind and rest on a higher
power, their childlike simplicity of affection, and facility of forgiveness. In
all these they will exhibit the highest form of the peculiarly Christian life,
and, perhaps, as God chasteneth whom he loveth, he hath chosen poor
Africa in the furnace of affliction, to make her the highest and noblest in
that kingdom which he will set up, when every other kingdom has been
tried, and failed; for the first shall be last, and the last first.
Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood, gorgeously
dressed, on the verandah, on Sunday morning, clasping a diamond bracelet
on her slender wrist? Most likely it was. Or, if it wasn’t that, it was
something else; for Marie patronized good things, and she was going now,
in full force,—diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels, and all,—to a
fashionable church, to be very religious. Marie always made a point to be

very pious on Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so elegant, so airy and
undulating in all her motions, her lace scarf enveloping her like a mist. She
looked a graceful creature, and she felt very good and very elegant indeed.
Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfect contrast. It was not that she had not
as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and as fine a pocket-handkerchief; but
stiffness and squareness, and bolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as
indefinite yet appreciable a presence as did grace her elegant neighbor; not
the grace of God, however,—that is quite another thing!
“Where’s Eva?” said Marie.
“The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to Mammy.”
And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs? Listen, reader, and
you will hear, though Marie does not.
“Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully.”
“Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately. You don’t need to
worry.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re going out; and here,”—and the little girl threw her
arms around her,—“Mammy, you shall take my vinaigrette.”
“What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them diamonds! Lor, Miss, ’t
wouldn’t be proper, no ways.”
“Why not? You need it, and I don’t. Mamma always uses it for headache,
and it’ll make you feel better. No, you shall take it, to please me, now.”
“Do hear the darlin talk!” said Mammy, as Eva thrust it into her bosom,
and kissing her, ran down stairs to her mother.
“What were you stopping for?”
“I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take to church
with her.”
“Eva” said Marie, stamping impatiently,—“your gold vinaigrette to
Mammy! When will you learn what’s proper? Go right and take it back this
moment!”
Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly.
“I say, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as she pleases,” said St.
Clare.
“St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?” said Marie.

“The Lord knows,” said St. Clare, “but she’ll get along in heaven better
than you or I.”
“O, papa, don’t,” said Eva, softly touching his elbow; “it troubles
mother.”
“Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?” said Miss Ophelia,
turning square about on St. Clare.
“I’m not going, thank you.”
“I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church,” said Marie; “but he hasn’t
a particle of religion about him. It really isn’t respectable.”
“I know it,” said St. Clare. “You ladies go to church to learn how to get
along in the world, I suppose, and your piety sheds respectability on us. If I
did go at all, I would go where Mammy goes; there’s something to keep a
fellow awake there, at least.”
“What! those shouting Methodists? Horrible!” said Marie.
“Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches, Marie.
Positively, it’s too much to ask of a man. Eva, do you like to go? Come,
stay at home and play with me.”
“Thank you, papa; but I’d rather go to church.”
“Isn’t it dreadful tiresome?” said St. Clare.
“I think it is tiresome, some,” said Eva, “and I am sleepy, too, but I try to
keep awake.”
“What do you go for, then?”
“Why, you know, papa,” she said, in a whisper, “cousin told me that God
wants to have us; and he gives us everything, you know; and it isn’t much
to do it, if he wants us to. It isn’t so very tiresome after all.”
“You sweet, little obliging soul!” said St. Clare, kissing her; “go along,
that’s a good girl, and pray for me.”
“Certainly, I always do,” said the child, as she sprang after her mother
into the carriage.
St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her, as the carriage
drove away; large tears were in his eyes.
“O, Evangeline! rightly named,” he said; “hath not God made thee an
evangel to me?”

So he felt a moment; and then he smoked a cigar, and read the Picayune,
and forgot his little gospel. Was he much unlike other folks?
“You see, Evangeline,” said her mother, “it’s always right and proper to
be kind to servants, but it isn’t proper to treat them just as we would our
relations, or people in our own class of life. Now, if Mammy was sick, you
wouldn’t want to put her in your own bed.”
“I should feel just like it, mamma,” said Eva, “because then it would be
handier to take care of her, and because, you know, my bed is better than
hers.”
Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral perception evinced
in this reply.
“What can I do to make this child understand me?” she said.
“Nothing,” said Miss Ophelia, significantly.
Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment; but children, luckily, do
not keep to one impression long, and in a few moments she was merrily
laughing at various things which she saw from the coach-windows, as it
rattled along.

“Well, ladies,” said St. Clare, as they were comfortably seated at the
dinner-table, “and what was the bill of fare at church today?”
“O, Dr. G—— preached a splendid sermon,” said Marie. “It was just
such a sermon as you ought to hear; it expressed all my views exactly.”
“It must have been very improving,” said St. Clare. “The subject must
have been an extensive one.”
“Well, I mean all my views about society, and such things,” said Marie.
“The text was, ‘He hath made everything beautiful in its season;’ and he
showed how all the orders and distinctions in society came from God; and
that it was so appropriate, you know, and beautiful, that some should be
high and some low, and that some were born to rule and some to serve, and
all that, you know; and he applied it so well to all this ridiculous fuss that is
made about slavery, and he proved distinctly that the Bible was on our side,

and supported all our institutions so convincingly. I only wish you’d heard
him.”
“O, I didn’t need it,” said St. Clare. “I can learn what does me as much
good as that from the Picayune, any time, and smoke a cigar besides; which
I can’t do, you know, in a church.”
“Why,” said Miss Ophelia, “don’t you believe in these views?”
“Who,—I? You know I’m such a graceless dog that these religious
aspects of such subjects don’t edify me much. If I was to say anything on
this slavery matter, I would say out, fair and square, ‘We’re in for it; we’ve
got ’em, and mean to keep ’em,—it’s for our convenience and our interest;’
for that’s the long and short of it,—that’s just the whole of what all this
sanctified stuff amounts to, after all; and I think that it will be intelligible to
everybody, everywhere.”
“I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent!” said Marie. “I think it’s
shocking to hear you talk.”
“Shocking! it’s the truth. This religious talk on such matters,—why don’t
they carry it a little further, and show the beauty, in its season, of a fellow’s
taking a glass too much, and sitting a little too late over his cards, and
various providential arrangements of that sort, which are pretty frequent
among us young men;—we’d like to hear that those are right and godly,
too.”
“Well,” said Miss Ophelia, “do you think slavery right or wrong?”
“I’m not going to have any of your horrid New England directness,
cousin,” said St. Clare, gayly. “If I answer that question, I know you’ll be at
me with half a dozen others, each one harder than the last; and I’m not a
going to define my position. I am one of the sort that lives by throwing
stones at other people’s glass houses, but I never mean to put up one for
them to stone.”
“That’s just the way he’s always talking,” said Marie; “you can’t get any
satisfaction out of him. I believe it’s just because he don’t like religion, that
he’s always running out in this way he’s been doing.”
“Religion!” said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladies look at him.
“Religion! Is what you hear at church, religion? Is that which can bend and
turn, and descend and ascend, to fit every crooked phase of selfish, worldly
society, religion? Is that religion which is less scrupulous, less generous,

