Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  The reader who consults the map will discover that the whole eastern shore of the southern states, with slight interruptions, is belted by an immense chain of swamps, regions of hopeless disorder, where the abundant growth and vegetation of nature, sucking up its forces from the humid soil, seem to rejoice in a savage exuberance, and bid defiance to all human efforts either to penetrate or subdue. These wild regions are the homes of the alligator, the moccasin, and the rattlesnake. Evergreen trees, mingling freely with the deciduous children of the forest, form here dense jungles, verdant all the year round, and which afford shelter to numberless birds, with whose warbling the leafy desolation perpetually resounds. Climbing vines and parasitic plants, of untold splendor and boundless exuberance of growth, twine and interlace, and hang from the heights of the highest trees pennons of gold and purple, — triumphal banners, which attest the solitary majesty of nature. A species of parasitic moss wreathes its abundant draperies from tree to tree, and hangs in pearly festoons through which shine the scarlet berry and green leaves of the American holly.

  What the mountains of Switzerland were to the persecuted Vaudois, this swampy belt has been to the American slave. The constant effort to recover from thence fugitives has led to the adoption, in these states, of a separate profession, unknown at this time in any other Christian land —— hunters, who train and keep dogs for the hunting of men, women, and children. And yet, with all the convenience of this profession, the reclaiming of the fugitives from these fastnesses of nature has been a work of such expense and difficulty that the near proximity of the swamp has always been a considerable check on the otherwise absolute power of the overseer. Dred carried with him to the swamp but one solitary companion — the Bible of his father. To him it was not the messenger of peace and good will, but the herald of woe and wrath!

  As the mind, looking on the great volume of nature, sees there a reflection of its own internal passions, and seizes on that in it which sympathizes with itself, — as the fierce and savage soul delights in the roar of torrents, the thunder of avalanches, and the whirl of ocean storms, — so is it in the great answering volume of revelation. There is something there for every phase of man’s nature; and hence its endless vitality and stimulating force. Dred had heard read in the secret meetings of conspirators the wrathful denunciations of ancient prophets against oppression and injustice. He had read of kingdoms convulsed by plagues; of tempest, and pestilence, and locusts; of the sea cleft in twain, that an army of slaves might pass through and of their pursuers whelmed in the returning waters. He had heard of prophets and deliverers, armed with supernatural powers, raised up for oppressed people; had pondered on the nail of Jael, the goad of Shamgar, the pitcher and lamp of Gideon; and thrilled with fierce joy as he read how Samson, with his two strong arms, pulled down the pillars of the festive temple, and whelmed his triumphant persecutors in one grave with himself.

  In the vast solitudes which he daily traversed, these things entered deep into his soul. Cut off from all human companionship, often going weeks without seeing a human face, there was no recurrence of every-day and prosaic ideas to check the current of the enthusiasm thus kindled. Even in the soil of the cool Saxon heart the Bible has thrown out its roots with an all-pervading energy, so that the whole framework of society may be said to rest on soil held together by its fibres. Even in cold and misty England, armies have been made defiant and invincible by the incomparable force and deliberate valor which it breathes into men. But when this Oriental seed, an exotic among us, is planted back in the fiery soil of a tropical heart, it bursts forth with an incalculable ardor of growth.

  A stranger cannot fail to remark the fact that, though the slaves of the South are unable to read the Bible for themselves, yet most completely have its language and sentiment penetrated among them, giving a Hebraistic coloring to their habitual mode of expression. How much greater, then, must have been the force of the solitary perusal of this volume on so impassioned a nature! — a nature, too, kindled by memories of the self-sacrificing ardor with which a father and his associates had met death at the call of freedom; for none of us may deny that, wild and hopeless as this scheme was, it was still the same in kind with the more successful one which purchased for our fathers a national existence.

