Uncle Tom's Cabin

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

Uncle Tom on the stage showed just how easy it was for Americans after the Civil War to forget the moral passion that Mrs. Stowe had brought to her indictment of slavery—a moral passion that in the book is the most powerful antagonist of slavery and one that so worked on people’s feelings from 1852 to the end of the Civil War that no other single book can be said to have contributed so much to the end of slavery.

the more than hundred and thirty years since the book was published to such acclaim and uproar—it will always figure in history as the book that really awoke the middle-class conscience to the horrors of slavery—the issue has shifted from what the white middle-class “feels” to what the descendants of the slaves demand as their political and human rights in our professed democracy.

The secret of all evil was locked within the human heart. So the human heart alone could reckon with it and by purification and redemption of our famous “feelings,” dispose of it.

“Sich’ll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won’t they?” said Andy. “I’d be glad to see it, I’ll be boun’,” said little Jake. “Chil’en!” said a voice, that made them all start. It was Uncle Tom, who had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at the door. “Chil’en,” he said, “I’m afeared you don’t know what ye’re sayin’. Forever is a dre’ful word, chil’en; it’s awful to think on’t. You oughtenter wish that ar to any human crittur.” “We wouldn’t to anybody but the soul-drivers,” said Andy; “nobody can help wishing it to them, they’s so awful wicked.” “Don’t natur herself kinder cry out on ’em?” said Aunt Chloe. “Don’t dey tear der suckin’ baby right off his mother’s breast, and sell him, and der little children as is crying and holding on by her clothes,—don’t dey pull ’em off and sells ’em? Don’t dey tear wife and husband apart?” said Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, “when it’s jest takin’ the very life on ’em?—and all the while does they feel one bit,—don’t dey drink and smoke, and take it oncommon easy? Lor, if the devil don’t get them, what’s he good for?” And Aunt Chloe covered her face with her checked apron, and began to sob in good earnest. “Pray for them that ’spitefully use you, the good book says,” says Tom. “Pray for ’em?” said Aunt Chloe; “Lor, it’s too tough! I can’t pray for ’em.” “It’s natur, Chloe, and natur’s strong,” said Tom, “but the Lord’s grace is stronger; besides, you oughter think what an awful state a poor crittur’s soul’s in that’ll do th...

The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. “Mother” was up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls and boys, whom we had scarce time to introduce to our readers yesterday, and who all moved obediently to Rachel’s gentle “Thee had better,” or more gentle “Hadn’t thee better?” in the work of getting breakfast; for a breakfast in the luxurious valleys of Indiana is a thing complicated and multiform, and, like picking up the rose-leaves and trimming the bushes in Paradise, asking other hands than those of the original mother.

“Thee mustn’t speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon,” said his father, gravely. “The Lord only gives us our worldly goods that we may do justice and mercy; if our rulers require a price of us for it, we must deliver it up.” “Well, I hate those old slaveholders!” said the boy, who felt as unchristian as became any modern reformer. “I am surprised at thee, son,” said Simeon; “thy mother never taught thee so. I would do even the same for the slaveholder as for the slave, if the Lord brought him to my door in affliction.”

But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo was standing, and said, as he relinquished the reins,— “That’s a good boy, Dodo;—thank you!” Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and the tears to his eyes. “Here, Dodo,” said his master, imperiously. Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted. “There’s a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo,” said Henrique; “go get some.” And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo stood looking after the two children. One had given him money; and one had given him what he wanted far more—a kind word, kindly spoken.

Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child’s gradually decaying health and strength, because she was completely absorbed in studying out two or three new forms of disease to which she believed she herself was a victim. It was the first principle of Marie’s belief that nobody ever was or could be so great a sufferer as herself; and, therefore, she always repelled quite indignantly any suggestion that any one around her could be sick. She was always sure, in such a case, that it was nothing but laziness, or want of energy; and that, if they had had the suffering she had, they would soon know the difference.

“I had rather be in heaven; though, only for my friends’ sake, I would be willing to live. There are a great many things here that make me sad, that seem dreadful to me; I had rather be there; but I don’t want to leave you,—it almost breaks my heart!”

