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Chapter XI.—In which Property gets into an improper state of mind.
It was late in a drizzly afternoon, that a traveller alighted at the door of a small country hotel in the village of N——, in Kentucky. In the bar-room he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company, whom stress of weather had driven to harbor, and the place presented the usual scenery of such reunions. Great, tall, raw-boned Kentuckians, attired in hunting-shirts, and trailing their loose joints over a vast extent of territory, with the easy lounge peculiar to the race—rifles stacked away in the corner, shot-pouches, game-bags, hunting dogs, and little negroes, all rolled together in the corners, were the characteristic features in the picture. At each end of the fireplace sat a long-legged gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his hat on his head, and the heels of his muddy boots reposing sublimely on the mantel-piece—a position, we will inform our readers, decidedly favorable to the turn of reflection incident to Western taverns, where travellers exhibit a decided preference for this particular mode of elevating their understandings. Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his countrymen, was great of stature, good-natured, and loose jointed, with an enormous shock of hair on his head, and a great, tall hat on the top of that. In fact, everybody in the room bore on his head this characteristic emblem of man’s sovereignty; whether it were felt hat, palm leaf, greasy beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it reposed with true republican independence. In fact, it appeared to be the characteristic mark of every individual. Some wore them tipped rakishly to one side—these were your men of humor, jolly, free-and-easy dogs; some had them jammed independently down over their noses—these were your hard characters, thorough men, who, when they wore their hats, wanted to wear them, and to wear them just as they had a mind to; there were those who had them set far over back—wide-awake men, who wanted a clear prospect, while careless men, who did not know or care how their hats sat, had them shaking about in all directions. The various hats, in fact, were quite a Shakspearean study. Divers negroes in very free-and-easy pantaloons, and with no redundancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither and thither, without bringing to pass any very particular results, except expressing a genuine willingness to turn over everything in creation generally, for the benefit of mass’r and his guests. Add to this picture, a jolly, crackling, rollocking fire, going rejoicingly up a great wide chimney, the outer door and every window being set wide open, and the calico window-curtain flopping and snapping in a good stiff breeze of damp, raw air, and you have an idea of the jollities of a Kentucky tavern.
Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustration of the doctrine of transmitted instincts and peculiarities. His fathers were mighty hunters—men who lived in the woods, and slept under the free open heavens, with the stars to hold their candles, and their descendant to this day always acts as if the house were his camp, wears his hat at all hours, tumbles himself about, and puts his heels on the tops of chairs or mantel-pieces, just as his father rolled on the greensward, and put his upon trees and logs—keeps all the windows and doors open, winter and summer, that he may get air enough for his great lungs, calls everybody “stranger” with nonchalant bonhommie, and is altogether the frankest, easiest, most jovial creature living.
Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller entered. He was a short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with a round, good-natured countenance, and something rather fussy and particular in his appearance. He was very careful of his valise and umbrella, bringing them in with his own hands, and resisting pertinaciously all offers from the various servants to relieve him of them. He looked round the bar-room with rather an anxious air, and retreating with his valuables to the warmest corner, disposed them under his chair, sat down, and looked rather apprehensively up at the worthy whose heels illustrated the end of the mantel-piece, who was spitting from right to left with a courage and energy rather alarming to gentlemen of weak nerves and particular habits.
“I say, stranger, how are ye?” said the aforesaid gentleman, firing an honorary salute of tobacco juice in the direction of the new arrival.
“Well, I reckon,” was the reply of the other, as he dodged with some alarm the threatening honor.
“Any news?” said the respondent, taking out a strip of tobacco and a large hunting-knife from his pocket.
“Not that I know of,” said the man.
“Chaw?” said the stranger, handing the old gentleman a bit of his tobacco, with a decidedly brotherly air.
“No, thank ye—it don’t agree with me,” said the little man, edging off.
“Don’t, eh?” said the other, easily, and stowing away the morsel in his own mouth, in order to keep up the supply of tobacco juice for the general benefit of society.
The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start whenever his long-sided brother fired in his direction; and this being observed by his companion, he very good-naturedly turned his artillery to another quarter, and proceeded to storm one of the fire irons with a degree of military talent fully sufficient to take a city.
“What’s that?” said the old gentleman, observing some of the company formed in a group around a large handbill.