less just, less considerate for man, than even my own ungodly, worldly,
blinded nature? No! When I look for a religion, I must look for something
above me, and not something beneath.”
“Then you don’t believe that the Bible justifies slavery,” said Miss
Ophelia.
“The Bible was my mother’s book,” said St. Clare. “By it she lived and
died, and I would be very sorry to think it did. I’d as soon desire to have it
proved that my mother could drink brandy, chew tobacco, and swear, by
way of satisfying me that I did right in doing the same. It wouldn’t make me
at all more satisfied with these things in myself, and it would take from me
the comfort of respecting her; and it really is a comfort, in this world, to
have anything one can respect. In short, you see,” said he, suddenly
resuming his gay tone, “all I want is that different things be kept in different
boxes. The whole frame-work of society, both in Europe and America, is
made up of various things which will not stand the scrutiny of any very
ideal standard of morality. It’s pretty generally understood that men don’t
aspire after the absolute right, but only to do about as well as the rest of the
world. Now, when any one speaks up, like a man, and says slavery is
necessary to us, we can’t get along without it, we should be beggared if we
give it up, and, of course, we mean to hold on to it,—this is strong, clear,
well-defined language; it has the respectability of truth to it; and, if we may
judge by their practice, the majority of the world will bear us out in it. But
when he begins to put on a long face, and snuffle, and quote Scripture, I
incline to think he isn’t much better than he should be.”
“You are very uncharitable,” said Marie.
“Well,” said St. Clare, “suppose that something should bring down the
price of cotton once and forever, and make the whole slave property a drug
in the market, don’t you think we should soon have another version of the
Scripture doctrine? What a flood of light would pour into the church, all at
once, and how immediately it would be discovered that everything in the
Bible and reason went the other way!”
“Well, at any rate,” said Marie, as she reclined herself on a lounge, “I’m
thankful I’m born where slavery exists; and I believe it’s right,—indeed, I
feel it must be; and, at any rate, I’m sure I couldn’t get along without it.”
“I say, what do you think, Pussy?” said her father to Eva, who came in at
this moment, with a flower in her hand.

“What about, papa?”
“Why, which do you like the best,—to live as they do at your uncle’s, up
in Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants, as we do?”
“O, of course, our way is the pleasantest,” said Eva.
“Why so?” said St. Clare, stroking her head.
“Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you know,” said Eva,
looking up earnestly.
“Now, that’s just like Eva,” said Marie; “just one of her odd speeches.”
“Is it an odd speech, papa?” said Eva, whisperingly, as she got upon his
knee.
“Rather, as this world goes, Pussy,” said St. Clare. “But where has my
little Eva been, all dinner-time?”
“O, I’ve been up in Tom’s room, hearing him sing, and Aunt Dinah gave
me my dinner.”
“Hearing Tom sing, hey?”
“O, yes! he sings such beautiful things about the New Jerusalem, and
bright angels, and the land of Canaan.”
“I dare say; it’s better than the opera, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and he’s going to teach them to me.”
“Singing lessons, hey?—you are coming on.”
“Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible; and he explains
what it means, you know.”
“On my word,” said Marie, laughing, “that is the latest joke of the
season.”
“Tom isn’t a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I’ll dare swear,” said
St. Clare. “Tom has a natural genius for religion. I wanted the horses out
early, this morning, and I stole up to Tom’s cubiculum there, over the
stables, and there I heard him holding a meeting by himself; and, in fact, I
haven’t heard anything quite so savory as Tom’s prayer, this some time. He
put in for me, with a zeal that was quite apostolic.”
“Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I’ve heard of that trick before.”
“If he did, he wasn’t very polite; for he gave the Lord his opinion of me,
pretty freely. Tom seemed to think there was decidedly room for

improvement in me, and seemed very earnest that I should be converted.”
“I hope you’ll lay it to heart,” said Miss Ophelia.
“I suppose you are much of the same opinion,” said St. Clare. “Well, we
shall see,—shan’t we, Eva?”

CHAPTER XVII
The Freeman’s Defence
There was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as the afternoon drew to a
close. Rachel Halliday moved quietly to and fro, collecting from her
household stores such needments as could be arranged in the smallest
compass, for the wanderers who were to go forth that night. The afternoon
shadows stretched eastward, and the round red sun stood thoughtfully on
the horizon, and his beams shone yellow and calm into the little bed-room
where George and his wife were sitting. He was sitting with his child on his
knee, and his wife’s hand in his. Both looked thoughtful and serious and
traces of tears were on their cheeks.
“Yes, Eliza,” said George, “I know all you say is true. You are a good
child,—a great deal better than I am; and I will try to do as you say. I’ll try
to act worthy of a free man. I’ll try to feel like a Christian. God Almighty
knows that I’ve meant to do well,—tried hard to do well,—when everything
has been against me; and now I’ll forget all the past, and put away every
hard and bitter feeling, and read my Bible, and learn to be a good man.”
“And when we get to Canada,” said Eliza, “I can help you. I can do
dress-making very well; and I understand fine washing and ironing; and
between us we can find something to live on.”
“Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy. O! Eliza, if these
people only knew what a blessing it is for a man to feel that his wife and
child belong to him! I’ve often wondered to see men that could call their
wives and children their own fretting and worrying about anything else.
Why, I feel rich and strong, though we have nothing but our bare hands. I
feel as if I could scarcely ask God for any more. Yes, though I’ve worked
hard every day, till I am twenty-five years old, and have not a cent of
money, nor a roof to cover me, nor a spot of land to call my own, yet, if
they will only let me alone now, I will be satisfied,—thankful; I will work,
and send back the money for you and my boy. As to my old master, he has

been paid five times over for all he ever spent for me. I don’t owe him
anything.”
“But yet we are not quite out of danger,” said Eliza; “we are not yet in
Canada.”
“True,” said George, “but it seems as if I smelt the free air, and it makes
me strong.”
At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apartment, in earnest
conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the door. Eliza started and
opened it.
Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker brother, whom he
introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall and lathy, red-haired, with
an expression of great acuteness and shrewdness in his face. He had not the
placid, quiet, unworldly air of Simeon Halliday; on the contrary, a
particularly wide-awake and au fait appearance, like a man who rather
prides himself on knowing what he is about, and keeping a bright lookout
ahead; peculiarities which sorted rather oddly with his broad brim and
formal phraseology.
“Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of importance to the
interests of thee and thy party, George,” said Simeon; “it were well for thee
to hear it.”
“That I have,” said Phineas, “and it shows the use of a man’s always
sleeping with one ear open, in certain places, as I’ve always said. Last night
I stopped at a little lone tavern, back on the road. Thee remembers the
place, Simeon, where we sold some apples, last year, to that fat woman,
with the great ear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard driving; and, after my
supper I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in the corner, and pulled a
buffalo over me, to wait till my bed was ready; and what does I do, but get
fast asleep.”
“With one ear open, Phineas?” said Simeon, quietly.
“No; I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was pretty well tired;
but when I came to myself a little, I found that there were some men in the
room, sitting round a table, drinking and talking; and I thought, before I
made much muster, I’d just see what they were up to, especially as I heard
them say something about the Quakers. ‘So,’ says one, ‘they are up in the
Quaker settlement, no doubt,’ says he. Then I listened with both ears, and I

