HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Uncle Tom's Cabin

When the auth.o.r.ess of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Harriet Elizabeth Beecher Stowe, visited the White House in 1863, President Lincoln took her hand, and, looking down from his great height, said, "Is this the little woman who brought on so great a war?" But, strangely enough, the att.i.tude of the writer was thoroughly misunderstood. A terrible indictment against the principle of slavery the story certainly is.

"Scenes, incidents, conversation, rushed upon her," says one of her biographers, "with a vividness that would not be denied. The book insisted upon getting itself into print." Yet there is no trace of bitterness against those who inherited slaves throughout the story. The most attractive personages are Southerners, the most repulsive Northerners. No more delightful a picture of conditions under slavery has ever been drawn as that with which the book opens--on the Shelby estate in Kentucky. Mrs. Stowe was born at Litchfield, Connecticut, on June 14, 1812. Her father was the Rev. Lyman Beecher, her brother Henry Ward Beecher. She died on July 1, 1896. "Uncle Tom," published in book form in 1852, is one of the most successful novels of modern times. In less than a week of its appearance, 10,000 copies were sold, and before the end of the year 300,000 copies had been supplied to the public. It was almost at once translated into all European languages. Mrs.

Stowe wrote about forty other stories, but posterity will know her as the auth.o.r.ess of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" only.

_I.--Humane Dealing_

Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February two gentlemen were sitting over their wine, in a well-furnished parlour in the town of P---- in Kentucky in the midst of an earnest conversation.

"That is the way I should arrange the matter," said Mr. Shelby, the owner of the place. "The fact is, Tom is an uncommon fellow; he is certainly worth that sum anywhere; steady, honest, capable, manages my farm like a clock. You ought to let him cover the whole of the debt; and you would, Haley, if you'd got any conscience."

"Well, I've got just as much conscience as any man in business can afford to keep," said Haley, "and I'm willing to do anything to 'blige friends; but this yer, ye see, is too hard on a feller, it really is.

Haven't you a boy or gal you could thrown in with Tom?"

"Hum!--none that I could well spare; to tell the truth, it's only hard necessity makes me sell at all." Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, remarkably beautiful and engaging, entered with a comic air of a.s.surance which showed he was used to being petted and noticed by his master. "Hulloa, Jim Crow," said Mr. Shelby, 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. "Tell you what," said Haley, "fling in that chap, and I'll settle the business, I will."

At this moment a young woman, obviously the child's mother, came in search of him, and Haley, as soon as she had carried him away, turned to Mr. Shelby in admiration.

"By Jupiter!" said the trader, "there's an article now! You might make your fortune on that one gal in Orleans, any way. What shall I say for her? What'll you take?"

"Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold. I say no, and I mean no," said Mr.

Shelby, decidedly.

"Well, you'll let me have the boy, though."

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

"Oh, you do? La, yes, I understand perfectly. It is mighty unpleasant getting on with women sometimes. I al'ays hates these yer screechin'

times. As I manages business, I generally avoids 'em, sir. Now, what if you get the gal off for a day or so? then the thing's done quietly. It's always best to do the humane thing, sir; that's been my experience."

"I'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the steps," said Mr.

Shelby to himself, when the trader had bowed himself out. "And Eliza's child, too! I know I shall have some fuss with the wife about that, and for that matter, about Tom, too! So much for being in debt, heigho!"

The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom's Cabin had been protracted to a very late hour, and Tom and his worthy helpmeet were not yet asleep, when between twelve and one there was a light tap on the window pane.

"Good Lord! what's that?" said Aunt Chloe, starting up. "My sakes alive, if it aint Lizzy! Get on your clothes, old man, quick. I'm gwine to open the door." And suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and the light of the candle which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the face of Eliza. "I'm running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe--carrying off my child. Master sold him."

"Sold him?" echoed both, holding up their hands in dismay.

"Yes, sold him!" said Eliza firmly. "I crept into the closet by mistress's door to-night, and I heard master tell missus that he had sold my Harry and you, Uncle Tom, both to a trader, and that the man was to take possession to-day."

