Uncle Tom’s Cabin

The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart. The vision of the trader came before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck her a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.

“No, no—he has enough to bear, poor fellow!” she thought.” No, I won’t tell him; besides, it an’t true. Missis never deceives us.”

“So, Eliza, my girl,” said the husband mournfully, “bear up, now; and good-bye, for I’m going.”

“Going, George! Going where?”

“To Canada,” said he, straightening himself up; “and when I’m there, I’ll buy you. That’s all the hope that’s left us. You have a kind master, that won’t refuse to sell you. I’ll buy you and the boy—God helping me, I will!”

“Oh, dreadful! if you should be taken?”

“I won’t be taken, Eliza; I’ll die first! I’ll be free, or I’ll die!”

“You won’t kill yourself?”

“No need of that. They will kill me, fast enough; they never will get me down the river alive!”

“Oh, George, for my sake, do be careful! Don’t do anything wicked; don’t lay hands on yourself, or anybody else. You are tempted too much—too much; but don’t—go you must—but go carefully, prudently; pray God to help you.”

“Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas’r took it into his head to send me right by here with a note to Mr. Symmes, that lives a mile past. I believe he expected I should come here to tell you what I have. It would please him if he thought it would aggravate ‘Shelby’s folks,’ as he calls ’em. I’m going home quite resigned, you understand, as if all was over. I’ve got some preparations made—and there are those that will help me; and, in the course of a week or so, I shall be among the missing, some day. Pray for me, Eliza; perhaps the good Lord will hear you.”

“Oh, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in Him; then you won’t do anything wicked.”

“Well, now, good-bye,” said George, holding Eliza’s hands, and gazing into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent; then there were last words, and sobs, and bitter weeping—such parting as those may make whose hope to meet again is as the spider’s web—and the husband and wife were parted.

CHAPTER 4 An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin (#ulink_b90a9ce4-b919-5202-aa71-c1d1ea05f98b)

The cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building close adjoining to “the house,” as the negro par excellence designates his master’s dwelling. In front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, strawberries, raspberries, and a variety of fruits and vegetables flourished under careful tending. The whole front of it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia and a native multiflora rose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left scarce a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in summer, various brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four-o’clocks, found an indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendours, and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe’s heart.

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house is over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as head cook, has left to inferior officers in the kitchen the business of clearing away and washing dishes, and come out into her own snug territories, to “get her ole man’s supper;” therefore, doubt not that it is she you see by the fire, presiding with anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a stew-pan, and anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, whence steam forth indubitable intimations of “something good.” A round, black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that she might have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her whole plump countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, if we must confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the neighbourhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.

A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. Not a chicken or turkey or duck in the barnyard but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end; and certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing, and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised compounders; and she would shake her fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her compeers had made to attain to her elevation.

The arrival of company at the house, the arrangement of dinners and suppers “in style,” awoke all the energies of her soul; and no sight was more welcome to her than a pile of travelling-trunks launched on the verandah, for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs.

Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the bake-pan; in which congenial operation we shall leave her till we finish our picture of the cottage.

In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread; and by the side of it was a piece of carpeting, of some considerable size. On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, so far as possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks. In fact, that corner was the drawing-room of the establishment. In the other corner was a bed of much humbler pretensions, and evidently designed for use. The wall over the fireplace was adorned with some very brilliant scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington, drawn and coloured in a manner which would certainly have astonished that hero, if ever he had happened to meet with its like.

On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headed boys, with glistening black eyes and fat, shining cheeks, were busy in superintending the first walking operations of the baby, which, as is usually the case, consisted in getting up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then tumbling down—each successive failure being violently cheered, as something decidedly clever.

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out in front of the fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and saucers of a decidedly brilliant pattern, with other symptoms of an approaching meal. At this table was seated Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelby’s best hand, who, as he is to be the hero of our story, we must daguerreotype for our readers. He was a large, broad-chested, powerfully-made man, of a full glossy black, and a face whose truly African features were characterised by an expression of grave and steady good sense, united with much kindliness and benevolence. There was something about his whole air self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a confiding and humble simplicity.

He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him, on which he was carefully and slowly endeavouring to accomplish a copy of some letters, in which operation he was overlooked by young Mas’r George, a smart, bright boy of thirteen, who appeared fully to realise the dignity of his position as instructor.

“Not that way, Uncle Tom—not that way,” said he briskly, as Uncle Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his g the wrong side out; “that makes a q, you see,”

“La sakes, now, does it?” said Uncle Tom, looking with a respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly scrawled out q’s and g’s innumerable for his edification; and then, taking the pencil in his big, heavy fingers, he patiently recommenced.

“How easy white folks al’us does things!” said Aunt Chloe, pausing while she was greasing a griddle with a scrap of bacon on her fork, and regarding young Master George with pride.” The way he can write, now! and read, too! and then to come out here evenings and read his lessons to us—it’s mighty interestin’!”

“But, Aunt Chloe, I’m getting mighty hungry,” said George.” Isn’t that cake in the skillet almost done?”

“Mos’ done, Mas’r George,” said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid and peeping in—“browning beautiful—a real lovely brown. Ah! let me alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some cake, t’other day, jest to larn her, she said. ‘Oh, go ’way, missis,’ says I; ‘it really hurts my feelin’s, now, to see good vittles spiled dat ar way!’ Cake ris all to one side—no shape at all; no more than my shoe;—go ’way!”

And with this final expression of contempt for Sally’s greenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper department.