found that they were talking about this very party. So I lay and heard them
lay off all their plans. This young man, they said, was to be sent back to
Kentucky, to his master, who was going to make an example of him, to keep
all niggers from running away; and his wife two of them were going to run
down to New Orleans to sell, on their own account, and they calculated to
get sixteen or eighteen hundred dollars for her; and the child, they said, was
going to a trader, who had bought him; and then there was the boy, Jim, and
his mother, they were to go back to their masters in Kentucky. They said
that there were two constables, in a town a little piece ahead, who would go
in with ’em to get ’em taken up, and the young woman was to be taken
before a judge; and one of the fellows, who is small and smooth-spoken,
was to swear to her for his property, and get her delivered over to him to
take south. They’ve got a right notion of the track we are going tonight; and
they’ll be down after us, six or eight strong. So now, what’s to be done?”
The group that stood in various attitudes, after this communication, were
worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday, who had taken her hands out of a
batch of biscuit, to hear the news, stood with them upraised and floury, and
with a face of the deepest concern. Simeon looked profoundly thoughtful;
Eliza had thrown her arms around her husband, and was looking up to him.
George stood with clenched hands and glowing eyes, and looking as any
other man might look, whose wife was to be sold at auction, and son sent to
a trader, all under the shelter of a Christian nation’s laws.
“What shall we do, George?” said Eliza faintly.
“I know what I shall do,” said George, as he stepped into the little room,
and began examining pistols.
“Ay, ay,” said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; “thou seest, Simeon,
how it will work.”
“I see,” said Simeon, sighing; “I pray it come not to that.”
“I don’t want to involve any one with or for me,” said George. “If you
will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I will drive alone to the next stand.
Jim is a giant in strength, and brave as death and despair, and so am I.”
“Ah, well, friend,” said Phineas, “but thee’ll need a driver, for all that.
Thee’s quite welcome to do all the fighting, thee knows; but I know a thing
or two about the road, that thee doesn’t.”
“But I don’t want to involve you,” said George.

“Involve,” said Phineas, with a curious and keen expression of face,
“When thee does involve me, please to let me know.”
“Phineas is a wise and skilful man,” said Simeon. “Thee does well,
George, to abide by his judgment; and,” he added, laying his hand kindly on
George’s shoulder, and pointing to the pistols, “be not over hasty with these,
—young blood is hot.”
“I will attack no man,” said George. “All I ask of this country is to be let
alone, and I will go out peaceably; but,”—he paused, and his brow
darkened and his face worked,—“I’ve had a sister sold in that New Orleans
market. I know what they are sold for; and am I going to stand by and see
them take my wife and sell her, when God has given me a pair of strong
arms to defend her? No; God help me! I’ll fight to the last breath, before
they shall take my wife and son. Can you blame me?”
“Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood could not do
otherwise,” said Simeon. “Woe unto the world because of offences, but woe
unto them through whom the offence cometh.”
“Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?”
“I pray that I be not tried,” said Simeon; “the flesh is weak.”
“I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in such a case,” said
Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the sails of a windmill. “I an’t
sure, friend George, that I shouldn’t hold a fellow for thee, if thee had any
accounts to settle with him.”
“If man should ever resist evil,” said Simeon, “then George should feel
free to do it now: but the leaders of our people taught a more excellent way;
for the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God; but it goes
sorely against the corrupt will of man, and none can receive it save they to
whom it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be not tempted.”
“And so I do,” said Phineas; “but if we are tempted too much—why, let
them look out, that’s all.”
“It’s quite plain thee wasn’t born a Friend,” said Simeon, smiling. “The
old nature hath its way in thee pretty strong as yet.”
To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fisted backwoodsman, a
vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck; but, having wooed a pretty
Quakeress, had been moved by the power of her charms to join the society
in his neighborhood; and though he was an honest, sober, and efficient

member, and nothing particular could be alleged against him, yet the more
spiritual among them could not but discern an exceeding lack of savor in his
developments.
“Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own,” said Rachel Halliday,
smiling; “but we all think that his heart is in the right place, after all.”
“Well,” said George, “isn’t it best that we hasten our flight?”
“I got up at four o’clock, and came on with all speed, full two or three
hours ahead of them, if they start at the time they planned. It isn’t safe to
start till dark, at any rate; for there are some evil persons in the villages
ahead, that might be disposed to meddle with us, if they saw our wagon,
and that would delay us more than the waiting; but in two hours I think we
may venture. I will go over to Michael Cross, and engage him to come
behind on his swift nag, and keep a bright lookout on the road, and warn us
if any company of men come on. Michael keeps a horse that can soon get
ahead of most other horses; and he could shoot ahead and let us know, if
there were any danger. I am going out now to warn Jim and the old woman
to be in readiness, and to see about the horse. We have a pretty fair start,
and stand a good chance to get to the stand before they can come up with
us. So, have good courage, friend George; this isn’t the first ugly scrape that
I’ve been in with thy people,” said Phineas, as he closed the door.
“Phineas is pretty shrewd,” said Simeon. “He will do the best that can be
done for thee, George.”
“All I am sorry for,” said George, “is the risk to you.”
“Thee’ll much oblige us, friend George, to say no more about that. What
we do we are conscience bound to do; we can do no other way. And now,
mother,” said he, turning to Rachel, “hurry thy preparations for these
friends, for we must not send them away fasting.”
And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-cake, and
cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the et ceteras of the evening
meal, George and his wife sat in their little room, with their arms folded
about each other, in such talk as husband and wife have when they know
that a few hours may part them forever.
“Eliza,” said George, “people that have friends, and houses, and lands,
and money, and all those things can’t love as we do, who have nothing but
each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creature had loved me, but my poor,

heart-broken mother and sister. I saw poor Emily that morning the trader
carried her off. She came to the corner where I was lying asleep, and said,
‘Poor George, your last friend is going. What will become of you, poor
boy?’ And I got up and threw my arms round her, and cried and sobbed, and
she cried too; and those were the last kind words I got for ten long years;
and my heart all withered up, and felt as dry as ashes, till I met you. And
your loving me,—why, it was almost like raising one from the dead! I’ve
been a new man ever since! And now, Eliza, I’ll give my last drop of blood,
but they shall not take you from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my
dead body.”
“O, Lord, have mercy!” said Eliza, sobbing. “If he will only let us get out
of this country together, that is all we ask.”
“Is God on their side?” said George, speaking less to his wife than
pouring out his own bitter thoughts. “Does he see all they do? Why does he
let such things happen? And they tell us that the Bible is on their side;
certainly all the power is. They are rich, and healthy, and happy; they are
members of churches, expecting to go to heaven; and they get along so easy
in the world, and have it all their own way; and poor, honest, faithful
Christians,—Christians as good or better than they,—are lying in the very
dust under their feet. They buy ’em and sell ’em, and make trade of their
heart’s blood, and groans and tears,—and God lets them.”
“Friend George,” said Simeon, from the kitchen, “listen to this Psalm; it
may do thee good.”
George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping her tears, came
forward also to listen, while Simeon read as follows:
“But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well-nigh
slipped. For I was envious of the foolish, when I saw the prosperity of the
wicked. They are not in trouble like other men, neither are they plagued like
other men. Therefore, pride compasseth them as a chain; violence covereth
them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness; they have more than
heart could wish. They are corrupt, and speak wickedly concerning
oppression; they speak loftily. Therefore his people return, and the waters of
a full cup are wrung out to them, and they say, How doth God know? and is
there knowledge in the Most High?”
“Is not that the way thee feels, George?”