Slowly, as the meaning of this speech came over Tom, he collapsed on his old chair, and sunk his head on his knees.

"The good Lord have pity on us!" said Aunt Chloe. "What has he done that mas'r should sell him?"

"He hasn't done anything--it isn't for that. I heard Master 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 should have heard her talk! If she ain'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, 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs with hard work and starving? There's time for ye; be off with Lizzy, you've got a pa.s.s to come and go any time."

Tom slowly raised his head, and sorrowfully said, "No, no: I aint going.

Let Eliza go--it's her right. '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 to go to rack, why let me be sold. Mas'r aint 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 fairly broke down.

"And now," said Eliza, "do try, if you can, to get a word to my husband.

He told me this afternoon he was going to run away. Tell him why I went, and tell him, I'm going to try and find Canada. Give my love to him, and tell him, if I never see him again--tell him to be as good as he can, and try and meet me in the kingdom of heaven."

A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings, and she glided noiselessly away.

_II.--Eliza's Escape_

It is impossible to conceive of a human being more wholly desolate and forlorn than Eliza as she left the only home she had ever known. Her husband's sufferings and danger, and the danger of her child, all blended in her mind, she trembled at every sound, and every quaking leaf quickened her steps. She felt the weight of her boy as if it had been a feather, he was old enough to have walked by her side, but now she strained him to her bosom as she went rapidly forward; and every flutter of fear seemed to increase the supernatural strength that bore her on, while from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns, "Lord help me."

Still she went, leaving one familiar object after another, till reddening daylight found her many a long mile, upon the open highway, on the way to the village of T---- upon the Ohio river, when she constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly, quickening the speed of her child, by rolling an apple before him, when the boy would run with all his might after it; this ruse often repeated carried them over many a half-mile.

An hour before sunset she came in sight of the river, which lay between her and liberty. Great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the turbid waters. Eliza turned into a small public house to ask if there was no ferry boat.

"No, indeed," said the hostess, stopping her cooking as Eliza's sweet, plaintive voice fell on her ear; "the boats has stopped running."

Eliza's look of dismay struck her and she said, "Maybe 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 to-day, in hopes to get to the ferry."

"Well, now, that's unlucky" said the woman, her motherly sympathies aroused; "I'm rilly concerned for ye. Solomon!" she called from the window. "I say Sol, is that ar man going to tote them bar'ls over to-night?"

"He said he should try, if 'twas any ways prudent," replied a man's voice.

"There's a man going over to-night, if he durs' to; he'll be in to supper, so you'd better sit down and wait. That's a sweet little fellow"

added the woman, offering him a cake.

But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.

"Take him into this room," said the woman opening into a small bedroom, and Eliza laid the weary boy on the comfortable bed, and held his hands till he was fast asleep. For her there was no rest, the thought of her pursuers urged her on, and she gazed with longing eyes on the swaying waters between her and liberty.

She was standing by the window as Haley and two of Mr. Shelby's servants came riding by. Sam, the foremost, catching sight of her, contrived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. She drew back and the whole train swept by to the front door. A thousand lives were concentrated in that moment to Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her child and sprang down the steps. The trader caught a glimpse of her as she disappeared down the bank, and calling loudly to Sam and Andy, was after her like a hound after a deer. Her feet scarce seemed to touch the ground, a moment brought her to the water's edge. Right on behind they came, and nerved with strength such as G.o.d gives only to the desperate, with one wild and flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the current by the sh.o.r.e, on to the raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap--impossible to anything but madmen and despair. The huge green fragment of ice pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she stayed 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 were gone--her stockings cut from her feet--while blood marked every step; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly she saw the Ohio side, and a man helping her up the bank.

"Yer a brave girl, now, whoever ye are!" said he. Eliza recognised a farmer from near her old home. "Oh, Mr. Symmes! save me! do save me! do hide me!" said Eliza.

"Why, what's this?" said the man, "why, if 'taint Shelby's gal!"