Many were the pleasant descriptions of her home sent forth to tempt her friends away from the busy North. “Here is where we read books,” she said in one of her letters, written in the month of March. “Up North nobody does, — they don’t have time; so if —— will mail his book to Mandarin, I will ‘read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.’ We are having a carnival of flowers. I hope you read my ‘Palmetto Leaves,’ for then you will see all about us…. Our home is like a martin-box…. I cannot tell you the quaint odd peace we have here in living under the oak. ‘Behold, she dwelleth under the oak at Mamre.’ All that we want is friends, to whom we may say that solitude is sweet. We have some neighbors, however, who have made pretty places near us. Mr. Stowe keeps up a German class of three young ladies, with whom he is reading Faust for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, and in the evening I read aloud to a small party of the neighbors. We have made up our home as we went along, throwing out a chamber here and there, like twigs out of the old oak…. The orange blossoms have come like showers of pearl, and the yellow jessamine like golden fleeces, and the violets and the lilies, and azaleas. This is glorious, budding, blossoming spring, and we have days when merely to breathe and be is to be blessed. I love to have a day of mere existence. Life itself is a pleasure when the sun shines warm, and the lizards dart from all the shingles of the roof, and the birds sing in so many notes and tones the yard reverberates; and I sit and dream and am happy, and never want to go back North, nor do anything with the toiling, snarling world again. I do wish I could gather you both in my little nest.”
She was like her father, Dr. Lyman Beecher, in many things. The scorching fire of the brain seemed to devour its essence, and she endured, as he did before her, some years of existence when the motive power almost ceased to act. She became “like a little child,” wandering about, pleased with flowers, fresh air, the sound of a piano, or a voice singing hymns, but the busy, inspiring spirit was asleep.
Gradually she faded away, shrouded in this strange mystery, hovered over by the untiring affection of her children, sweet and tender in her decadence, but “absent.”
At the moment when this brief memorial was receiving a final revision before going to the press, the news reached me of the unloosing of the last threads of consciousness which bound Mrs. Stowe to this world.
The sweetness and patience of her waiting years can only be perfectly told by the daughters who hung over her. She knew her condition, but there was never a word of complaint, and so long as her husband lived she performed the office of nurse and attendant upon his lightest wishes as if she felt herself strong. Her near friends were sometimes invited to dine or to have supper with her at that period, but they could see even then how prostrated she became after the slightest mental effort. It was upon occasion of such a visit that she told me, with a twinkle of the eye, that “Mr. Stowe was sometimes inclined to be a little fretful during the long period of his illness, and said to her one day that he believed the Lord had forgotten him.” “Oh, no, He hasn’t,” she answered; “cheer up! your turn will come soon.”
She was always fond of music, especially of the one kind she had known best; and the singing of hymns never failed to soothe her at the last; therefore when the little group stood round her open grave on a lovely July day and sang quite simply the hymns she loved, it seemed in its simplicity and broken harmony a fitting farewell to the faded body she had already left so far behind.
A great spirit has performed its mission and has been released. The world moves on unconscious; but the world’s children have been blessed by her coming, and they who know and understand should praise God reverently in her going. “As a teil tree, and as an oak, whose substance is in them, when they cast their leaves: so the holy seed shall be the substance thereof.” In the words of the prophet we can almost hear her glad cry: —
“My sword shall be bathed in heaven.”
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE by Seth Curtis Beach
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
When the authoress 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 attitude 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 authoress 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 assurance 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 niggers with hard work and starving? There’s time for ye; be off with Lizzy, you’ve got a pass 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 ejaculations, “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 ejaculation. 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 God gives only to the desperate, with one wild and flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the current by the shore, 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!”
“My child! — this boy — he’d sold him! There is his mas’r,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. “Oh, Mr. Symmes, you’ve got a little boy.”
“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly but kindly helped her up the bank. “Besides, you’re a right brave gal. I’d be glad to do something for you. The best thing I can do is to tell you to go there,” pointing to a large white house, standing by itself, “they’re kind folks. There’s no kind o’ danger but they’ll help you — they’re up to all that sort of thing.”
“The Lord bless you!” said Eliza earnestly, and folding her child to her bosom, walked firmly away.
Late that night the fugitives were driven to the house of a man who had once been a considerable shareholder in Kentucky; but, being possessed of a great, honest, just heart, he had witnessed for years with uneasiness the workings of a system equally bad for oppressors and oppressed, and one day bought some land in Ohio, made out free passes for all his people, and settled down to enjoy his conscience. He conveyed Eliza to a Quaker settlement, where by the help of these good friends she was joined by her husband and soon landed in Canada. Free!
III. — The Property Is Carried Off
An unceremonious kick pushed open the door of Uncle Tom’s cabin, and Mr. Haley stood there in very ill humour after his hard riding and ill success.
/> “Come, ye nigger, ye’r ready. Servant, ma’am!” said he, taking off his hat as he saw Mrs. Shelby, who detained him a few moments. Speaking in an earnest manner, she made him promise to let her know to whom he sold Tom; while Tom rose up meekly, and his wife took the baby in her arms, her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks of fire, to go with him to the wagon: “Get in,” said Haley, and Tom got in, when Haley made fast a heavy pair of shackles round each ankle; a groan of indignation ran round the crowd of servants gathered to bid Tom farewell. Mr. Shelby had gone away on business, hoping all would be over before he returned.
“Give my love to Mas’r George,” said Tom earnestly, as he was whirled away, fixing a steady, mournful look to the last on the old place. Tom insensibly won his way far into the confidence of such a man as Mr. Haley, and on the steamboat was permitted to come and go freely where he pleased. Among the passengers was a young gentleman of New Orleans whose little daughter often and often walked mournfully round the place where Haley’s gang of men and women were chained. To Tom she appeared almost divine; he half believed he saw one of the angels stepped out of his New Testament, and they soon got on confidential terms. As the steamer drew near New Orleans Mr. St. Clare, carelessly putting the tip of his finger under Tom’s chin, said good-humouredly, “Look up, Tom, and see how you like your new master.”
It was not in nature to look into that gay, handsome young face without pleasure, and Tom said heartily, “God bless you, Mas’r.”
Eva’s fancy for him had led her to petition her father that Tom might be her special attendant in her walks and rides. He was called coachman, but his stable duties were a sinecure; struck with his good business capacity, his master confided in him more and more, till gradually all the providing for the family was entrusted to him. Tom regarded his airy young master with an odd mixture of fealty, reverence and fatherly solicitude, and his friendship with Eva grew with the child’s growth; but his home yearnings grew so strong that he tried to write a letter — so unsuccessfully that St. Clare offered to write for him, and. Tom had the joy of receiving an answer from Master George, stating that Aunt Chloe had been hired out, at her own request, to a confectioner, and was gaining vast sums of money, all of which was to be laid by for Tom’s redemption.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 976