“It is so indeed,” said George,—“as well as I could have written it
myself.”
“Then, hear,” said Simeon: “When I thought to know this, it was too
painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary of God. Then understood I
their end. Surely thou didst set them in slippery places, thou castedst them
down to destruction. As a dream when one awaketh, so, oh Lord, when thou
awakest, thou shalt despise their image. Nevertheless I am continually with
thee; thou hast holden me by my right hand. Thou shalt guide me by thy
counsel, and afterwards receive me to glory. It is good for me to draw near
unto God. I have put my trust in the Lord God.”[1]
[1] Ps. 73, “The End of the Wicked contrasted with that of the Righteous.”

The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man, stole like
sacred music over the harassed and chafed spirit of George; and after he
ceased, he sat with a gentle and subdued expression on his fine features.
“If this world were all, George,” said Simeon, “thee might, indeed, ask
where is the Lord? But it is often those who have least of all in this life
whom he chooseth for the kingdom. Put thy trust in him and, no matter
what befalls thee here, he will make all right hereafter.”
If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgent exhorter,
from whose mouth they might have come merely as pious and rhetorical
flourish, proper to be used to people in distress, perhaps they might not
have had much effect; but coming from one who daily and calmly risked
fine and imprisonment for the cause of God and man, they had a weight that
could not but be felt, and both the poor, desolate fugitives found calmness
and strength breathing into them from it.
And now Rachel took Eliza’s hand kindly, and led the way to the supper-
table. As they were sitting down, a light tap sounded at the door, and Ruth
entered.
“I just ran in,” she said, “with these little stockings for the boy,—three
pair, nice, warm woollen ones. It will be so cold, thee knows, in Canada.
Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza?” she added, tripping round to
Eliza’s side of the table, and shaking her warmly by the hand, and slipping a
seed-cake into Harry’s hand. “I brought a little parcel of these for him,” she
said, tugging at her pocket to get out the package. “Children, thee knows,
will always be eating.”

“O, thank you; you are too kind,” said Eliza.
“Come, Ruth, sit down to supper,” said Rachel.
“I couldn’t, any way. I left John with the baby, and some biscuits in the
oven; and I can’t stay a moment, else John will burn up all the biscuits, and
give the baby all the sugar in the bowl. That’s the way he does,” said the
little Quakeress, laughing. “So, good-by, Eliza; good-by, George; the Lord
grant thee a safe journey;” and, with a few tripping steps, Ruth was out of
the apartment.
A little while after supper, a large covered-wagon drew up before the
door; the night was clear starlight; and Phineas jumped briskly down from
his seat to arrange his passengers. George walked out of the door, with his
child on one arm and his wife on the other. His step was firm, his face
settled and resolute. Rachel and Simeon came out after them.
“You get out, a moment,” said Phineas to those inside, “and let me fix the
back of the wagon, there, for the women-folks and the boy.”
“Here are the two buffaloes,” said Rachel. “Make the seats as
comfortable as may be; it’s hard riding all night.”
Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother, who clung
to his arm, and looked anxiously about, as if she expected the pursuer every
moment.
“Jim, are your pistols all in order?” said George, in a low, firm voice.
“Yes, indeed,” said Jim.
“And you’ve no doubt what you shall do, if they come?”
“I rather think I haven’t,” said Jim, throwing open his broad chest, and
taking a deep breath. “Do you think I’ll let them get mother again?”
During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her leave of her kind
friend, Rachel, and was handed into the carriage by Simeon, and, creeping
into the back part with her boy, sat down among the buffalo-skins. The old
woman was next handed in and seated and George and Jim placed on a
rough board seat front of them, and Phineas mounted in front.
“Farewell, my friends,” said Simeon, from without.
“God bless you!” answered all from within.
And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over the frozen road.

There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of the roughness
of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle, therefore, rumbled on,
through long, dark stretches of woodland,—over wide dreary plains,—up
hills, and down valleys,—and on, on, on they jogged, hour after hour. The
child soon fell asleep, and lay heavily in his mother’s lap. The poor,
frightened old woman at last forgot her fears; and, even Eliza, as the night
waned, found all her anxieties insufficient to keep her eyes from closing.
Phineas seemed, on the whole, the briskest of the company, and beguiled
his long drive with whistling certain very unquaker-like songs, as he went
on.
But about three o’clock George’s ear caught the hasty and decided click
of a horse’s hoof coming behind them at some distance and jogged Phineas
by the elbow. Phineas pulled up his horses, and listened.
“That must be Michael,” he said; “I think I know the sound of his
gallop;” and he rose up and stretched his head anxiously back over the road.
A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at the top of a distant
hill.
“There he is, I do believe!” said Phineas. George and Jim both sprang out
of the wagon before they knew what they were doing. All stood intensely
silent, with their faces turned towards the expected messenger. On he came.
Now he went down into a valley, where they could not see him; but they
heard the sharp, hasty tramp, rising nearer and nearer; at last they saw him
emerge on the top of an eminence, within hail.
“Yes, that’s Michael!” said Phineas; and, raising his voice, “Halloa, there,
Michael!”
“Phineas! is that thee?”
“Yes; what news—they coming?”
“Right on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy, swearing and
foaming like so many wolves.”
And, just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound of galloping
horsemen towards them.
“In with you,—quick, boys, in!” said Phineas. “If you must fight, wait till
I get you a piece ahead.” And, with the word, both jumped in, and Phineas
lashed the horses to a run, the horseman keeping close beside them. The
wagon rattled, jumped, almost flew, over the frozen ground; but plainer, and

still plainer, came the noise of pursuing horsemen behind. The women
heard it, and, looking anxiously out, saw, far in the rear, on the brow of a
distant hill, a party of men looming up against the red-streaked sky of early
dawn. Another hill, and their pursuers had evidently caught sight of their
wagon, whose white cloth-covered top made it conspicuous at some
distance, and a loud yell of brutal triumph came forward on the wind. Eliza
sickened, and strained her child closer to her bosom; the old woman prayed
and groaned, and George and Jim clenched their pistols with the grasp of
despair. The pursuers gained on them fast; the carriage made a sudden turn,
and brought them near a ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that rose in an
isolated ridge or clump in a large lot, which was, all around it, quite clear
and smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose up black and heavy
against the brightening sky, and seemed to promise shelter and
concealment. It was a place well known to Phineas, who had been familiar
with the spot in his hunting days; and it was to gain this point he had been
racing his horses.
“Now for it!” said he, suddenly checking his horses, and springing from
his seat to the ground. “Out with you, in a twinkling, every one, and up into
these rocks with me. Michael, thee tie thy horse to the wagon, and drive
ahead to Amariah’s and get him and his boys to come back and talk to these
fellows.”
In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.
“There,” said Phineas, catching up Harry, “you, each of you, see to the
women; and run, now if you ever did run!”
They needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, the whole party
were over the fence, making with all speed for the rocks, while Michael,
throwing himself from his horse, and fastening the bridle to the wagon,
began driving it rapidly away.
“Come ahead,” said Phineas, as they reached the rocks, and saw in the
mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude but plainly marked foot-
path leading up among them; “this is one of our old hunting-dens. Come
up!”
Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat, with the boy in
his arms. Jim came second, bearing his trembling old mother over his
shoulder, and George and Eliza brought up the rear. The party of horsemen
came up to the fence, and, with mingled shouts and oaths, were