“Nigger advertised!” said one of the company, briefly.
Mr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman’s name, rose up, and, after carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella, proceeded deliberately to take out his spectacles and fix them on his nose, and this operation being performed, read as follows:
“Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George six feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair, is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write, will probably try to pass for a white man, is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders, has been branded in his right hand with the letter H.
“I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the same sum for satisfactory proof that he has been killed.”
The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to end, in a low voice, as if he were studying it.
The long legged veteran, who had been besieging the fire-iron, as before related, now took down his cumbrous length, and, rearing aloft his tall form, walked up to the advertisement, and very deliberately spit a full discharge of tobacco juice on it.
“There’s my mind upon that!” said he, briefly, and sat down again.
“Why, now, stranger, what’s that for?” said mine host.
“I’d do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he was here,” said the long man, resuming his old employment of cutting tobacco. “Any man that owns a boy like that, and can’t find any better way o’ treating on him, deserves to lose him. Such papers as these is a shame to Kentucky; that’s my mind, right out, if anybody wants to know.”
“Well, now, that’s a fact,” said mine host, as he made an entry in his book.
“I’ve got a gang of boys, sir,” said the long man, resuming his attack on the fire-irons, “and I jest tells em—boys, says I—run now! dig! put! jest when ye want to! I never shall come to look after you!’ That’s the way I keep mine. Let em know they are free to run any time, and it jest breaks up their wanting to. More’n all, I’ve got free papers for em all recorded, in case I gets keeled up any o’ these times, and they knows it; and I tell ye, stranger, there aint a fellow in our parts gets more out of his niggers than I do. Why, my boys have been to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars’ worth of colts, and brought me back the money, all straight, time and agin. It stands to reason they should. Treat em like dogs, and you’ll have dogs’ works and dogs’ actions. Treat em like men, and you’ll have men’s work.” And the honest drover, in his warmth, endorsed this moral sentiment by firing a perfect feu de joie at the fireplace.
“I think you’re altogether right, friend,” said Mr. Wilson; “and this boy described here is a fine fellow—no mistake about that. He worked for me some half-dozen years in my bagging factory, and he was my best hand, sir. He is an ingenious fellow, too: he invented a machine for the cleaning of hemp—a really valuable affair; it’s gone into use in several factories. His master holds the patent of it.”
“I’ll warrant ye,” said the drover, “holds it and makes money out of it, and then turns round and brands the boy in his right hand. If I had a fair chance, I’d mark him, I reckon, so that he’d carry it one while.”
“These yer knowin boys is allers aggravatin and sarcy,” said a coarse-looking fellow, from the other side of the room; “that’s why they gets cut up and marked so. If they behaved themselves, they wouldn’t.”
“That is to say, the Lord made em men, and it’s a hard squeeze getting em down into beasts,” said the drover, dryly.
“Bright niggers isn’t no kind of ’vantage to their masters,” continued the other, well entrenched, in a coarse, unconscious obtuseness, from the contempt of his opponent; “what’s the use o’ talents and them things, if you can’t get the use on em yourself? Why, all the use they make on’t is to get round you. I’ve had one or two of these fellers, and I jest sold em down river. I knew I’d got to lose em first or last, if I didn’t.”
“Better send orders up to the Lord, to make you a set, and leave out their souls entirely,” said the drover.
Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of a small one-horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appearance, and a well-dressed gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with a colored servant driving.
The whole party examined the new comer with the interest with which a set of loafers in a rainy day usually examine every new comer. He was very tall, with a dark, Spanish complexion—fine, expressive black eyes—and close-curling hair, also of a glossy blackness. His well-formed aquiline nose, strait thin lips, and the admirable contour of his finely-formed limbs, impressed the whole company instantly with the idea of something uncommon. He walked easily in among the company, and with a nod indicated to his waiter where to place his trunk, bowed to the company, and then with his hat in his hand walked up leisurely to the bar, and gave in his name as Henry Butler, Oaklands, Shelby county. Turning with an indifferent air, he sauntered up to the advertisement, and read it over.
“Jim,” he said to his man, “seems to me we met a boy something like this up at Bernan’s, didn’t we?”
“Yes, mass’r,” said Jim, “only I aint sure bout the hand.”
