August 28, 1851 Transcription

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Chapter XII.—Select Incidents[1] of Lawful Trade.

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“In Ramah there was a voice heard—weeping, and lamentation, and great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted”

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Mr. Haley and Tom jogged onward in their wagon, each for a time absorbed in their own reflections. Now, the reflections of two men sitting side by side, are a curious thing—seated on the same seat, having the same eyes, ears, hands, and organs of all sorts, and having pass before their eyes the same objects—it is wonderful what a variety we shall find in these same reflections!

As for example: Mr. Haley, he thought first of Tom’s length, and breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he was kept fat and in good case till he got him into market. He thought of how he should make out his gang; he thought of the respective market value of certain suppositious[2] men and women and children who were to compose it, and other kindred topics of the business—then he thought of himself, and how humane he was—that whereas other men chained their niggers, hand and foot both, he only put fetters on the feet, and left Tom the use of his hands, as long as he behaved well, and he sighed to think how ungrateful human nature was, so that there was even room to doubt whether Tom appreciated his mercies. He had been taken in so by niggers whom he had favored; but still he was astonished to consider how good-natured he yet remained!

As to Tom, he was thinking over some words of an unfashionable old book, which kept running through his head, again and again, as follows: “We have here no continuing city, but we seek one to come; wherefore God himself is not ashamed to be called our God; for he hath prepared for us a city.” These words of an ancient volume, got up principally by “ignorant and unlearned men,” have through all time kept up, somehow, a strange sort of power over the minds of poor, simple fellows, like Tom. They stir up the soul from its depths, and rouse, as with trumpet call, courage, energy, and enthusiasm, when before, was only the blackness of despair.

I mention this, of course, philosophic friend, as a psychological phenomenon. Very likely it would do no such thing for you, because you are an enlightened man, and have outgrown the old myths of past centuries. But then, you have Emerson’s Essays, and Carlyle’s Miscellanies, and other productions of the latter day, suited to your advanced development.[3]

Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, and began looking over their advertisements with absorbed interest. He was not a remarkably fluent reader, and was in the habit of reading in a sort of recitation, half aloud, by way of calling his ears in to verify the deductions of his eyes. In this tone he slowly recited the following paragraph:

Executor’s Sale—Negroes!—Agreeably to order of court, will be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court House door, in the town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60; John, aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25; Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirs of the estate of Jesse Blutchford, Esq.,
Samuel Morris,
Thomas Flint,
Executors.

“This yer I must look at,” said he to Tom, for want of somebody else to talk to.

“Ye see, I’m going to get up a prime gang to take down with ye, Tom; it’ll make it sociable and pleasant like—good company will, ye know. We must drive right to Washington, first and foremost, and then I’ll clap you into jail, while I does the business.”

Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly; simply wondering in his own heart, how many of these doomed men had wives and children, and whether they would feel as he did, about leaving them. It is to be confessed, too, that the naive, off-hand information that he was to be thrown into jail, by no means produced an agreeable impression on a poor fellow who had always prided himself on a strictly honest and upright course of life. Yes, Tom, we must confess it, was rather proud of his honesty, poor fellow—not having very much else to be proud of—if he had belonged to some of the higher walks of society, he, perhaps, would never have been reduced to such straits. However, the day wore on, and the evening saw Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated in Washington—the one in a tavern, and the other in a jail.

About eleven o’clock the next day, a mixed throng was gathered around the court-house steps—smoking, chewing, spitting, swearing, and conversing, according to their respective tastes and turns—waiting for the auction to commence. The men and women to be sold, sat in a group apart, talking in a low tone to each other. The woman who had been advertised by the name of Hagar, was a regular African in feature and figure. She might have been sixty, but was older than that, by hard work and disease, was partially blind, and somewhat crippled with rheumatism. By her side stood her only remaining son, Albert, a bright-looking little fellow of fourteen years. The boy was the only survivor of a large family, who had been successively sold away from her to a Southern market. The mother held on to him with both her shaking hands, and eyed with intense trepidation every one who walked up to examine him.

“Don’t be feard, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the men, “I spoke to Mass’r Thomas bout it, and he thought he might manage to sell you in a lot both together.”