dismounting, to prepare to follow them. A few moments’ scrambling
brought them to the top of the ledge; the path then passed between a narrow
defile, where only one could walk at a time, till suddenly they came to a rift
or chasm more than a yard in breadth, and beyond which lay a pile of rocks,
separate from the rest of the ledge, standing full thirty feet high, with its
sides steep and perpendicular as those of a castle. Phineas easily leaped the
chasm, and sat down the boy on a smooth, flat platform of crisp white moss,
that covered the top of the rock.
“Over with you!” he called; “spring, now, once, for your lives!” said he,
as one after another sprang across. Several fragments of loose stone formed
a kind of breast-work, which sheltered their position from the observation
of those below.
“Well, here we all are,” said Phineas, peeping over the stone breast-work
to watch the assailants, who were coming tumultuously up under the rocks.
“Let ’em get us, if they can. Whoever comes here has to walk single file
between those two rocks, in fair range of your pistols, boys, d’ye see?”
“I do see,” said George! “and now, as this matter is ours, let us take all
the risk, and do all the fighting.”
“Thee’s quite welcome to do the fighting, George,” said Phineas,
chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke; “but I may have the fun of
looking on, I suppose. But see, these fellows are kinder debating down
there, and looking up, like hens when they are going to fly up on to the
roost. Hadn’t thee better give ’em a word of advice, before they come up,
just to tell ’em handsomely they’ll be shot if they do?”
The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the dawn, consisted
of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker and Marks, with two constables, and a
posse consisting of such rowdies at the last tavern as could be engaged by a
little brandy to go and help the fun of trapping a set of niggers.
“Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed,” said one.
“Yes, I see ’em go up right here,” said Tom; “and here’s a path. I’m for
going right up. They can’t jump down in a hurry, and it won’t take long to
ferret ’em out.”
“But, Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks,” said Marks.
“That would be ugly, you know.”

“Ugh!” said Tom, with a sneer. “Always for saving your skin, Marks! No
danger! niggers are too plaguy scared!”
“I don’t know why I shouldn’t save my skin,” said Marks. “It’s the best
I’ve got; and niggers do fight like the devil, sometimes.”
At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock above them, and,
speaking in a calm, clear voice, said,
“Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you want?”
“We want a party of runaway niggers,” said Tom Loker. “One George
Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim Selden, and an old woman.
We’ve got the officers, here, and a warrant to take ’em; and we’re going to
have ’em, too. D’ye hear? An’t you George Harris, that belongs to Mr.
Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?”
“I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did call me his property.
But now I’m a free man, standing on God’s free soil; and my wife and my
child I claim as mine. Jim and his mother are here. We have arms to defend
ourselves, and we mean to do it. You can come up, if you like; but the first
one of you that comes within the range of our bullets is a dead man, and the
next, and the next; and so on till the last.”
“O, come! come!” said a short, puffy man, stepping forward, and
blowing his nose as he did so. “Young man, this an’t no kind of talk at all
for you. You see, we’re officers of justice. We’ve got the law on our side,
and the power, and so forth; so you’d better give up peaceably, you see; for
you’ll certainly have to give up, at last.”
“I know very well that you’ve got the law on your side, and the power,”
said George, bitterly. “You mean to take my wife to sell in New Orleans,
and put my boy like a calf in a trader’s pen, and send Jim’s old mother to
the brute that whipped and abused her before, because he couldn’t abuse her
son. You want to send Jim and me back to be whipped and tortured, and
ground down under the heels of them that you call masters; and your laws
will bear you out in it,—more shame for you and them! But you haven’t got
us. We don’t own your laws; we don’t own your country; we stand here as
free, under God’s sky, as you are; and, by the great God that made us, we’ll
fight for our liberty till we die.”
George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, as he made his
declaration of independence; the glow of dawn gave a flush to his swarthy

cheek, and bitter indignation and despair gave fire to his dark eye; and, as if
appealing from man to the justice of God, he raised his hand to heaven as
he spoke.
If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now bravely defending in some
mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping from Austria into
America, this would have been sublime heroism; but as it was a youth of
African descent, defending the retreat of fugitives through America into
Canada, of course we are too well instructed and patriotic to see any
heroism in it; and if any of our readers do, they must do it on their own
private responsibility. When despairing Hungarian fugitives make their way,
against all the search-warrants and authorities of their lawful government,
to America, press and political cabinet ring with applause and welcome.
When despairing African fugitives do the same thing,—it is—what is it?
Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice, manner, of the
speaker for a moment struck the party below to silence. There is something
in boldness and determination that for a time hushes even the rudest nature.
Marks was the only one who remained wholly untouched. He was
deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary silence that followed
George’s speech, he fired at him.

THE FREEMAN’S DEFENCE.

“Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky,” he said
coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-sleeve.
George sprang backward,—Eliza uttered a shriek,—the ball had passed
close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of his wife, and struck in the
tree above.
“It’s nothing, Eliza,” said George, quickly.
“Thee’d better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying,” said Phineas;
“they’re mean scamps.”
“Now, Jim,” said George, “look that your pistols are all right, and watch
that pass with me. The first man that shows himself I fire at; you take the
second, and so on. It won’t do, you know, to waste two shots on one.”
“But what if you don’t hit?”
“I shall hit,” said George, coolly.
“Good! now, there’s stuff in that fellow,” muttered Phineas, between his
teeth.
The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a moment, rather
undecided.
“I think you must have hit some on ’em,” said one of the men. “I heard a
squeal!”
“I’m going right up for one,” said Tom. “I never was afraid of niggers,
and I an’t going to be now. Who goes after?” he said, springing up the
rocks.
George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol, examined it,
pointed it towards that point in the defile where the first man would appear.
One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and, the way
being thus made, the whole party began pushing up the rock,—the
hindermost pushing the front ones faster than they would have gone of
themselves. On they came, and in a moment the burly form of Tom
appeared in sight, almost at the verge of the chasm.
George fired,—the shot entered his side,—but, though wounded, he
would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a mad bull, he was leaping
right across the chasm into the party.
“Friend,” said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and meeting him
with a push from his long arms, “thee isn’t wanted here.”

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees, bushes, logs,
loose stones, till he lay bruised and groaning thirty feet below. The fall
might have killed him, had it not been broken and moderated by his clothes
catching in the branches of a large tree; but he came down with some force,
however,—more than was at all agreeable or convenient.
“Lord help us, they are perfect devils!” said Marks, heading the retreat
down the rocks with much more of a will than he had joined the ascent,
while all the party came tumbling precipitately after him,—the fat
constable, in particular, blowing and puffing in a very energetic manner.
“I say, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and pick up Tom, there,
while I run and get on to my horse to go back for help,—that’s you;” and,
without minding the hootings and jeers of his company, Marks was as good
as his word, and was soon seen galloping away.
“Was ever such a sneaking varmint?” said one of the men; “to come on
his business, and he clear out and leave us this yer way!”
“Well, we must pick up that feller,” said another. “Cuss me if I much care
whether he is dead or alive.”
The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackled through
stumps, logs and bushes, to where that hero lay groaning and swearing with
alternate vehemence.
“Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom,” said one. “Ye much hurt?”
“Don’t know. Get me up, can’t ye? Blast that infernal Quaker! If it hadn’t
been for him, I’d a pitched some on ’em down here, to see how they liked
it.”
With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted to rise; and,
with one holding him up under each shoulder, they got him as far as the
horses.
“If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. Give me a
handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place, and stop this infernal
bleeding.”
George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift the burly form
of Tom into the saddle. After two or three ineffectual attempts, he reeled,
and fell heavily to the ground.
“O, I hope he isn’t killed!” said Eliza, who, with all the party, stood
watching the proceeding.