“Well, I didn’t look, of course,” said the stranger, with a careless yawn. Then walking up to the landlord, he desired him to furnish him with a private apartment, as he had some writing to do immediately.
The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about seven negroes, old and young, male and female, little and big, were soon whizzing about, like a covey of partridges, bustling, hurrying, treading on each others’ toes, and tumbling over each other, in their zeal to get mass’r’s room ready, while he seated himself easily on a chair in the middle of the room, and entered into conversation with the man who sat next to him.
The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance of the stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and uneasy curiosity. He seemed to himself to have met and been acquainted with him somewhere, but he could not recollect. Every few moments, when the man spoke, or moved, or smiled, he would start and fix his eyes on him, and then suddenly withdraw them, as the bright, dark eyes met his with such unconcerned coolness. At last a sudden recollection seemed to flash upon him, for he stared at the stranger with such an air of blank amazement and alarm, that he walked up to him.
“Mr. Wilson, I think,” said he, in a tone of recognition, and extending his hand. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t recollect you before. I see you remember me—Mr. Butler, of Oaklands, Shelby county.”
“Ye—yes—yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking in a dream.
Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that mass’r’s room was ready.
“Jim, see to the trunks,” said the gentleman, negligently; then addressing himself to Mr. Wilson, he added—“I should like to have a few moments’ conversation with you on business, in my room, if you please.”
Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep; and they proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new-made fire was crackling, and various servants flying about, putting finishing touches to the arrangements.
When all was done, and the servants departed, the young man deliberately locked the door, and putting the key in his pocket, faced about, and folding his arms on his bosom, looked Mr. Wilson full in the face.
“George!” said Mr. Wilson.
“Yes, George,” said the young man.
“I couldn’t have thought it!”
“I am pretty well disguised, I fancy,” said the young man, with a smile—“a little walnut bark has made my yellow skin a genteel brown, and I’ve dyed my hair black, so you see I don’t answer to the advertisement at all.”
“Oh, George! but this is a dangerous game you are playing. I could not have advised you to it.”
“I can do it on my own responsibility,” said George, with the same proud smile.
We remark, en passant, that George was, by his father’s side, of white descent. His mother was one of those unfortunates of her race, marked out by personal beauty to be the slave of the passions of her possessor, and the mother of children who may never know a father. From one of the proudest families in Kentucky he had inherited a set of fine European features, and a high, indomitable spirit. From his mother he had received only a slight mulatto tinge, amply compensated by its accompanying rich, dark eye. A slight change in the tint of the skin and the color of his hair had metamorphosed him into the Spanish-looking fellow he then appeared; and as gracefulness of movement and gentlemanly manners had always been perfectly natural to him, he found no difficulty in playing the bold part he had adopted—that of a gentleman travelling with his domestic.
Mr. Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety and cautious old gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing, as John Bunyan hath it, “much tumbled up and down in his mind,” and divided between his wish to help George, and a certain confused notion of maintaining law and order—so, as he shambled about, he delivered himself as follows:
“Well, George, I s’pose you’re running away—leaving your lawful master, George—(I don’t wonder at it)—at the same time I’m sorry, George, yes, decidedly—I think I must say that, George—it’s my duty to tell you so.”
“Why are you sorry, sir?” said George, calmly.
“Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposition to the laws of your country.”
“My country!” said George, with a strong and bitter emphasis; “what country have I but the grave—and I wish to God that I was laid there!”
“Why, George, no—no—it won’t do—this way of talking is wicked—unscriptural. George, you’ve got a hard master—in fact he is—well—he conducts himself reprehensibly—I can’t pretend to defend him. But you know how the angel commanded Hagar to return to her mistress, and submit herself under her hand; and the Apostle sent back Onesimus to his master.”
“Don’t quote Bible at me that way, Mr. Wilson,” said George, with a flashing eye, “don’t—for my wife is a Christian, and I mean to be, if ever I get to where I can; but to quote Bible to a fellow in my circumstances is enough to make him give it up altogether. I appeal to God Almighty—I’m willing to go with the case to Him, and ask Him if I do wrong to seek my freedom.”