“Dey needn’t call me worn out yet,” said she, lifting her shaking hands, “I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour—I’m wuth a buying, if I do come cheap—tell em dat ar—you tell em,” she added, earnestly.

Haley here forced his way into the group—walked up to the old man, pulled his mouth open, and looked in, felt of his teeth, made him stand, and straighten himself, bend his back, and perform various evolutions to show his muscles, and then passed on to the next, and put him through the same trial. Walking up last to the boy, he felt of his arms, straightened his hands, and looked at his fingers, and made him jump, to show his agility.

“He aint gwine to be sold widout me,” said the old woman, with passionate earnestness;[4] “he and I goes in a lot together—I’s rail strong yet, mass’r, and can do heaps o work—heaps on it, mass’r.

“On plantation?” said Haley, with a contemptuous glance; “likely story;” and, as if satisfied with his examination, he walked out and looked, and stood with his hands in his pocket, his cigar in his mouth, and his hat cocked on one side, ready for action.

“What think of em?” said a man who had been following Haley’s examination, as if to make up his own mind from it.

“Wal,” said Haley, spitting, “I shall put in, I think, for the youngerly ones and the boy.”

“They want to sell the boy and the old woman together,” said the man.

“Find it a tight pull—why, she’s an old rack ’o bones—not worth her salt.”

“You wouldn’t, then?” said the man.

“Any body’d be a fool ’twould; she’s half-blind, crooked with rheumatis, and foolish to boot.”

“Some buys up these yer old critturs, and ses there’s a sight more wear in em than a body’d think,” said the man, reflectively.

“No go tale,”[5] said Haley—“would’nt take her for a present—fact—I’ve seen, now.”

“Wal, ’tis kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her son—her heart seems so sot on him—spose they fling her in cheap.”

“Them that’s got money to spend that ar way, its all well enough—I shall bid off on that ar boy for a plantation-hand—wouldn’t be bothered with her no way—not if they’d give her to me,” said Haley.

“She’ll take on desp’t,” said the man.

“Nat’lly, she will,” said the trader, coolly.

The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum in the audience, and the auctioneer, a short, bustling, important fellow, elbowed his way into the crowd. The old woman drew in her breath, and caught instinctively at her son.

“Keep close to yer mammy, Albert—close—dey’l put us up togedder,” she said.

“Oh, mammy, I’m feard they wont,” said the boy.

“Dey must, child—I can’t live no ways, if they dont,” said the old creature, vehemently.

The stentorian tones of the auctioneer, calling out to clear the way, now announced that the sale was about to commence. A place was cleared, and the bidding began. The different men on the list were soon knocked off at prices which showed a pretty brisk demand in the market; two of them fell to Haley.

“Come, now, young un,” said the auctioneer, giving the boy a touch with his hammer, “be up and show your springs now.”

“Put us two up togedder, togedder—do please, mass’r,” said the old woman, holding fast to her boy.

“Be off,” said the man, gruffly, pushing her hands away, “you come last; now darkey, spring; and with the word, he pushed the boy toward the block, while a deep, heavy groan rose behind him. He paused and looked back; but there was no time to stay, and dashing the tears from his large, bright eyes, he was up in a moment.

His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face, raised an instant competition, and half a dozen bids simultaneously met the ear of the auctioneer. Anxious, half-frightened, he looked from side to side, as he heard the clatter of contending bids, now here, now there, till the hammer fell. Haley had got him. He was pushed from the block toward his new master, but stopped one moment and looked back, when his poor old mother, trembling in every limb, held out her shaking hands toward him.

“Buy me too, massr, for de dear Lord’s sake—buy me—I shall die if you don’t.

“You’ll die if I do, that’s the kink of it,” said Haley—“no!” And he turned on his heel.

The bidding for the poor old creature was summary. The man who had addressed Haley, and who seemed not destitute of compassion, bought her for a trifle, and the spectators began to disperse.

The poor victims of the sale, who had been brought up in one place together for years, gathered round the despairing old mother, whose agony was pitiful to see.

Couldn’t dey leave me one? Massr allers said I should have one—he did,” she repeated over and over, in heart-broken tones.

“Trust in the Lord, Aunt Hagar,” said the oldest of the men, sorrowfully.