  A mind of the most passionate energy and vehemence, thus awakened, for years made the wild solitudes of the swamp its home. That book, so full of startling symbols and vague images, had for him no interpreter but the silent courses of nature. His life passed in a kind of dream. Sometimes, traversing for weeks these desolate regions, he would compare himself to Elijah traversing for forty days and nights the solitudes of Horeb; or to John the Baptist in the wilderness, girding himself with camel’s hair, and eating locusts and wild honey. Sometimes he would fast and pray for days; and then voices would seem to speak to him, and strange hieroglyphics would be written upon the leaves. In less elevated moods of mind, he would pursue, with great judgment and vigor, those enterprises necessary to preserve existence. The negroes lying out in the swamps are not so wholly cut off from society as might at first be imagined. The slaves of all the adjoining plantations, whatever they may pretend, to secure the good will of their owners, are at heart secretly disposed, from motives both of compassion and policy, to favor the fugitives. They very readily perceive that, in the event of any difficulty occurring to themselves, it might be quite necessary to have a friend and protector in the swamp; and therefore they do not hesitate to supply these fugitives, so far as they are able, with anything which they may desire. The poor whites, also, who keep small shops in the neighborhood of plantations, are never particularly scrupulous, provided they can turn a penny to their own advantage, and willingly supply necessary wares in exchange for game, with which the swamp abounds.

  Dred, therefore, came in possession of an excellent rifle, and never wanted for ammunition, which supplied him with an abundance of food. Besides this, there are here and there elevated spots in the swampy land, which, by judicious culture, are capable of great productiveness. And many such spots Dred had brought under cultivation, either with his own hands, or from those of other fugitives, whom he had received and protected. From the restlessness of his nature, he had not confined himself to any particular region, hut had traversed the whole swampy belt of both the Carolinas, as well as that of Southern Virginia; residing a few months in one place, and a few months in another. Wherever he stopped, he formed a sort of retreat, where he received and harbored fugitives. On one occasion, he rescued a trembling and bleeding mulatto woman from the dogs of the hunters, who had pursued her into the swamp. This woman he made his wife, and appeared to entertain a very deep affection for her. He made a retreat for her, with more than common ingenuity, in the swamp adjoining the Gordon plantation; and after that, he was more especially known in that locality. He had fixed his eye upon Harry, as a person whose ability, address, and strength of character might make him at some day a leader in a conspiracy against the whites. Harry, in common with many of the slaves on the Gordon plantation, knew perfectly well of the presence of Dred in the neighborhood, and had often seen and conversed with him. But neither he nor any of the rest of them ever betrayed before any white person the slightest knowledge of the fact.

  This ability of profound secrecy is one of the invariable attendants of a life of slavery. Harry was acute enough to know that his position was by no means so secure that he could afford to dispense with anything which might prove an assistance in some future emergency. The low white traders in the neighborhood also knew Dred well; but as long as they could drive an advantageous trade with him he was secure from their intervention. So secure had he been, that he had been even known to mingle in the motley throng of a camp-meeting unmolested. Thus much with regard to one who is to appear often on the stage before our history is done.

  CHAPTER XX

  SUMMER TALK AT CANEMA

  IN the course of a few days the family circle at Canema was enlarged by the arrival of Clayton’s
sister; and Carson, in excellent spirits, had started for a northern watering-place. In answer to Nina’s letter of invitation, Anne had come with her father, who was called to that vicinity by the duties of his profession. Nina received her with her usual gay frankness of manner; and Anne, like many others, soon found herself liking her future sister much better than she had expected. Perhaps, had Nina been in any other situation than that of hostess, her pride might have led her to decline making the agreeable to Anne, whom, notwithstanding, she very much wished to please. But she was mistress of the mansion, and had an Arab’s idea of the privileges of a guest; and so she chatted, sang, and played for her; she took her about, showed her the walks, the arbors, the flower-garden; waited on her in her own apartment, with a thousand little attentions, all the more fascinating from the kind of careless independence with which they were rendered. Besides, Nina had vowed a wicked little vow in her heart that she would ride roughshod over Anne’s dignity; that she wouldn’t let her be grave or sensible, but that she should laugh and frolic with her. And Clayton could scarce help smiling at the success that soon crowned her exertions. Nina’s gayety, when in full tide, had a breezy infectiousness in it, that seemed to stir up every one about her and carry them on the tide of her own spirits; and Anne, in her company, soon found herself laughing at everything and nothing, simply because she felt gay.