“These feelings are quite natural, George,” said the good-natured man, blowing his nose. “Yes, they’re natural; but it is my duty not to encourage em in you. Yes, my boy, I’m sorry for you now; it’s a bad case, very bad—but the Apostle says, ‘let every one abide in the condition in which he is called.’ We must all submit to the indications of Providence, George—don’t you see?”
George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded tightly over his broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his lips.
“I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and take you a prisoner away from your wife and children, and want to keep you all your life hoeing corn for them, if you’d think it your duty to abide in the condition in which you were called. I rather think that you’d think the first stray horse you could find an indication of Providence—shouldn’t you?”
The little old gentleman stared with both eyes at this illustration of the case; but, though not much of a reasoner, he had the sense in which some logicians on this particular subject excel—that of saying nothing where nothing could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking his umbrella, and folding and patting down all the creases in it, he proceeded on with his exhortations in a general way.
“You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood your friend, and whatever I’ve said I’ve said for your good. Now, here it seems to me you’re running an awful risk—you can’t hope to carry it out—if you’re taken, it will be worse with you than ever—they’ll only abuse you, and half kill you, and sell you down river.”
“Mr. Wilson, I know all this,” said George. “I do run a risk, but”—he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pistols and a bowie knife. “There!” he said, “I’m ready for em! Down South I never will go. No! if it comes to that, I can earn myself at least six feet of free soil—the first and last I shall ever own in Kentucky.”
“Why, George, this state of mind is awful; it’s getting really desperate, George. I’m concerned. Going to break the laws of your country!”
“My country again! Mr. Wilson, you have a country; but what country have I, or any one like me, born of slave mothers? What laws are there for us? We don’t make them—we don’t consent to them—we have nothing to do with them—all they do for us is to crush us, and keep us down. Haven’t I heard your fourth of July speeches? Don’t you tell us all once a year that Governments derive their just power from the consent of the governed? Can’t a fellow think that hears such things? Can’t he put this and that together, and see what it comes to?”
Mr. Wilson’s mind was one of those that may not unaptly be represented by a bale of cotton—downy, soft, benevolently fuzzy and confused. He really pitied George with all his heart, and had a sort of dim and cloudy perception of the style of feeling that agitated him, but he deemed it his duty to go on talking good to him with infinite pertinacity.
“George, this is bad. I must tell you, you know, as a friend, you’d better not be meddling with such notions; they are bad, George, very bad, for boys in your condition—very;” and Mr. Wilson sat down to a table, and began nervously chewing the handle of his umbrella.
“See here, now, Mr. Wilson,” said George, coming up and sitting himself down determinately in front of him; “look at me now. Don’t I sit before you every way just as much a man as you are? Look at my face—look at my hands—look at my body,” and the young man drew himself up proudly; “why am I not a man as much as anybody? Well, Mr. Wilson, hear what I can tell you. I had a father—one of your Kentucky gentlemen—who didn’t think enough of me to keep me from being sold with his dogs and horses to satisfy the estate when he died. I saw my mother put up at sheriff’s sale, with her seven children. They were sold before her eyes, one by one, all to different masters; and I was the youngest. She came and kneeled down before old mass’r, and begged him to buy her, with me, that she might have at least one child with her, and he kicked her away with his heavy boot. I saw him do it; and the last that I heard was her moans and screams, when I was tied to his horse’s neck to be carried off to his place.”