“What good will it do?” said she, sobbing passionately.

“Mother, mother—don’t! don’t!” said the boy—“they say you’s got a good master.”

“I don’t care, I don’t care. Oh, Albert—oh, my boy, you’s my last baby—Lord, how ken I?”

“Come, take her off, can’t some of ye,” said Haley, dryly—“don’t do no good for her to go on that ar way.”

The old men of the company, partly by persuasion, and partly by force, loosed the poor creature’s last despairing hold, and as they led her off to her new master’s wagon, strove to comfort her.

“Now!” said Haley, pushing his three purchases together, and producing a bundle of handcuffs, which he proceeded to put on their wrists, and fastening each handcuff to a long chain, he drove them before him to the jail.

A few days saw Haley with his possessions, safely deposited on one of the Ohio boats. It was the commencement of his gang, to be augmented, as the boat moved on, by various other merchandise of the same kind, which he, or his agents had stored for him in various points along shore.

The La Belle Riviere, as brave and beautiful a boat as ever walked the waters of her namesake river, was floating gaily down the stream, under a brilliant sky—the stripes and stars of free America waving and fluttering over head—the guards crowded with well-dressed ladies and gentlemen walking and enjoying the delightful day. All was full of life—buoyant and rejoicing—all but Haley’s gang, who were stored with other freight on the lower deck, and who, somehow, did not seem to appreciate their various privileges, as they sat in a knot, talking to each other in low tones.

“Boys,” said Haley, coming up briskly, “I hope you keep up good heart, and are cheerful—now, no sulks, ye see—keep stiff upper-lip, boys—do well by me, and I’ll do well by you.”

The boys addressed, responded the invariable “yes massr”—for ages the watch-word of poor Africa; but it’s to be owned they did not look particularly cheerful—they had their various little prejudices in favor of wives, mothers, sisters, and children, seen for the last time; and though “they that wasted them, required of them mirth,” it was not instantly forthcoming.

“I’ve got a wife,” spoke out the article enumerated as “John, aged thirty,” and he laid his chained hand on Tom’s knee, “and she don’t know a word about this, poor girl.”

“Where does she live?” said Tom.

“In a tavern a piece down here,” said John; “I wish, now, I could see her once more in this world,” he added.

Poor John! it was rather natural, now;[6] and the tears that fell, as he spoke, came as naturally as if he had been a white man. Tom drew a long breath from a sore heart, and tried in his poor way, to comfort him.

And over head, in the cabin, sat fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, and merry, dancing children moved to and fro among them, like so many little butterflies, and everything was going on quite easy and comfortable.

“Oh, mamma,” said a boy, who had just come up from below, “there’s a negro trader on board, and he’s brought four or five slaves down there.”

“Poor creatures!” said the mother, in a tone between grief and indignation.

“What’s that?” said another lady.

“Some poor slaves below,” said the mother.

“And they’ve got chains on,” said the boy.

“What a shame to our country that such sights are to be seen,” said another lady.

“Oh, there’s a great deal to be said on both sides of the subject,” said a genteel woman who sat at her state-room door sewing, while her little girl and boy were playing round her. “I’ve been South, and I must say I think the negroes are better off than they would be to be free.”

“In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant,” said the lady to whose remark she had answered—“the most dreadful part of slavery, to my mind, is its outrages on the feelings and affections—the separating of families, for example.”

“That is a bad thing, certainly,” said the other lady, holding up a baby’s dress she had just completed, and looking intently on its trimmings; but then, I fancy it don’t occur often.”

“Oh, it does,” said the first lady, eagerly; “I’ve lived many years in Kentucky and Virginia both, and I’ve seen enough to make anyone’s heart sick. Suppose, ma’am, your two children there, should be taken from you and sold.”

“We can’t reason from our feelings to those of this class of persons,” said the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her lap.

“Indeed, ma’am, you can know nothing of them, if you say so,” answered the first lady, warmly; “I was born and brought up among them. I know they do feel—just as keenly—even more so, perhaps, than we do.”

The lady said “indeed,” yawned, and looked out the cabin window, and finally repeated for a finale, the remark with which she had begun: After all, I think they are better off than they would be to be free.”