“Why not?” said Phineas; “serves him right.”
“Because after death comes the judgment,” said Eliza.
“Yes,” said the old woman, who had been groaning and praying, in her
Methodist fashion, during all the encounter, “it’s an awful case for the poor
crittur’s soul.”
“On my word, they’re leaving him, I do believe,” said Phineas.
It was true; for after some appearance of irresolution and consultation,
the whole party got on their horses and rode away. When they were quite
out of sight, Phineas began to bestir himself.
“Well, we must go down and walk a piece,” he said. “I told Michael to go
forward and bring help, and be along back here with the wagon; but we
shall have to walk a piece along the road, I reckon, to meet them. The Lord
grant he be along soon! It’s early in the day; there won’t be much travel
afoot yet a while; we an’t much more than two miles from our stopping-
place. If the road hadn’t been so rough last night, we could have outrun ’em
entirely.”
As the party neared the fence, they discovered in the distance, along the
road, their own wagon coming back, accompanied by some men on
horseback.
“Well, now, there’s Michael, and Stephen and Amariah,” exclaimed
Phineas, joyfully. “Now we are made—as safe as if we’d got there.”
“Well, do stop, then,” said Eliza, “and do something for that poor man;
he’s groaning dreadfully.”
“It would be no more than Christian,” said George; “let’s take him up and
carry him on.”
“And doctor him up among the Quakers!” said Phineas; “pretty well,
that! Well, I don’t care if we do. Here, let’s have a look at him;” and
Phineas, who in the course of his hunting and backwoods life had acquired
some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down by the wounded man, and
began a careful examination of his condition.
“Marks,” said Tom, feebly, “is that you, Marks?”
“No; I reckon ’tan’t friend,” said Phineas. “Much Marks cares for thee, if
his own skin’s safe. He’s off, long ago.”

“I believe I’m done for,” said Tom. “The cussed sneaking dog, to leave
me to die alone! My poor old mother always told me ’t would be so.”
“La sakes! jist hear the poor crittur. He’s got a mammy, now,” said the
old negress. “I can’t help kinder pityin’ on him.”
“Softly, softly; don’t thee snap and snarl, friend,” said Phineas, as Tom
winced and pushed his hand away. “Thee has no chance, unless I stop the
bleeding.” And Phineas busied himself with making some off-hand surgical
arrangements with his own pocket-handkerchief, and such as could be
mustered in the company.
“You pushed me down there,” said Tom, faintly.
“Well if I hadn’t thee would have pushed us down, thee sees,” said
Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. “There, there,—let me fix this
bandage. We mean well to thee; we bear no malice. Thee shall be taken to a
house where they’ll nurse thee first rate, well as thy own mother could.”
Tom groaned, and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigor and resolution
are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out with the flowing of the blood;
and the gigantic fellow really looked piteous in his helplessness.
The other party now came up. The seats were taken out of the wagon.
The buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were spread all along one side, and
four men, with great difficulty, lifted the heavy form of Tom into it. Before
he was gotten in, he fainted entirely. The old negress, in the abundance of
her compassion, sat down on the bottom, and took his head in her lap. Eliza,
George and Jim, bestowed themselves, as well as they could, in the
remaining space and the whole party set forward.
“What do you think of him?” said George, who sat by Phineas in front.
“Well it’s only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but, then, tumbling and
scratching down that place didn’t help him much. It has bled pretty freely,
—pretty much drained him out, courage and all,—but he’ll get over it, and
may be learn a thing or two by it.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said George. “It would always be a heavy
thought to me, if I’d caused his death, even in a just cause.”
“Yes,” said Phineas, “killing is an ugly operation, any way they’ll fix it,
—man or beast. I’ve seen a buck that was shot down and a dying, look that
way on a feller with his eye, that it reely most made a feller feel wicked for
killing on him; and human creatures is a more serious consideration yet,

bein’, as thy wife says, that the judgment comes to ’em after death. So I
don’t know as our people’s notions on these matters is too strict; and,
considerin’ how I was raised, I fell in with them pretty considerably.”
“What shall you do with this poor fellow?” said George.
“O, carry him along to Amariah’s. There’s old Grandmam Stephens there,
—Dorcas, they call her,—she’s most an amazin’ nurse. She takes to nursing
real natural, and an’t never better suited than when she gets a sick body to
tend. We may reckon on turning him over to her for a fortnight or so.”
A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neat farmhouse,
where the weary travellers were received to an abundant breakfast. Tom
Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much cleaner and softer bed than
he had ever been in the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully
dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidly opening and shutting his eyes
on the white window-curtains and gently-gliding figures of his sick room,
like a weary child. And here, for the present, we shall take our leave of one
party.

CHAPTER XVIII
Miss Ophelia’s Experiences and Opinions
Our friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often compared his more
fortunate lot, in the bondage into which he was cast, with that of Joseph in
Egypt; and, in fact, as time went on, and he developed more and more under
the eye of his master, the strength of the parallel increased.
St. Clare was indolent and careless of money. Hitherto the providing and
marketing had been principally done by Adolph, who was, to the full, as
careless and extravagant as his master; and, between them both, they had
carried on the dispersing process with great alacrity. Accustomed, for many
years, to regard his master’s property as his own care, Tom saw, with an
uneasiness he could scarcely repress, the wasteful expenditure of the
establishment; and, in the quiet, indirect way which his class often acquire,
would sometimes make his own suggestions.
St. Clare at first employed him occasionally; but, struck with his
soundness of mind and good business capacity, he confided in him more
and more, till gradually all the marketing and providing for the family were
intrusted to him.
“No, no, Adolph,” he said, one day, as Adolph was deprecating the
passing of power out of his hands; “let Tom alone. You only understand
what you want; Tom understands cost and come to; and there may be some
end to money, bye and bye if we don’t let somebody do that.”
Trusted to an unlimited extent by a careless master, who handed him a
bill without looking at it, and pocketed the change without counting it, Tom
had every facility and temptation to dishonesty; and nothing but an
impregnable simplicity of nature, strengthened by Christian faith, could
have kept him from it. But, to that nature, the very unbounded trust reposed
in him was bond and seal for the most scrupulous accuracy.
With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless and self-indulgent,
and unrestrained by a master who found it easier to indulge than to regulate,

