Uncle Tom's Cabin
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we first begun.”
Those who have been familiar with the religious histories of the slave
population know that relations like what we have narrated are very
common among them. We have heard some from their own lips, of a very
touching and affecting character. The psychologist tells us of a state,
in which the affections and images of the mind become so dominant and
overpowering, that they press into their service the outward imagining.
Who shall measure what an all-pervading Spirit may do with these
capabilities of our mortality, or the ways in which He may encourage
the desponding souls of the desolate? If the poor forgotten slave
believes that Jesus hath appeared and spoken to him, who shall
contradict him? Did He not say that his mission, in all ages, was to
bind up the broken-hearted, and set at liberty them that are bruised?
When the dim gray of dawn woke the slumberers to go forth to the field,
there was among those tattered and shivering wretches one who walked
with an exultant tread; for firmer than the ground he trod on was his
strong faith in Almighty, eternal love. Ah, Legree, try all your forces
now! Utmost agony, woe, degradation, want, and loss of all things,
shall only hasten on the process by which he shall be made a king and a
priest unto God!
From this time, an inviolable sphere of peace encompassed the lowly
heart of the oppressed one,—an ever-present Saviour hallowed it as a
temple. Past now the bleeding of earthly regrets; past its fluctuations
of hope, and fear, and desire; the human will, bent, and bleeding, and
struggling long, was now entirely merged in the Divine. So short now
seemed the remaining voyage of life,—so near, so vivid, seemed eternal
blessedness,—that life’s uttermost woes fell from him unharming.
All noticed the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness and alertness
seemed to return to him, and a quietness which no insult or injury
could ruffle seemed to possess him.
“What the devil’s got into Tom?” Legree said to Sambo. “A while ago he
was all down in the mouth, and now he’s peart as a cricket.”
“Dunno, Mas’r; gwine to run off, mebbe.”
“Like to see him try that,” said Legree, with a savage grin, “wouldn’t
we, Sambo?”
“Guess we would! Haw! haw! ho!” said the sooty gnome, laughing
obsequiously. “Lord, de fun! To see him stickin’ in de mud,—chasin’ and
tarin’ through de bushes, dogs a holdin’ on to him! Lord, I laughed fit
to split, dat ar time we cotched Molly. I thought they’d a had her all
stripped up afore I could get ’em off. She car’s de marks o’ dat ar
spree yet.”
“I reckon she will, to her grave,” said Legree. “But now, Sambo, you
look sharp. If the nigger’s got anything of this sort going, trip him
up.”
“Mas’r, let me lone for dat,” said Sambo, “I’ll tree de coon. Ho, ho,
ho!”
This was spoken as Legree was getting on his horse, to go to the
neighboring town. That night, as he was returning, he thought he would
turn his horse and ride round the quarters, and see if all was safe.
It was a superb moonlight night, and the shadows of the graceful China
trees lay minutely pencilled on the turf below, and there was that
transparent stillness in the air which it seems almost unholy to
disturb. Legree was a little distance from the quarters, when he heard
the voice of some one singing. It was not a usual sound there, and he
paused to listen. A musical tenor voice sang,
“When I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I’ll bid farewell to every fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes
“Should earth against my soul engage,
And hellish darts be hurled,
Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,
And face a frowning world.
“Let cares like a wild deluge come,
And storms of sorrow fall,
May I but safely reach my home,
My God, my Heaven, my All.”[2]
[2] “On My Journey Home,” hymn by Isaac Watts, found in many of the
southern country songbooks of the ante bellum period.
“So ho!” said Legree to himself, “he thinks so, does he? How I hate
these cursed Methodist hymns! Here, you nigger,” said he, coming
suddenly out upon Tom, and raising his riding-whip, “how dare you be
gettin’ up this yer row, when you ought to be in bed? Shut yer old
black gash, and get along in with you!”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Tom, with ready cheerfulness, as he rose to go in.
Legree was provoked beyond measure by Tom’s evident happiness; and
riding up to him, belabored him over his head and shoulders.
“There, you dog,” he said, “see if you’ll feel so comfortable, after
that!”
But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, as before, on
the heart. Tom stood perfectly submissive; and yet Legree could not
hide from himself that his power over his bond thrall was somehow gone.
And, as Tom disappeared in his cabin, and he wheeled his horse suddenly
round, there passed through his mind one of those vivid flashes that
often send the lightning of conscience across the dark and wicked soul.
He understood full well that it was GOD who was standing between him
and his victim, and he blasphemed him. That submissive and silent man,
whom taunts, nor threats, nor stripes, nor cruelties, could disturb,
roused a voice within him, such as of old his Master roused in the
demoniac soul, saying, “What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus of
Nazareth?—art thou come to torment us before the time?”