“My master traded with one of the men, and bought my oldest sister. She was a pious, good girl—a member of the Baptist church—and as handsome as my poor mother had been. At first I was glad she was bought, for I had one friend near me; but—she was well brought up, and had good manners—I was soon sorry for it. Sir, I have stood at the door and heard her whipped, when it seemed as if every blow cut into my naked heart, and I couldn’t do anything to help her; and she was whipped, sir, for wanting to live a decent and Christian life, such as your laws give no slave girl a right to live; and at last I saw her chained with a trader’s gang to be sent to market in Orleans—sent there for nothing else but that—and that’s the last I know of her. Well, I grew up—long years and years—no father, no mother, no sister, not a living soul that cared for me more than a dog—nothing but whipping, scolding, starving. Why, sir, I’ve been so hungry that I’ve been glad to take the bones they threw to their dogs; and yet when I was a little fellow, and laid awake whole nights and cried, it wasn’t the hunger, it wasn’t the whipping, I cried for. No, sir—it was for my mother and my sisters—it was because I hadn’t a friend to love me on earth. I never knew what peace or comfort was. I never had a kind word spoken to me till I came to work in your factory. Mr. Wilson, you treated me well, you encouraged me to do well, and to learn to read and write, and to try to make something of myself, and God knows how grateful I am for it. Then, sir, I found my wife; you’ve seen her; you know how beautiful she is. When I found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely could believe I was alive, I was so happy; and, sir, she is as good as she is beautiful. But now what? Why, now comes my master—takes me right away from my work and my friends and all I like, and grinds me down into the very dirt! And why? Because, he says, I forgot who I was—he says, to teach me that I am only a nigger! After all, and last of all, he comes between me and my wife, and says I shall give her up, and live with another woman. And all this your laws give him power to do, in spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it! There isn’t one of all these things, that have broken the hearts of my mother and my sister, and my wife and myself, but your laws allow and give every man power to do in Kentucky, and none can say to him nay! Do you call these the laws of my country? Sir, I haven’t any country, any more than I have any father. But I’m going to have one. I don’t want anything of your country, except to be let alone—to go peaceably out of it; and when I get to Canada, where the laws will own me and protect me, that shall be my country, and its laws I will obey. But if any man tries to stop me, let him take care, for I am desperate. I’ll fight for my liberty to the last breath I breathe. You say your fathers did it; if it was right for them, it is right for me!”
This speech, delivered partly while sitting at the table, and partly walking up and down the room, delivered with tears and flashing eyes and despairing features, was altogether too much for the good-natured old body to whom it was addressed, who had pulled out a great yellow silk pocket handkerchief, and was mopping up his face with great energy.
“Blast em all!” he suddenly broke out, “haven’t I always said so! the infernal old cusses. I hope I ain’t swearing now. Well! go ahead, George, go ahead; but be careful, my boy; don’t shoot anybody, George, unless—well—you’d bet-
ter not shoot, I reckon; at least I wouldn’t hit anybody, you know. Where is your wife, George?” he added, as he nervously rose and began walking the room.
“Gone, sir, gone with her child in her arms, the Lord only knows where—gone after the north star; and when we ever meet, or whether we meet at all in this world, no creature can tell.”
“Is it possible! astonishing! from such a kind family?”
“Well, well,” said the honest old man, fumbling in his pocket, “I spose, perhaps, I aint following my judgment—hang it, I won’t follow it!” he added, suddenly; “so here, George,” and, taking out a roll of bills from his pocket-book, he offered them to George.
“No, my kind, good sir!” said George, “you’ve done a great deal for me, and this might get you into trouble. I have money enough, I hope, to take me as far as I need it.”
“No; but you must, George; money is a great help everywhere—can’t have too much, if you get it honestly. Take it—do take it now—do, my boy.”
“On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time, I will,” said George, taking up the money.
“And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this way—not long or far, I hope. It’s well carried on, but too bold. And this black fellow—who is he?”
“A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year ago. He heard, after he got there, that his master was so angry at him for going off that he had whipped his poor old mother, and he has come all the way back to comfort her, and get a chance to get her away.”
“Has he got her?”
“Not yet; he has been hanging about the place, and found no chance yet. Meanwhile he is going with me as far as Ohio, to put me among friends that helped him, and then he will come back after her.”
“Dangerous, very dangerous,” said the old man.
George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully.
The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sort of innocent wonder.
“George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up your head, and speak and move like another man,” said Mr. Wilson.
“Because I’m a freeman!” said George, proudly. “Yes, sir—I’ve said mass’r for the last time to any man. I’m free!”
“Take care; you are not sure; you may be taken.”
“All men are free and equal in the grave, if it comes to that, Mr. Wilson,” said George.
“I’m perfectly dumb-foundered with your boldness!” said Mr. Wilson—“to come right here to the nearest tavern!”
“Mr. Wilson, it is so bold, and this tavern is so near, that they will never think of it; they will look for me on ahead, and you yourself wouldn’t know me. Jim’s master don’t live in this county—he isn’t known in these parts; besides, he is given up; nobody is looking after him, and nobody will take me up from the advertisement, I think.”
“But the mark in your hand?”