“My dear child, you are too sensitive. I’m sorry I ever let you hear such stories.” “O, that’s what troubles me, papa. You want me to live so happy, and never to have any pain,—never suffer anything,—not even hear a sad story, when other poor creatures have nothing but pain and sorrow, all their lives;—it seems selfish. I ought to know such things, I ought to feel about them! Such things always sunk into my heart; they went down deep; I’ve thought and thought about them. Papa, isn’t there any way to have all slaves made free?”

St. Clare found a strange calm coming over him. It was not hope,—that was impossible; it was not resignation; it was only a calm resting in the present, which seemed so beautiful that he wished to think of no future.

“Mr. St. Clare is a singular man,” said Marie to Miss Ophelia, in a complaining tone. “I used to think, if there was anything in the world he did love, it was our dear little Eva; but he seems to be forgetting her very easily. I cannot ever get him to talk about her. I really did think he would show more feeling!” “Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me,” said Miss Ophelia, oracularly.

For how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one’s feeling, does the hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on! Still must we eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again,—still bargain, buy, sell, ask and answer questions,—pursue, in short, a thousand shadows, though all interest in them be over; the cold mechanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it has fled.

He had one of those natures which could better and more clearly conceive

of religious things from its own perceptions and instincts, than many a matter-of-fact and practical Christian. The gift to appreciate and the sense to feel the finer shades and relations of moral things, often seems an attribute of those whose whole life shows a careless disregard of them.

For, so inconsistent is human nature, especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems better than to undertake and come short.

“Why, Tom, don’t you think, for your own part, you’ve been better off than to be free?” “No, indeed, Mas’r St. Clare,” said Tom, with a flash of energy. “No, indeed!” “Why, Tom, you couldn’t possibly have earned, by your work, such clothes and such living as I have given you.” “Knows all that, Mas’r St. Clare; Mas’r’s been too good; but, Mas’r, I’d rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor everything, and have ’em mine, than have the best, and have ’em any man’s else,—I had so, Mas’r; I think it’s natur, Mas’r.”

Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and

honest heart, it bore fruit unto everlasting life. She was more softened, more gentle; and, though equally assiduous in every duty, it was with a chastened and quiet air, as one who communed with her own heart not in vain.

One should have expected some terrible enormities charged to those who are excluded from Heaven, as

the reason; but no,—they are condemned for not doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm.” “Perhaps,” said Miss Ophelia, “it is impossible for a person who does no good not to do harm.”

“Always practical and to the point!” said St. Clare, his face breaking out into a smile. “You never leave me any time for general reflections, cousin; you always bring me short up against the actual present; you have a kind of eternal now, always in your mind.” “Now is all the time I have anything to do with,” said Miss Ophelia.

“Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will voluntarily emancipate?” said Miss Ophelia. “I don’t know,” said St. Clare. “This is a day of great deeds. Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and there, in the earth. The Hungarian nobles set free millions of serfs, at an immense pecuniary loss; and, perhaps, among us may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate honor and justice by dollars and cents.”

We are the more obvious oppressors of the negro; but the unchristian prejudice of the north is an oppressor almost equally severe.”

Tom’s whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and while he ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once think that the sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. He felt at peace about his master; for in that hour, when he had poured forth his prayer into the bosom of his Father, he had found an answer of quietness and assurance springing up within himself. In the depths of his own affectionate nature, he felt able to perceive something of the fullness of Divine love; for an old oracle hath thus written,—"He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.”

“Ho! ho! ho! boys, ho! High—e—oh! high—e—oh!” It was sung very boisterously, and with a forced attempt at merriment, but no wail of despair, no words of impassioned prayer, could have had such a depth of woe in them as the wild notes of the chorus. As if the poor, dumb heart, threatened,—prisoned,—took refuge in that inarticulate sanctuary of music, and found there a language in which to breathe its prayer to God! There was a prayer in it, which Simon could not hear. He only heard the boys singing noisily, and was well pleased; he was making them “keep up their spirits."

Is it strange that the religious peace and trust, which had upborne him hitherto, should give way to tossings of soul and despondent darkness? The gloomiest problem of this mysterious life was constantly before his eyes,— souls crushed and ruined, evil triumphant, and God silent.

obesquiously.

Tom looked up to his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d give ye my heart’s blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, I’d give ’em freely, as the Lord gave His for me. O Mas’r! don’t bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you more than ’twill me! Do the worst you can, my troubles ’ll be over soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours won’t never end!”

escutcheon

magnanimous,

pertinaciously