Tom’s whole soul overflowed with compassion and sympathy for the poor
wretches by whom he was surrounded. To him it seemed as if his
life-sorrows were now over, and as if, out of that strange treasury of
peace and joy, with which he had been endowed from above, he longed to
pour out something for the relief of their woes. It is true,
opportunities were scanty; but, on the way to the fields, and back
again, and during the hours of labor, chances fell in his way of
extending a helping-hand to the weary, the disheartened and
discouraged. The poor, worn-down, brutalized creatures, at first, could
scarce comprehend this; but, when it was continued week after week, and
month after month, it began to awaken long-silent chords in their
benumbed hearts. Gradually and imperceptibly the strange, silent,
patient man, who was ready to bear every one’s burden, and sought help
from none,—who stood aside for all, and came last, and took least, yet
was foremost to share his little all with any who needed,—the man who,
in cold nights, would give up his tattered blanket to add to the
comfort of some woman who shivered with sickness, and who filled the
baskets of the weaker ones in the field, at the terrible risk of coming
short in his own measure,—and who, though pursued with unrelenting
cruelty by their common tyrant, never joined in uttering a word of
reviling or cursing,—this man, at last, began to have a strange power
over them; and, when the more pressing season was past, and they were
allowed again their Sundays for their own use, many would gather
together to hear from him of Jesus. They would gladly have met to hear,
and pray, and sing, in some place, together; but Legree would not
permit it, and more than once broke up such attempts, with oaths and
brutal execrations,—so that the blessed news had to circulate from
individual to individual. Yet who can speak the simple joy with which
some of those poor outcasts, to whom life was a joyless journey to a
dark unknown, heard of a compassionate Redeemer and a heavenly home? It
is the statement of missionaries, that, of all races of the earth, none
have received the Gospel with such eager docility as the African. The
principle of reliance and unquestioning faith, which is its foundation,
is more a native element in this race than any other; and it has often
been found among them, that a stray seed of truth, borne on some breeze
of accident into hearts the most ignorant, has sprung up into fruit,
whose abundance has shamed that of higher and more skilful culture.
The poor mulatto woman, whose simple faith had been well-nigh crushed
and overwhelmed, by the avalanche of cruelty and wrong which had fallen
upon her, felt her soul raised up by the hymns and passages of Holy
Writ, which this lowly missionary breathed into her ear in intervals,
as they were going to and returning from work; and even the half-crazed
and wandering mind of Cassy was soothed and calmed by his simple and
unobtrusive influences.
Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of a life, Cassy
had often resolved in her soul an hour of retribution, when her hand
should avenge on her oppressor all the injustice and cruelty to which
she had been witness, or which _she_ had in her own person suffered.
One night, after all in Tom’s cabin were sunk in sleep, he was suddenly
aroused by seeing her face at the hole between the logs, that served
for a window. She made a silent gesture for him to come out.
Tom came out the door. It was between one and two o’clock at
night,—broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom remarked, as the light of the
moon fell upon Cassy’s large, black eyes, that there was a wild and
peculiar glare in them, unlike their wonted fixed despair.
“Come here, Father Tom,” she said, laying her small hand on his wrist,
and drawing him forward with a force as if the hand were of steel;
“come here,—I’ve news for you.”
“What, Misse Cassy?” said Tom, anxiously.
“Tom, wouldn’t you like your liberty?”
“I shall have it, Misse, in God’s time,” said Tom. “Ay, but you may
have it tonight,” said Cassy, with a flash of sudden energy. “Come on.”
Tom hesitated.
“Come!” said she, in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on him. “Come
along! He’s asleep—sound. I put enough into his brandy to keep him so.
I wish I’d had more,—I shouldn’t have wanted you. But come, the back
door is unlocked; there’s an axe there, I put it there,—his room door
is open; I’ll show you the way. I’d a done it myself, only my arms are
so weak. Come along!”
“Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse!” said Tom, firmly, stopping and
holding her back, as she was pressing forward.
“But think of all these poor creatures,” said Cassy. “We might set them
all free, and go somewhere in the swamps, and find an island, and live
by ourselves; I’ve heard of its being done. Any life is better than
this.”
“No!” said Tom, firmly. “No! good never comes of wickedness. I’d sooner
chop my right hand off!”
“Then _I_ shall do it,” said Cassy, turning.
“O, Misse Cassy!” said Tom, throwing himself before her, “for the dear
Lord’s sake that died for ye, don’t sell your precious soul to the
devil, that way! Nothing but evil will come of it. The Lord hasn’t
called us to wrath. We must suffer, and wait his time.”
“Wait!” said Cassy. “Haven’t I waited?—waited till my head is dizzy and
my heart sick? What has he made me suffer? What has he made hundreds of
poor creatures suffer? Isn’t he wringing the life-blood out of you? I’m
called on; they call me! His time’s come, and I’ll have his heart’s
blood!”
“No, no, no!” said Tom, holding her small hands, which were clenched
with spasmodic violence. “No, ye poor, lost soul, that ye mustn’t do.
The dear, blessed Lord never shed no blood but his own, and that he
poured out for us when we was enemies. Lord, help us to follow his
steps, and love our enemies.”
“Love!” said Cassy, with a fierce glare; “love _such_ enemies! It isn’t
in flesh and blood.”
“No, Misse, it isn’t,” said Tom, looking up; “but _He_ gives it to us,
and that’s the victory. When we can love and pray over all and through
all, the battle’s past, and the victory’s come,—glory be to God!” And,
with streaming eyes and choking voice, the black man looked up to
heaven.
And this, oh Africa! latest called of nations,—called to the crown of
thorns, the scourge, the bloody sweat, the cross of agony,—this is to