“It’s undoubtedly the intention of Providence that the African race should be servants—kept in a low condition,” said a grave looking gentleman in black, a clergyman, seated by the cabin-door—‘cursed be Canaan, a servant of servants shall he be,’ the scripture says.”

“I say, stranger, is that ar what that text means,” said a tall man, standing by.

“Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutable reason, to doom the race to bondage ages ago, and we must not set up our opinion against that.”

“Well, then, we’ll all go ahead and buy up niggers,” said the man, “if thats the way of Providence, wont we squire?” said he, turning to Haley, who had been standing with his hands in his pockets by the stove, and intently listening to the conversation.

“Yes,” continued the tall man, “we must all be resigned to the decrees of Providence. Niggers must be sold, and trucked round, and kept under—it’s what they’s made for—’pears like this yer view’s quite refreshing—aint it stranger!” said he to Haley.

“I never thought on’t,” said Haley, “I couldn’t have said as much myself, I han’t no larnin, I took up the trade just to make a livin, if tain’t right, I calculated to ’pent on’t in time ye know.”

“And now you’ll save yerself the trouble wont ye?” said the tall man. “See what ’tis now to know scripture—if ye’d only studied yer Bible like this yer good man, ye might have know’d it before, and saved ye a heap o trouble—ye could, jist have said ‘cussed be’—whats-his-name?—‘and twoul’d all have come right.’ ” And the stranger, who was no other than the honest drover whom we introduced to our readers in the Kentucky tavern, sat down, and began smoking with a curious smile on his long dry face.

A tall slender young man, with a face expressive of great feeling and intelligence, here broke in, and repeated the words, “ ‘All things whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them’—I suppose,” he added, “that is scripture as much as cursed be Canaan.”

“Wal, it seems quite as plain a text, stranger,” said John the drover, “to poor fellows like us now;” and John smoked on like a volcano.

The young man paused, looked as if he was going to say more, when suddenly the boat stopped, and the company made the usual steamboat rush to see where they were landing.

“Both them ar chaps parsons?” said John to one of the men, as they were going out.

The man nodded.

As the boat stopped, a black woman came running wildly up the plank, darted into the crowd, flew up to where the slave gang sat, and threw her arms round that unfortunate piece of merchandise before enumerated—“John aged thirty;” and with sobs and tears bemoaned him as her husband.

But what needs tell the story—told too oft; every day told—of heart-strings rent and broken—the weak broken and torn for the profit and convenience of the strong. It needs not to be told—every day is telling it—telling it, too, in the ear of One who is not deaf, though he be long silent.

The young man who had spoken for the cause of humanity and God before, stood with folded arms looking on this scene. He turned, and Haley was standing at his side. “My friend,” he said, speaking with thick utterance, “How can you, how dare you, carry on a trade like this? Look at those poor creatures! Here I am, rejoicing in my heart that I am going home to my wife and child; and the same bell which is a signal to carry me onward towards them, will part this poor man and his wife forever. Depend upon it, God will bring you into judgment for this.”

The trader turned away in silence.

“I say, now,” said the drover, touching his elbow, “there’s differences in parsons, aint there? Cussed be Canaan don’t seem to go down with this un—does it?”

Haley gave an uneasy growl.

“And that ar aint the worst on’t,” said John, “mabbe it won’t go down with the Lord, neither—when ye come to settle with Him, one o’ these days, as all on us must, I reckon.”

Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat.

“If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next gangs,” he thought, “I reckon I’ll stop off this yer—its really getting dangerous.” And he took out his pocket-book, and began adding over his accounts—a process which many gentlemen, besides Mr. Haley, have found a specific for an uneasy conscience.

The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went on merrily, as before. Men talked, and loafed, and read, and smoked. Women sewed, and children played. Suns rose and set, and men did business for some days, till the boat has passed far[7] on her way.

One day, when she lay to for a while at a small town in Kentucky, Haley went up into the place on a little matter of business.

Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderate circuit, had drawn near the side of the boat, and stood listlessly gazing over the railings. After a time, he saw the trader returning, with an alert step, in company with a colored woman, bearing in her arms a young child. She was dressed quite respectably, and a colored man followed her, bringing along a small trunk. The woman came cheerfully onward, talking, as she came, with the man who bore her trunk, and so passed up the plank into the boat. The bell rung, the steamer whizzed, the engine groaned and coughed, and away swept the boat down the river.

