Uncle Tom's Cabin
thing that he’s too good to do. I could make any one’s hair rise, and
their teeth chatter, if I should only tell what I’ve seen and been
knowing to, here,—and it’s no use resisting! Did I _want_ to live with
him? Wasn’t I a woman delicately bred; and he,—God in heaven! what was
he, and is he? And yet, I’ve lived with him, these five years, and
cursed every moment of my life,—night and day! And now, he’s got a new
one,—a young thing, only fifteen, and she brought up, she says,
piously. Her good mistress taught her to read the Bible; and she’s
brought her Bible here—to hell with her!”—and the woman laughed a wild
and doleful laugh, that rung, with a strange, supernatural sound,
through the old ruined shed.
Tom folded his hands; all was darkness and horror.
“O Jesus! Lord Jesus! have you quite forgot us poor critturs?” burst
forth, at last;—“help, Lord, I perish!”
The woman sternly continued:
“And what are these miserable low dogs you work with, that you should
suffer on their account? Every one of them would turn against you, the
first time they got a chance. They are all of ’em as low and cruel to
each other as they can be; there’s no use in your suffering to keep
from hurting them.”
“Poor critturs!” said Tom,—“what made ’em cruel?—and, if I give out, I
shall get used to ’t, and grow, little by little, just like ’em! No,
no, Missis! I’ve lost everything,—wife, and children, and home, and a
kind Mas’r,—and he would have set me free, if he’d only lived a week
longer; I’ve lost everything in _this_ world, and it’s clean gone,
forever,—and now I _can’t_ lose Heaven, too; no, I can’t get to be
wicked, besides all!”
“But it can’t be that the Lord will lay sin to our account,” said the
woman; “he won’t charge it to us, when we’re forced to it; he’ll charge
it to them that drove us to it.”
“Yes,” said Tom; “but that won’t keep us from growing wicked. If I get
to be as hard-hearted as that ar’ Sambo, and as wicked, it won’t make
much odds to me how I come so; it’s the bein’ so,—that ar’s what I’m a
dreadin’.”
The woman fixed a wild and startled look on Tom, as if a new thought
had struck her; and then, heavily groaning, said,
“O God a’ mercy! you speak the truth! O—O—O!”—and, with groans, she
fell on the floor, like one crushed and writhing under the extremity of
mental anguish.
There was a silence, a while, in which the breathing of both parties
could be heard, when Tom faintly said, “O, please, Missis!”
The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to its usual stern,
melancholy expression.
“Please, Missis, I saw ’em throw my coat in that ar’ corner, and in my
coat-pocket is my Bible;—if Missis would please get it for me.”
Cassy went and got it. Tom opened, at once, to a heavily marked
passage, much worn, of the last scenes in the life of Him by whose
stripes we are healed.
“If Missis would only be so good as read that ar’,—it’s better than
water.”
Cassy took the book, with a dry, proud air, and looked over the
passage. She then read aloud, in a soft voice, and with a beauty of
intonation that was peculiar, that touching account of anguish and of
glory. Often, as she read, her voice faltered, and sometimes failed her
altogether, when she would stop, with an air of frigid composure, till
she had mastered herself. When she came to the touching words, “Father
forgive them, for they know not what they do,” she threw down the book,
and, burying her face in the heavy masses of her hair, she sobbed
aloud, with a convulsive violence.
Tom was weeping, also, and occasionally uttering a smothered
ejaculation.
“If we only could keep up to that ar’!” said Tom;—“it seemed to come so
natural to him, and we have to fight so hard for ’t! O Lord, help us! O
blessed Lord Jesus, do help us!”
“Missis,” said Tom, after a while, “I can see that, some how, you’re
quite ’bove me in everything; but there’s one thing Missis might learn
even from poor Tom. Ye said the Lord took sides against us, because he
lets us be ’bused and knocked round; but ye see what come on his own
Son,—the blessed Lord of Glory,—wan’t he allays poor? and have we, any
on us, yet come so low as he come? The Lord han’t forgot us,—I’m
sartin’ o’ that ar’. If we suffer with him, we shall also reign,
Scripture says; but, if we deny Him, he also will deny us. Didn’t they
all suffer?—the Lord and all his? It tells how they was stoned and sawn
asunder, and wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins, and was
destitute, afflicted, tormented. Sufferin’ an’t no reason to make us
think the Lord’s turned agin us; but jest the contrary, if only we hold
on to him, and doesn’t give up to sin.”
“But why does he put us where we can’t help but sin?” said the woman.
“I think we _can_ help it,” said Tom.
“You’ll see,” said Cassy; “what’ll you do? Tomorrow they’ll be at you
again. I know ’em; I’ve seen all their doings; I can’t bear to think of
all they’ll bring you to;—and they’ll make you give out, at last!”
“Lord Jesus!” said Tom, “you _will_ take care of my soul? O Lord,
do!—don’t let me give out!”
“O dear!” said Cassy; “I’ve heard all this crying and praying before;
and yet, they’ve been broken down, and brought under. There’s Emmeline,
she’s trying to hold on, and you’re trying,—but what use? You must give
up, or be killed by inches.”
“Well, then, I _will_ die!” said Tom. “Spin it out as long as they can,
they can’t help my dying, some time!—and, after that, they can’t do no
more. I’m clar, I’m set! I _know_ the Lord’ll help me, and bring me
through.”