George drew off his glove, and showed a newly healed scar in his hand—
“That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris’s regard,” he said, scornfully. “A fortnight ago he took it into his head to give it to me, because he said he believed I should try to get away one of these days. Looks interesting, doesn’t it?” he said, drawing his glove on again.
“I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it! your condition and your risks!” said Mr. Wilson.
“Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson; at present it’s about up to the boiling point,” said George.
“Well, my good sir,” continued George, after a few moments’ silence, “I saw you knew me; I thought I’d just have this talk with you, lest your surprised looks should bring me out. I leave early to-morrow morning, before daylight; by to-morrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio. I shall travel by daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the dinner tables with the lords of the land. So good bye, sir; if you hear that I’m taken, you may know that I’m dead!”
George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of a prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily, and after a little shower of cautions, he took his umbrella and fumbled his way out of the room.
George stood thoughtfully looking at the door as the old man closed it. A thought seemed to flash across his mind. He hastily stepped to it, and opening it, said—
“Mr. Wilson, one word more.”
The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, locked the door, and then stood for a few moments looking on the floor, irresolutely. At last, raising his head with a sudden effort,
“Mr. Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian in your treatment of me. I want to ask one last deed of Christian kindness of you.”
“Well, sir—what you said was true. I am running a dreadful risk. There aint on earth a living soul to care if I die,” he added, drawing his breath hard, and speaking with a great effort. “I shall be kicked out and buried like a dog, and nobody’ll think of it a day after—only my poor wife! Poor soul! she’ll mourn and grieve; and if you’d only contrive, Mr. Wilson, to send this little pin to her. She gave it to me for a Christmas present, poor child! Give it to her, and tell her I loved her to the last. Will you? Will you?” he added, earnestly.
“Yes, certainly—poor fellow,” said the old gentleman, taking the pin, with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in his voice.
“Tell her one thing,” said George; “it’s my last wish, if she can get to Canada, to go there. No matter how kind her mistress is, no matter how much she loves her home, beg her not to go back—for slavery always ends in misery. Tell her to bring up our boy a free man, and then he won’t suffer as I have. Tell her this, Mr. Wilson, will you?”
“Yes, George, I’ll tell her; but I trust you won’t die; take heart—you’re a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I wish in my heart you were safe through, though—that’s what I do.”
“Is there a God to trust in?” said George, in such a tone of bitter despair as arrested the old gentleman’s words. “Oh, I’ve seen things all my life that have made me feel that there can’t be a God. You Christians don’t know how these things look to us. There’s a God for you, but is there any for us?”
“Oh, now, don’t—don’t, my boy,” said the old man, almost sobbing as he spoke; “don’t feel so! There is—there is; clouds and darkness are around about him, but righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne. There’s a God, George—believe it; trust in him, and I’m sure He’ll help you. Everything will be set right—if not in this life, in another.”
The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man invested him with a temporary dignity and authority as he spoke. George stopped his distracted walk up and down the room, stood thoughtfully a moment, and then said, quietly—
“Thank you for saying that, my good friend; I’ll think of that.”
[to be continued.]
This Stowe Center edition reproduces the National Era serial text of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The wording of the newspaper in many cases differs from publisher John P. Jewett’s first edition. At the conclusion of each installment, notes are provided on a small selection of textual variants, those which have the greatest interpretive significance. The model for these notes is editor John Bryant’s concept of fluid-text editing, which foregrounds the interpretation of textual variants as an act of critical reading. Readers who hold alternate interpretations are encouraged to submit comments to the blog. For general comments on the text and the bibliography, see the Note on the Text.