The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of the lower deck, and, sitting down, busied herself with chirruping to her baby.

Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then, coming up, seated himself near her, and began saying something to her in an indifferent undertone.

Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the woman’s brow; and that she answered rapidly, and with great vehemence.

“I don’t believe it—I won’t believe it,” he heard her say. “You’r jist a foolin with me.”

“If you won’t believe it, look here!” said the man, drawing out a paper, “this yer’s the bill of sale, and there’s your master’s name to it; and I paid down good solid cash for it, too, I can tell you—so now.”

“I don’t b’lieve mass’r would cheat me so—it can’t be true!” said the woman, with increasing agitation.

“You can ask any of these men here that can read writing.” “Here!” he said, to a man that was passing by, “jist read this yer wont you? This yer gal won’t believe me when I tell her what tis.”

“Why, its a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick,” said the man, “making over to you the girl Lucy and her child. Its all straight enough, for aught I see.”

The woman’s passionate exclamations collected a crowd around her, and the trader briefly explained to them the cause of the agitation.

“He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to hire out as cook to the same tavern where my husband works—that’s what mass’r told me his own self, and I can’t believe he’d lie to me,” said the woman.

“But he has sold you, my poor woman, there’s no doubt about it,” said a good natured looking man, who had been examining the papers—“he has done it, and no mistake.”

“Then its no account talking,” said the woman, suddenly growing quite calm, and, clasping her child tighter in her arms, she sat down on her box, turned her back round, and gazed listlessly into the river.

“Going to take it easy, after all!” said the trader. “Gal’s got grit, I see.”

The woman looked calm, as the boat went on; and a beautiful, soft, summer breeze passed like a compassionate spirit over her head—the gentle breeze that never inquires whether the brow is dusky or fair that it fans. And she saw the sunshine sparkling on the water, in golden ripples, and heard gay voices, full of ease and pleasure, talking around her everywhere—but her heart lay as if a great stone had fallen on it. Her baby raised himself up against her, and stroked her cheeks with his little hands, and springing up and down, crowing and chatting, seemed determined to arouse her. She strained him suddenly and tightly in her arms, and slowly one tear after another fell on his wondering, unconscious face; and gradually she seemed, and little by little, to grow calmer, and busied herself with tending and nursing him.

The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large and strong of his age, and very vigorous in his limbs. Never for a moment still, he kept his mother constantly busy in holding him, and guarding his springing activity.

“That’s a fine chap!” said a man, suddenly stopping opposite to him, with his hands in his pockets. “How old is he?”

“Ten months and a half,” said the mother.

The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of a stick of candy, which he eagerly grabbed at, and very soon had it in a baby’s general depository, to wit, his mouth.

“Rum fellow,” said the man. “Knows what’s what!” and he whistled, and walked on. When he had got to the other side of the boat, he came across Haley, who was smoking on top of a pile of boxes.

The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying, as he did so—

“Decentish kind o’ wench you’ve got round there, stranger.”

“Why, I reckon she is tol’able fair,” said Haley, blowing the smoke out of his mouth.

“Taking her down South?” said the man.

Haley nodded, and smoked on.

“Plantation hand?” said the man.

“Wal,” said Haley, “I’m fillin out an order for a plantation, and I think I shall put her in. They telled me she was a good cook, and they can use her for that, or set her at the cotton picking. She’s got the right fingers for that; I looked at em. Sell well, either way;” and Haley resumed his cigar.

“They won’t want the young un on a platation,” said the man.

“I shall sell him first chance I find,” said Haley, lighting another cigar.

“S’pose you’d be selling him tol’able cheap,” said the stranger, mounting the pile of boxes, and sitting down comfortably.

“Don’t know ’bout that,” said Haley, “he’s a pretty smart young un—straight, fat, strong; flesh as hard as a brick!”

“Very true, but then there’s all the bother and expense of raisin!”

“Nonsense,” said Haley, “they is raised as easy as any kind of critter there is going—they aint a bit more trouble than pups. This yer chap will be running all round in a month.”