  To crown all, Uncle John Gordon arrived, with his cheery, jovial face; and he was one of those fearless, hit-or-miss talkers, that are invaluable in social dilemmas, because they keep something or other all the while in motion.

  With him came Madam Gordon, or, as Nina commonly called her, Aunt Maria. She was a portly, finely formed, middle-aged woman, who might have been handsome, had not the lines of care and nervous anxiety ploughed themselves so deeply in her face. Her bright, keen, hazel eyes, fine teeth, and the breadth of her ample form attested the vitality of the old Virginia stock from whence she sprung.

  “There,” said Nina to Anne Clayton, as they sat in the shady side of the veranda, “I’ve marshaled Aunt Maria up into Aunt Nesbit’s room, and there they will have a comfortable dish of lamentation over me.”

  “Over you?” said Anne.

  “Yes — over me, to be sure! — that’s the usual order of exercises. Such a setting down as I shall get! They’ll count up on their fingers all the things I ought to know and don’t, and ought to do and can’t. I believe that’s the way relatives always show their affection — aunts in particular — by mourning over you.”

  “And what sort of a list will they make out?” said Anne.

  “Oh, bless me, that’s easy enough. Why, there’s Aunt Maria is a perfectly virulent housekeeper — really insane, I believe, on that subject. Why, she chases up every rat and mouse and cockroach, every particle of dust, every scrap of litter. She divides her hours, and is as punctual as a clock. She rules her household with a rod of iron, and makes everybody stand round; and tells each one how many times a day one may wink. She keeps accounts like a very dragon, and always is sure to pounce on anybody that is in the least out of the way. She cuts out clothes by the bale; she sews, and she knits, and she jingles keys. And all this kind of bustle she calls housekeeping! Now, what do you suppose she must think of me, who just put on my hat in the morning, and go sailing down the walks, looking at the flowers, till Aunt Katy calls me back, to know what my orders are for the day?”

  “Pray, who is Aunt Katy?” said Anne.

  “Oh, she is my female prime minister; and she is very much like some prime ministers I have studied about in history, who always contrive to have their own way, let what will come. Now, when Aunt Katy comes and wants to know, so respectfully, ‘What Miss Nina is going to have for dinner,’ do you suppose she has the least expectation of getting anything that I order? She always has fifty objections to anything that I propose. For sometimes the fit comes over me to try to be housekeepy, like Aunt Maria; but it’s no go, I can tell you. So, when she has proved that everything that I propose is the height of absurdity, and shown conclusively that there’s nothing fit to be eaten in the neighborhood, by that time I am reduced to a proper state of mind. And when I humbly say, ‘Aunt Katy, what shall we do?’ then she gives a little cough, and out comes the whole programme, just as she had arranged it the night before. And so it goes. As to accounts, why Harry has to look after them. I detest everything about money, except the spending of it — I have rather a talent for that. Now, just think how awfully all this must impress poor Aunt Maria! What sighings, and rollings up of eyes, and shakings of heads, there are over me! And then, Aunt Nesbit is always dinging at me about improving my mind! And improving my mind means reading some horrid, stupid, boring old book, just as she does! Now, I like the idea of improving my mind. I am sure it wants improving, bad enough; but then, I can’t help thinking that racing through the garden, and cantering through the woods, improves it faster than getting asleep over books. It seems to me that books are just like dry hay — very good when there isn’t any fresh grass to be had. But I’d rather be out and eat what’s growing. Now, what people call nature never bores me; but almost every book I ever saw does. Don’t you think people are made differently? Some like books, and some like things; don’t you think so?”

  “I can give you a good fact on your side of the argument,” said Clayton, who had come up behind them during the conversation.

  “I didn’t know I was arguing; but I shall be glad to have anything on my side,” said Nina, “of course.”