he had fallen into an absolute confusion as to meum tuum with regard to
himself and his master, which sometimes troubled even St. Clare. His own
good sense taught him that such a training of his servants was unjust and
dangerous. A sort of chronic remorse went with him everywhere, although
not strong enough to make any decided change in his course; and this very
remorse reacted again into indulgence. He passed lightly over the most
serious faults, because he told himself that, if he had done his part, his
dependents had not fallen into them.
Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an odd mixture
of fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That he never read the Bible;
never went to church; that he jested and made free with any and every thing
that came in the way of his wit; that he spent his Sunday evenings at the
opera or theatre; that he went to wine parties, and clubs, and suppers,
oftener than was at all expedient,—were all things that Tom could see as
plainly as anybody, and on which he based a conviction that “Mas’r wasn’t
a Christian;”—a conviction, however, which he would have been very slow
to express to any one else, but on which he founded many prayers, in his
own simple fashion, when he was by himself in his little dormitory. Not that
Tom had not his own way of speaking his mind occasionally, with
something of the tact often observable in his class; as, for example, the very
day after the Sabbath we have described, St. Clare was invited out to a
convivial party of choice spirits, and was helped home, between one and
two o’clock at night, in a condition when the physical had decidedly
attained the upper hand of the intellectual. Tom and Adolph assisted to get
him composed for the night, the latter in high spirits, evidently regarding
the matter as a good joke, and laughing heartily at the rusticity of Tom’s
horror, who really was simple enough to lie awake most of the rest of the
night, praying for his young master.
“Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?” said St. Clare, the next day, as he
sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers. St. Clare had just been
entrusting Tom with some money, and various commissions. “Isn’t all right
there, Tom?” he added, as Tom still stood waiting.
“I’m ’fraid not, Mas’r,” said Tom, with a grave face.
St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup, and looked at
Tom.
“Why Tom, what’s the case? You look as solemn as a coffin.”

“I feel very bad, Mas’r. I allays have thought that Mas’r would be good
to everybody.”
“Well, Tom, haven’t I been? Come, now, what do you want? There’s
something you haven’t got, I suppose, and this is the preface.”
“Mas’r allays been good to me. I haven’t nothing to complain of on that
head. But there is one that Mas’r isn’t good to.”
“Why, Tom, what’s got into you? Speak out; what do you mean?”
“Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied upon the matter
then. Mas’r isn’t good to himself.”
Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on the door-knob.
St. Clare felt his face flush crimson, but he laughed.
“O, that’s all, is it?” he said, gayly.
“All!” said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on his knees. “O, my
dear young Mas’r; I’m ’fraid it will be loss of all—all—body and soul. The
good Book says, ‘it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder!’ my dear
Mas’r!”
Tom’s voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks.
“You poor, silly fool!” said St. Clare, with tears in his own eyes. “Get up,
Tom. I’m not worth crying over.”
But Tom wouldn’t rise, and looked imploring.
“Well, I won’t go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom,” said St.
Clare; “on my honor, I won’t. I don’t know why I haven’t stopped long ago.
I’ve always despised it, and myself for it,—so now, Tom, wipe up your
eyes, and go about your errands. Come, come,” he added, “no blessings.
I’m not so wonderfully good, now,” he said, as he gently pushed Tom to the
door. “There, I’ll pledge my honor to you, Tom, you don’t see me so again,”
he said; and Tom went off, wiping his eyes, with great satisfaction.
“I’ll keep my faith with him, too,” said St. Clare, as he closed the door.
And St. Clare did so,—for gross sensualism, in any form, was not the
peculiar temptation of his nature.
But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulations manifold of our friend
Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labors of a Southern housekeeper?
There is all the difference in the world in the servants of Southern
establishments, according to the character and capacity of the mistresses

who have brought them up.
South as well as north, there are women who have an extraordinary talent
for command, and tact in educating. Such are enabled, with apparent ease,
and without severity, to subject to their will, and bring into harmonious and
systematic order, the various members of their small estate,—to regulate
their peculiarities, and so balance and compensate the deficiencies of one
by the excess of another, as to produce a harmonious and orderly system.
Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have already described;
and such our readers may remember to have met with. If they are not
common at the South, it is because they are not common in the world. They
are to be found there as often as anywhere; and, when existing, find in that
peculiar state of society a brilliant opportunity to exhibit their domestic
talent.
Such a housekeeper Marie St. Clare was not, nor her mother before her.
Indolent and childish, unsystematic and improvident, it was not to be
expected that servants trained under her care should not be so likewise; and
she had very justly described to Miss Ophelia the state of confusion she
would find in the family, though she had not ascribed it to the proper cause.
The first morning of her regency, Miss Ophelia was up at four o’clock;
and having attended to all the adjustments of her own chamber, as she had
done ever since she came there, to the great amazement of the
chambermaid, she prepared for a vigorous onslaught on the cupboards and
closets of the establishment of which she had the keys.
The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, the kitchen and cellar,
that day, all went under an awful review. Hidden things of darkness were
brought to light to an extent that alarmed all the principalities and powers of
kitchen and chamber, and caused many wonderings and murmurings about
“dese yer northern ladies” from the domestic cabinet.
Old Dinah, the head cook, and principal of all rule and authority in the
kitchen department, was filled with wrath at what she considered an
invasion of privilege. No feudal baron in Magna Charta times could have
more thoroughly resented some incursion of the crown.
Dinah was a character in her own way, and it would be injustice to her
memory not to give the reader a little idea of her. She was a native and
essential cook, as much as Aunt Chloe,—cooking being an indigenous
talent of the African race; but Chloe was a trained and methodical one, who

moved in an orderly domestic harness, while Dinah was a self-taught
genius, and, like geniuses in general, was positive, opinionated and erratic,
to the last degree.
Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectly scorned
logic and reason in every shape, and always took refuge in intuitive
certainty; and here she was perfectly impregnable. No possible amount of
talent, or authority, or explanation, could ever make her believe that any
other way was better than her own, or that the course she had pursued in the
smallest matter could be in the least modified. This had been a conceded
point with her old mistress, Marie’s mother; and “Miss Marie,” as Dinah
always called her young mistress, even after her marriage, found it easier to
submit than contend; and so Dinah had ruled supreme. This was the easier,
in that she was perfect mistress of that diplomatic art which unites the
utmost subservience of manner with the utmost inflexibility as to measure.
Dinah was mistress of the whole art and mystery of excuse-making, in all
its branches. Indeed, it was an axiom with her that the cook can do no
wrong; and a cook in a Southern kitchen finds abundance of heads and
shoulders on which to lay off every sin and frailty, so as to maintain her
own immaculateness entire. If any part of the dinner was a failure, there
were fifty indisputably good reasons for it; and it was the fault undeniably
of fifty other people, whom Dinah berated with unsparing zeal.
But it was very seldom that there was any failure in Dinah’s last results.
Though her mode of doing everything was peculiarly meandering and
circuitous, and without any sort of calculation as to time and place,—
though her kitchen generally looked as if it had been arranged by a
hurricane blowing through it, and she had about as many places for each
cooking utensil as there were days in the year,—yet, if one would have
patience to wait her own good time, up would come her dinner in perfect
order, and in a style of preparation with which an epicure could find no
fault.
It was now the season of incipient preparation for dinner. Dinah, who
required large intervals of reflection and repose, and was studious of ease in
all her arrangements, was seated on the kitchen floor, smoking a short,
stumpy pipe, to which she was much addicted, and which she always
kindled up, as a sort of censer, whenever she felt the need of an inspiration
in her arrangements. It was Dinah’s mode of invoking the domestic Muses.