“Here you, Mose and Pete! get out de way, you niggers! Get away, Polly, honey—mammy ’ll give her baby somefin, by and by. Now, Mas’r George, you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old man, and I’ll take up de sausages, and have de first griddleful of cakes on your plates in less dan no time.”

“They wanted me to come to supper in the house,” said George; “but I knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe.”

“So you did—so you did, honey,” said Aunt Chloe, heaping the smoking batter-cakes on his plate; “you know’d your old aunty’d keep the best for you. Oh, let you alone for dat! Go ’way!” and, with that, aunty gave George a nudge with her finger, designed to be immensely facetious, and turned again to her griddle with great briskness.

“Now for the cake,” said Mas’r George, when the activity of the griddle department had somewhat subsided; and, with that, the youngster flourished a large knife over the article in question.

“La bless you, Mas’r George!” said Aunt Chloe, with earnestness, catching his arm, “you wouldn’t be for cuttin’ it wid dat ar great heavy knife! Smash it all down—spile all the pretty rise of it. Here, I’ve got a thin old knife, I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light as a feather! Now, eat away—you won’t get anything to beat dat ar.”

“Tom Lincoln says,” said George, speaking with his mouth full, “that their Jinny is a better cook than you.”

“Dem Lincons an’t much ’count, noway!” said Aunt Chloe contemptuously; “I mean, set alongside our folks. They’s ’spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way; but as to gettin’ up anything in style, they don’t begin to have a notion on’t. Set Mas’r Lincon, now, alongside Mas’r Shelby! Good Lor! and Missis Lincon—can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis—so kinder splendid, yer know! Oh, go ’way! don’t tell me nothin’ of dem Lincons!” and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who hoped she did know something of the world.

“Well, though, I’ve heard you say,” said George, “that Jinny was a pretty fair cook.”

“So I did,” said Aunt Chloe—” I may say dat. Good, plain, common cookin’ Jinny ’ll do; make a good pone o’ bread—bile her taters far—her corn-cakes isn’t extra, not extra now, Jinny’s corn-cakes isn’t, but then they’s far—but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she do? Why, she makes pies—sartin she does; but what kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin’ pies. Jinny and I is good friends, ye know. I never said nothin’; but go ’long, Mas’r George! Why, I shouldn’t sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey warn’t no ’count’t all.”

“I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice,” said George.

“Thought so!—didn’t she? Thar she was showing ’em as innocent—ye see, it’s jest here, Jinny don’t know. Lor, the family an’t nothing! She can’t be ’spected to know! ’Tan’t no fault o’ hern. Ah, Mas’r George, you doesn’t know half your privileges in yer family and bringin’ up!” Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion.

“I’m sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and pudding privileges,” said George. “Ask Tom Lincoln if I don’t crow over him, every time I meet him.”

Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a hearty guffaw of laughter at this witticism of young mas’r’s, laughing till the tears rolled down her black shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully slapping and poking Mas’r Georgy, and telling him to go ’way, and that he was a case—that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill her, one of these days; and, between each of these sanguinary predictions, going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than the other, till George really began to think that he was a very dangerously witty fellow, and that it became him to be careful how he talked “as funny as he could.”

“And so ye telled Tom, did ye? Oh, Lor! what young uns will be up ter! Ye crowed over Tom? Oh, Lor! Mas’r George, if ye wouldn’t make a horn-bug laugh!”

“Yes,” said George, “I says to him, ‘Tom, you ought to see some of Aunt Chloe’s pies; they’re the right sort,’ says I.”

“Pity now, Tom couldn’t,” said Aunt Chloe, on whose benevolent heart the idea of Tom’s benighted condition seemed to make a strong impression. “Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner, some o’ these times, Mas’r George,” she added; “it would look quite pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas’r George, ye oughtenter feel ‘bove nobody, on ’count yer privileges, ’cause all our privileges is gi’n to us; we ought al’ays to ’member that,” said Aunt Chloe, looking quite serious.

“Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week,” said George; “and you do your prettiest, Aunt Chloe, and we’ll make him stare. Won’t we make him eat so he won’t get over it for a fortnight?”

“Yes, yes—sartin,” said Aunt Chloe, delighted; “you’ll see. Lor! to think of some of our dinners! Yer mind dat ar great chicken pie I made when we guv de dinner to General Knox? I and missis, we come pretty near quarrelling about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies sometimes, I don’t know; but, sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o’ ’sponsibility on ’em, as ye may say, and is all kinder seris and taken up, dey takes dat ar time to be hangin’ round and kinder interferin’! Now, missis, she wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me to do dat way; and, finally, I got kinder sarcy, and, says I, ‘Now, missis, do jist look at dem beautiful white hands o’ yourn, with long fingers, and all a-sparkling with rings, like my white lilies when de dew’s on ’em; and look at my great black stumpin’ hands. Now, don’t ye think dat de Lord must have meant me to make de piecrust, and you to stay in de parlour?’ Dar! I was jist so sarcy, Mas’r George.”

“And what did mother say?” said George.

“Say?—why, she kinder larfed in her eyes—dem great handsome eyes o’ hern; and, says she, ‘Well, Aunt Chloe, I think you are about in the right on’t,’ says she; and she went off in de parlour. She oughter cracked me over de head for being so sarcy; but dar’s whar ’tis—I can’t do nothin’ with ladies in de kitchen!

“Well, you made out well with that dinner—I remember everybody said so,” said George.