  “Well, then,” said Clayton, “I’ll say that the books that have influenced the world the longest, the widest, and deepest have been written by men who attended to things more than to books; who, as you say, eat what was growing, instead of dry hay. Homer couldn’t have had much to read in his time, nor the poets of the Bible; and they have been fountains for all ages. I don’t believe Shakespeare was much of a reader.”

  “Well, but,” said Anne, “don’t you think that, for us common folks, who are not going to be either Homers or Shakespeares, that it’s best to have two strings to our bow, and to gain instruction both from books and things?”

  “To be sure,” said Clayton, “if we only use books aright. With many people, reading is only a form of mental indolence, by which they escape the labor of thinking for themselves. Some persons are like Pharaoh’s lean kine; they swallow book upon book, but remain as lean as ever.”

  “My grandfather used to say,” said Anne, “that the Bible and Shakespeare were enough for a woman’s library.”

  “Well,” said Nina, “I don’t like Shakespeare, there! I’m coming out flat with it. In the first place, I don’t understand half he says; and then, they talk about his being so very natural! I’m sure I never heard people talk as he makes them. Now, did you ever hear people talk in blank verse, with every now and then one or two lines of rhyme, as his characters do when they go off in long speeches? Now, did you?”

  “As to that,” said Clayton, “it’s about half and half. His conversations have just about the same resemblance to real life that acting at the opera has. It is not natural for Norma to burst into a song when she discovers the treachery of her husband. You make that concession to the nature of the opera, in the first place; and then, with that reserve, all the rest strikes you as natural, and the music gives an added charm to it. So in Shakespeare, you concede that the plays are to be poems, and that the people are to talk in rhythm, and with all the exaltation of poetic sentiment; and that being admitted, their conversations may seem natural.”

  “But I can’t understand a great deal that Shakespeare says,” said Nina.

  “Because so many words and usages are altered since he wrote,” said Clayton. “Because there are so many allusions to incidents that have passed, and customs that have perished, that you have, as it were, to acquire his language before you can understand him. Suppose a poem were written in a foreign tongue; you couldn’t say whether you liked it or disliked it till you could read the language. Now, my opinion is, th
at there is a liking for Shakespeare hidden in your nature, like a seed that has not sprouted.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Oh, I see it in you, just as a sculptor sees a statue in a block of marble.”

  “And are you going to chisel it out?” said Nina.

  “With your leave,” said Clayton. “After all, I like your sincerity in saying what you do think. I have often heard ladies profess an admiration for Shakespeare that I knew couldn’t be real. I knew that they had neither the experience of life nor the insight into human nature really to appreciate what is in him; and that their liking for him was all a worked-up affair, because they felt it would be very shocking not to like him.”

  “Well,” said Nina, “I’m much obliged to you for all the sense you find in my nonsense. I believe I shall keep you to translate my fooleries into good English.”

  “You know I’m quite at your disposal,” said Clayton, “for that or anything else.”

  At this moment the attention of Nina was attracted by loud exclamations from that side of the house where the negro cottages were situated.

  “Get along off! don’t want none o’ yo’ old trash here! No, no, Miss Nina don’t want none o’ yo’ old fish! She’s got plenty of niggers to ketch her own fish.”

  “Somebody taking my name in vain in those regions,” said Nina, running to the other end of the veranda. “Tomtit,” she said to that young worthy, who lay flat on his back, kicking up his heels in the sun, waiting for his knives to clean themselves, “pray tell me what’s going on there!”

  “Laws, missis,” said Tom, “it’s just one of dese yer poor white trash, coming round here trying to sell one thing o”nother. Miss Loo says it won’t do ‘courage ‘em, and I’s de same ‘pinion.”

  “Send him round here to me,” said Nina, who, partly from humanity, and partly from a spirit of contradiction, had determined to take up for the poor white folks, on all occasions. Tomtit ran accordingly, and soon brought to the veranda a man whose wretchedly tattered clothing scarcely formed a decent covering. His cheeks were sunken and hollow, and he stood before Nina with a cringing, half-ashamed attitude; and yet one might see that, with better dress and better keeping, he might be made to assume the appearance of a handsome, intelligent man. “What do you ask for your fish?” she said to him.