The woman did not answer; she sat with her black eyes intently fixed on
the floor.
“May be it’s the way,” she murmured to herself; “but those that _have_
given up, there’s no hope for them!—none! We live in filth, and grow
loathsome, till we loathe ourselves! And we long to die, and we don’t
dare to kill ourselves!—No hope! no hope! no hope?—this girl now,—just
as old as I was!
“You see me now,” she said, speaking to Tom very rapidly; “see what I
am! Well, I was brought up in luxury; the first I remember is, playing
about, when I was a child, in splendid parlors,—when I was kept dressed
up like a doll, and company and visitors used to praise me. There was a
garden opening from the saloon windows; and there I used to play
hide-and-go-seek, under the orange-trees, with my brothers and sisters.
I went to a convent, and there I learned music, French and embroidery,
and what not; and when I was fourteen, I came out to my father’s
funeral. He died very suddenly, and when the property came to be
settled, they found that there was scarcely enough to cover the debts;
and when the creditors took an inventory of the property, I was set
down in it. My mother was a slave woman, and my father had always meant
to set me free; but he had not done it, and so I was set down in the
list. I’d always known who I was, but never thought much about it.
Nobody ever expects that a strong, healthy man is going to die. My
father was a well man only four hours before he died;—it was one of the
first cholera cases in New Orleans. The day after the funeral, my
father’s wife took her children, and went up to her father’s
plantation. I thought they treated me strangely, but didn’t know. There
was a young lawyer who they left to settle the business; and he came
every day, and was about the house, and spoke very politely to me. He
brought with him, one day, a young man, whom I thought the handsomest I
had ever seen. I shall never forget that evening. I walked with him in
the garden. I was lonesome and full of sorrow, and he was so kind and
gentle to me; and he told me that he had seen me before I went to the
convent, and that he had loved me a great while, and that he would be
my friend and protector;—in short, though he didn’t tell me, he had
paid two thousand dollars for me, and I was his property,—I became his
willingly, for I loved him. Loved!” said the woman, stopping. “O, how I
_did_ love that man! How I love him now,—and always shall, while I
breathe! He was so beautiful, so high, so noble! He put me into a
beautiful house, with servants, horses, and carriages, and furniture,
and dresses. Everything that money could buy, he gave me; but I didn’t
set any value on all that,—I only cared for him. I loved him better
than my God and my own soul, and, if I tried, I couldn’t do any other
way from what he wanted me to.
“I wanted only one thing—I did want him to _marry_ me. I thought, if he
loved me as he said he did, and if I was what he seemed to think I was,
he would be willing to marry me and set me free. But he convinced me
that it would be impossible; and he told me that, if we were only
faithful to each other, it was marriage before God. If that is true,
wasn’t I that man’s wife? Wasn’t I faithful? For seven years, didn’t I
study every look and motion, and only live and breathe to please him?
He had the yellow fever, and for twenty days and nights I watched with
him. I alone,—and gave him all his medicine, and did everything for
him; and then he called me his good angel, and said I’d saved his life.
We had two beautiful children. The first was a boy, and we called him
Henry. He was the image of his father,—he had such beautiful eyes, such
a forehead, and his hair hung all in curls around it; and he had all
his father’s spirit, and his talent, too. Little Elise, he said, looked
like me. He used to tell me that I was the most beautiful woman in
Louisiana, he was so proud of me and the children. He used to love to
have me dress them up, and take them and me about in an open carriage,
and hear the remarks that people would make on us; and he used to fill
my ears constantly with the fine things that were said in praise of me
and the children. O, those were happy days! I thought I was as happy as
any one could be; but then there came evil times. He had a cousin come
to New Orleans, who was his particular friend,—he thought all the world
of him;—but, from the first time I saw him, I couldn’t tell why, I
dreaded him; for I felt sure he was going to bring misery on us. He got
Henry to going out with him, and often he would not come home nights
till two or three o’clock. I did not dare say a word; for Henry was so
high spirited, I was afraid to. He got him to the gaming-houses; and he
was one of the sort that, when he once got a going there, there was no
holding back. And then he introduced him to another lady, and I saw
soon that his heart was gone from me. He never told me, but I saw it,—I
knew it, day after day,—I felt my heart breaking, but I could not say a
word! At this, the wretch offered to buy me and the children of Henry,
to clear off his gambling debts, which stood in the way of his marrying
as he wished;—and _he sold us_. He told me, one day, that he had
business in the country, and should be gone two or three weeks. He
spoke kinder than usual, and said he should come back; but it didn’t
deceive me. I knew that the time had come; I was just like one turned
into stone; I couldn’t speak, nor shed a tear. He kissed me and kissed
the children, a good many times, and went out. I saw him get on his
horse, and I watched him till he was quite out of sight; and then I
fell down, and fainted.
“Then _he_ came, the cursed wretch! he came to take possession. He told
me that he had bought me and my children; and showed me the papers. I
cursed him before God, and told him I’d die sooner than live with him.”
“‘Just as you please,’ said he; ‘but, if you don’t behave reasonably,
I’ll sell both the children, where you shall never see them again.’ He
told me that he always had meant to have me, from the first time he saw
me; and that he had drawn Henry on, and got him in debt, on purpose to
make him willing to sell me. That he got him in love with another