Seated around her were various members of that rising race with which a
Southern household abounds, engaged in shelling peas, peeling potatoes,
picking pin-feathers out of fowls, and other preparatory arrangements,—
Dinah every once in a while interrupting her meditations to give a poke, or
a rap on the head, to some of the young operators, with the pudding-stick
that lay by her side. In fact, Dinah ruled over the woolly heads of the
younger members with a rod of iron, and seemed to consider them born for
no earthly purpose but to “save her steps,” as she phrased it. It was the spirit
of the system under which she had grown up, and she carried it out to its
full extent.
Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through all the other
parts of the establishment, now entered the kitchen. Dinah had heard, from
various sources, what was going on, and resolved to stand on defensive and
conservative ground,—mentally determined to oppose and ignore every
new measure, without any actual observable contest.
The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a great old-
fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of it,—an arrangement which
St. Clare had vainly tried to persuade Dinah to exchange for the
convenience of a modern cook-stove. Not she. No Puseyite,[1] or
conservative of any school, was ever more inflexibly attached to time-
honored inconveniences than Dinah.
[1] Edward Bouverie Pusey (1800-1882), champion of the orthodoxy of revealed
religion, defender of the Oxford movement, and Regius professor of Hebrew and
Canon of Christ Church, Oxford.

When St. Clare had first returned from the north, impressed with the
system and order of his uncle’s kitchen arrangements, he had largely
provided his own with an array of cupboards, drawers, and various
apparatus, to induce systematic regulation, under the sanguine illusion that
it would be of any possible assistance to Dinah in her arrangements. He
might as well have provided them for a squirrel or a magpie. The more
drawers and closets there were, the more hiding-holes could Dinah make
for the accommodation of old rags, hair-combs, old shoes, ribbons, cast-off
artificial flowers, and other articles of vertu, wherein her soul delighted.
When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen Dinah did not rise, but smoked
on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movements obliquely out of the
corner of her eye, but apparently intent only on the operations around her.

Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers.
“What is this drawer for, Dinah?” she said.
“It’s handy for most anything, Missis,” said Dinah. So it appeared to be.
From the variety it contained, Miss Ophelia pulled out first a fine damask
table-cloth stained with blood, having evidently been used to envelop some
raw meat.
“What’s this, Dinah? You don’t wrap up meat in your mistress’ best table-
cloths?”
“O Lor, Missis, no; the towels was all a missin’—so I jest did it. I laid
out to wash that a,—that’s why I put it thar.”
“Shif’less!” said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to tumble over the
drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and two or three nutmegs, a
Methodist hymn-book, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some yarn
and knitting-work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers, one or two
gilded china-saucers with some pomade in them, one or two thin old shoes,
a piece of flannel carefully pinned up enclosing some small white onions,
several damask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some twine and
darning-needles, and several broken papers, from which sundry sweet herbs
were sifting into the drawer.
“Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?” said Miss Ophelia, with the
air of one who prayed for patience.
“Most anywhar, Missis; there’s some in that cracked tea-cup, up there,
and there’s some over in that ar cupboard.”
“Here are some in the grater,” said Miss Ophelia, holding them up.
“Laws, yes, I put ’em there this morning,—I likes to keep my things
handy,” said Dinah. “You, Jake! what are you stopping for! You’ll cotch it!
Be still, thar!” she added, with a dive of her stick at the criminal.
“What’s this?” said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of pomade.
“Laws, it’s my har grease;—I put it thar to have it handy.”
“Do you use your mistress’ best saucers for that?”
“Law! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry;—I was gwine to
change it this very day.”
“Here are two damask table-napkins.”
“Them table-napkins I put thar, to get ’em washed out, some day.”

“Don’t you have some place here on purpose for things to be washed?”
“Well, Mas’r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; but I likes to mix
up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it an’t handy a liftin’
up the lid.”
“Why don’t you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, there?”
“Law, Missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thing and another, der
an’t no room, noway—”
“But you should wash your dishes, and clear them away.”
“Wash my dishes!” said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath began to rise
over her habitual respect of manner; “what does ladies know ’bout work, I
want to know? When ’d Mas’r ever get his dinner, if I was to spend all my
time a washin’ and a puttin’ up dishes? Miss Marie never telled me so,
nohow.”
“Well, here are these onions.”
“Laws, yes!” said Dinah; “thar is whar I put ’em, now. I couldn’t
’member. Them ’s particular onions I was a savin’ for dis yer very stew. I’d
forgot they was in dat ar old flannel.”
Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs.
“I wish Missis wouldn’t touch dem ar. I likes to keep my things where I
knows whar to go to ’em,” said Dinah, rather decidedly.
“But you don’t want these holes in the papers.”
“Them ’s handy for siftin’ on ’t out,” said Dinah.
“But you see it spills all over the drawer.”
“Laws, yes! if Missis will go a tumblin’ things all up so, it will. Missis
has spilt lots dat ar way,” said Dinah, coming uneasily to the drawers. “If
Missis only will go up stars till my clarin’ up time comes, I’ll have
everything right; but I can’t do nothin’ when ladies is round, a henderin’.
You, Sam, don’t you gib the baby dat ar sugar-bowl! I’ll crack ye over, if ye
don’t mind!”
“I’m going through the kitchen, and going to put everything in order,
once, Dinah; and then I’ll expect you to keep it so.”
“Lor, now! Miss Phelia; dat ar an’t no way for ladies to do. I never did
see ladies doin’ no sich; my old Missis nor Miss Marie never did, and I
don’t see no kinder need on ’t;” and Dinah stalked indignantly about, while

Miss Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering bowls of
sugar into one receptacle, sorted napkins, table-cloths, and towels, for
washing; washing, wiping, and arranging with her own hands, and with a
speed and alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.
“Lor now! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey an’t ladies,
nohow,” she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe hearing distance.
“I has things as straight as anybody, when my clarin’ up times comes; but I
don’t want ladies round, a henderin’, and getting my things all where I can’t
find ’em.”
To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, paroxyms of
reformation and arrangement, which she called “clarin’ up times,” when she
would begin with great zeal, and turn every drawer and closet wrong side
outward, on to the floor or tables, and make the ordinary confusion seven-
fold more confounded. Then she would light her pipe, and leisurely go over
her arrangements, looking things over, and discoursing upon them; making
all the young fry scour most vigorously on the tin things, and keeping up for
several hours a most energetic state of confusion, which she would explain
to the satisfaction of all inquirers, by the remark that she was a “clarin’ up.”
“She couldn’t hev things a gwine on so as they had been, and she was
gwine to make these yer young ones keep better order;” for Dinah herself,
somehow, indulged the illusion that she, herself, was the soul of order, and
it was only the young uns, and the everybody else in the house, that were
the cause of anything that fell short of perfection in this respect. When all
the tins were scoured, and the tables scrubbed snowy white, and everything
that could offend tucked out of sight in holes and corners, Dinah would
dress herself up in a smart dress, clean apron, and high, brilliant Madras
turban, and tell all marauding “young uns” to keep out of the kitchen, for
she was gwine to have things kept nice. Indeed, these periodic seasons were
often an inconvenience to the whole household; for Dinah would contract
such an immoderate attachment to her scoured tin, as to insist upon it that it
shouldn’t be used again for any possible purpose,—at least, till the ardor of
the “clarin’ up” period abated.
Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed every department of
the house to a systematic pattern; but her labors in all departments that
depended on the cooperation of servants were like those of Sisyphus or the
Danaides. In despair, she one day appealed to St. Clare.