independence. In fact, it appeared | Era pg. 129
independence. In truth, it appeared | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 155
The phrase “In fact” in the Era affirms that hats are markers for each individual Kentuckian. With the revision to “In truth” for the Jewett edition Stowe offers a more emphatic affirmation of the hyperbolic claim that hats are markers for character types. The revision removes the repetition of “In fact,” the phrase that begins the previous sentence in both versions. Stowe during the preparation of the Jewett edition text did seek to avoid instances of clumsy repetition of words or phrases in the narrator’s voice, so this revision for the book is attributable to Stowe. [Back]
expressing a genuine willingness to | Era pg. 129
expressing a generic willingness to | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 155
In the Era, the black servants (slaves) in the tavern “turn over everything in creation generally” to satisfy the customer: they do so with “genuine willingness.” In the Jewett edition, the servants’ willingness is “generic,” attributed to black servants as a class. Both word forms advance a satiric view of the actions as being marked by fervency but achieving no practical effect, a quality common to many group efforts in Stowe’s text, slave or not. Stowe ascribes qualities to black characters as a group frequently—such as religiosity and affection for home and family—but her generic qualities often connect racial characteristics to the horrors of slavery as a sign that slavery violates natural qualities in those effected. For this alteration of text in Jewett edition, the “generic” qualities of servants cannot be linked to a critique of slavery. Stowe presumably chooses in revision to add for humor the rhetoric of natural subserviency of blacks. She thereby indulges—as she does elsewhere—the racist stereotype of natural subserviency that had been used to justify slavery. [Back]
jolly, crackling, rollocking fire, going | Era pg. 129
jolly, crackling, rollicking fire, going | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 155
A number of minor variants between the Era text and Jewett edition show obvious faults in the newspaper text, and the correct form in the Jewett edition can be attributed to the more careful proofreading that the slower preparation of book text allowed. In each pair of words or phrases that follows, the faulty Era version precedes the corrected Jewett edition version: “rollocking fire” is corrected to “rollicking fire”; “look after you! That’s the way” is corrected to “look after you!’ That ’s the way” to indicate the conclusion of the drover’s reported speech; “this chararacteristic emblem” is corrected to “this characteristic emblem”; “beneolence” is corrected to “benevolence”; and an opening quotation is added when Mr. Wilson’s speech resumes with “and this boy.” The remaining obvious errors in the serial text are corrected but not individually marked in the Stowe Center edition. [Back]
long man, [omit] resuming his | Era pg. 129
long man, coolly resuming his | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 157
Stowe often repeats a constellation of descriptive phrases, like the epithet in an epic, for particular characters. For example, the Kentucky drover, a veteran, is “long”: he is long-legged, long-sided, and has a “cumbrous length.” Also, the Kentucky drover applies epithets like “stranger” to Mr. Wilson and to the newcomer, the disguised George Harris. The attribute of “coolness” is applied to George Harris, but here Stowe revises Jewett edition to apply quality also to the Kentucky drover’s spitting, presumably to emphasize that the two men share qualities as gentlemen.
Stowe’s epithets cross boundaries: the drover calls Mr. Wilson “stranger” but is in turn identified as the “stranger” by the narrator. With almost disorienting repetition, the narrator identifies each man, including Mr. Wilson, as a “gentleman,” and the newcomer, George Harris in disguise, is “gentlemanly.” Though he is marked as “uncommon,” Stowe emphasizes the disguised stranger’s ease: he “saunter[s]” and moves or seats himself “leisurely” or “easily,” and his eyes have an “unconcerned coolness.”
In this revision for the Jewett edition, the Kentucky drover spits into the fire “coolly.” By this alteration of book text, Stowe adds to the constellation of markers cementing the Kentucky drover, George Harris, and Mr. Wilson as members of the fraternity of gentlemen, who despite their minor departures from the status—Mr. Wilson’s gentlemanliness is suspect because of his nervous temperament, the drover’s is suspect because he in fact holds slaves; George Harris’s because he is of mixed race—are distinguishable from the vicious slavery supporter, the “coarse” man on the “opposite side of the room.” The drover’s prowess with tobacco juice, which like fact of his holding slaves threatens to mark him as coarse and not a gentleman, is partially moderated in revised book text by his shared coolness with George Harris. [Back]
particular subject [omit] excel—that of saying | Era pg. 129
particular subject do not excel,—that of saying | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 163
In both the Era and the Jewett edition, George Harris invites Mr. Wilson to reflect on the meaning of a stray horse that would allow him to escape from Indian captivity. The narrator’s comment on Mr. Wilson’s response to this “illustration of the case” differs in the newspaper and the book. In the Era, Mr. Wilson’s response is contrasted to that of “logicians,” who are unable to restrain themselves and defend slavery—though it is indefensible. In the Jewett edition, Mr. Wilson’s response is characterized as being in accord with that of “logicians,” who do speak but offer only meaningless words. Neither serial nor book version offers an obviously faulty or superior text because correctness depends on Stowe’s referent to logicians, on the significance of the pause during which Mr. Wilson “stare[s] with both eyes” before he resumes his “exhortations in a general way,” and whether to “say nothing” implies that one speaks or is silent.
In the serial, Stowe in the next installment (28 August) will identify for rebuke philosophical ideas about Scripture and custom that may serve as defenses of slavery, ideas and customs which she associates with Thomas Carlyle, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and minister Joel F. Parker. In the Jewett edition, the references to Carlyle and Emerson will be removed, but the reference to Parker remains in the initial Jewett edition printing. If Emerson and Carlyle exemplify the narrator’s “logicians,” Stowe may by this alteration have shifted narrative stance from serious rebuke of philosophers to be named later (in serial) to satiric mockery of unnamed slavery defenders (in book).
Both versions of this passage exhibit Mr. Wilson’s sense, but the content of his “sense” depends on the narrator’s stance—serious or satiric—and on whether Mr. Wilson in his response abandons George Harris’s example of horse as Providence (more likely in newspaper) or takes up the same topic (more likely in book). In sum, the Jewett edition text probably has an authorial revision. But the significance of the revision depends on what matters count as relevant external facts about the role of philosophical defenders of slavery. This textual crux is yet to be discussed adequately in the criticism of Stowe’s work. [Back]
as handsome as my poor mother had been. At first I was glad she was bought, for I had one friend near me; but—she was well brought up, and had good manners—I was soon sorry | Era pg. 129
as handsome as my poor mother had been. She was well brought up, and had good manners. At first, I was glad she was bought, for I had one friend near me. I was soon sorry | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 165
In the Era George Harris interrupts his story with an aside that his sister was “well brought up” and “had good manners.” His aside interrupts sharply the progress of his narrated story, and the serial version emphasizes his heightened emotional tension. In the Jewett edition, George Harris relays information about his sister’s upraising and manners to prepare the account of his reunion with her. The serial version of passage places emphasis on George Harris’s agitation and looks backwards to his upset in “The Husband and Father” (chapter 3); the book version emphasizes his self-control and looks forward to his steadiness of nerve in “The Freeman’s Defence” (chapter 17). [Back]
a decent and Christian life, | Era pg. 129
a decent [omit] Christian life, | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 166
In the Era George Harris’s sister desires a life that is decent “and” Christian, the term “decent” in the sense of being able to avoid sexual victimization. The condition of slavery renders her unable to avoid violations of decency: the slave master strips and beats her, she is unable to avoid sexual violence, and she is sold into New Orleans prostitution.
While one could conceive that Christianity and decency are distinct in the serial, in the Jewett edition version of this passage decency and Christianity (for women) are inseparable. While the idea that Christianity and decency are interwoven is common in antislavery rhetoric, Stowe in some cases, notably in “The Slave Warehouse” (15 January 1852, Jewett chapter 30), questions idea that Christianity could form a sufficient defense against sexual predation—though eventually the character Emmeline employs such a defense successfully. In this example, Stowe either acquiesced to a compositor’s alteration or chose to have George’s account reflect the cultural stereotype that decency and Christianity are intimately connected.
In sum, Uncle Tom’s Cabin in its textual variation has an ongoing tension in precisely the matter of whether Christianity can provide protection against the sexual violation that is endemic to the condition of slavery. By this minor revision Stowe moved the Jewett edition text more to side of decency and Christianity as intertwined defenses against sexual violation: that piety fails to protect George Harris’s sister is an example of slavery’s power to thwart the Christianity and decency of unprotected slave women. [Back]
won’t follow it!” he added, | Era pg. 129
won’t follow my judgment!” he added, | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 168
In the Era, by the pronoun “it” Mr. Wilson refers to “my judgment.” The meaning is clear and unmistakable. In the Jewett edition, Mr. Wilson twice says “my judgment.” As the the initial use of “my judgment” begins a line of type in the serial text, a compositor when setting type for Jewett edition from serial copy presumably repeated the phrase inadvertently. The Jewett edition text probably represents an inadvertent compositorial alteration, but the altered text remained in future editions. [Back]
Copyright 2011. For introduction and annotation, all rights reserved. The text is distributed under a Creative Commons License. Uncle Tom’s Cabin: National Era by Harriet Beecher Stowe is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at Copyright Commons License.