“I’ve got a good place for raisin, and I thought of taken in a little more stock,” said the man. “One cook lost a young un last week—got drownded in a wash tub, while she was a hangin out clothes—and I reckon it would be well enough to set her to raisin this yer.”

Haley and the stranger smoked awhile in silence, neither seeming willing to broach the test question of the interview. At last the man resumed:

“You wouldn’t think of wantin more than ten dollars for that ar chap—seeing you must get him off yer hands any how?”

Haley shook his head, and spit impressively.

“That won’t do, no ways,” he said, and began his smoking again.

“Well, stranger, what will you take?”

“Well, now,” said Haley, “I could raise that ar chap myself, or get him raised; he’s oncommon likely and healthy, and he’d fetch a hundred dollars six months hence; and in a year or two he’d bring two hundred, if I had him in the right spot—so I shant take a cent less nor fifty for him now.”

“Oh, stranger! that’s rediculous, altogether,” said the man.

“Fact!” said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head.

“I’ll give thirty for him,” said the stranger, “but not a cent more.”

“Now I’ll tell ye what I will do,” said Haley, spitting again, with renewed decision, “I’ll split the difference, and say forty five, and that’s the most I will do.”

“Well, agreed!” said the man, after an interval.

“Done!” said Haley. “Where do you land?”

“At Louisville,” said the man.

“Louisville,” said Haley. “Very fair, we get there about dusk. Chap will be asleep—all fair—get him off quietly and no screaming—happens beautiful—I like to do everything quietly—I hates all kind of agitation and fluster.” And so, after a transfer of certain bills had passed from the man’s pocket-book to the trader’s, he resumed his cigar.

It was a bright, tranquil evening when the boat stopped at the wharf at Louisville. The woman had been sitting with her baby in her arms, now wrapped in a heavy sleep. When she heard the name of the place called out, she hastily laid the child down in a little cradle formed by the hollow among the boxes, first carefully spreading under it her cloak, and then she sprung to the side of the boat, in hopes that among the various hotel waiters who thronged the wharf, she might see her husband. In this hope she pressed forward to the front rails, and, stretching far over them, strained her eyes intently on the moving heads on the shore, and the crowd pressed in between her and the child.

“Now’s your time,” said Haley, taking the sleeping child up, and handing him to the stranger, “don’t wake him up, and set him to crying now; it would make a devil of a fuss with the gal.” The man took the bundle carefully, and was soon lost in the crowd that went up the wharf.

When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, had loosed from the wharf, and was beginning slowly to strain herself along, the woman returned to her old seat. The trader was sitting there—the child was gone!

“Why, why—where?” she began, in bewildered surprise.

“Lucy,” said the trader, “your child’s gone; you may as well know it first as last. You see, I know’d you couldn’t take him down South, and I got a chance to sell him to a first-rate family that’ll raise him better than you can.”

The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian and political perfection which has been recommended by some preachers and politicians of the North, lately, in which he had completely overcome every humane weakness and prejudice His heart was exactly where yours, sir, and mine could be brought with proper effort and cultivation. The wild look of anguish and utter despair that the woman cast on him, might have disturbed one less practiced; but he was used to it. He had seen that same look hundreds of times. You can get used to such things, too, my friend; and it is the great object of recent efforts to make our whole Northern community used to them, for the glory of the Union. So the trader only regarded the mortal anguish which he saw working in those dark features, those clenched hands and suffocating breathings, as necessary incidents of the trade, and merely calculated whether she was going to scream, and get up a commotion on the boat; for, like other supporters of our peculiar institution, he decidedly disliked agitation.

But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed too straight and direct through the heart for cry or tear.

Dizzily she sat down—her slack hands fell lifeless by her side. Her eyes looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. All the noise and hum of the boat, the groaning of the machinery, mingled dreamily to her bewildered ear, and the poor, dumb-stricken heart had neither cry nor tear to show for its utter misery. She was quite calm.

The trader, who, considering his advantages, was almost as humane as some of our politicians, seemed to feel called on to administer such consolation as the case admitted of.

“I know this yere comes kinder hard at first, Lucy,” said he, “but such a smart, sensible gal as you are, won’t give way to it. You see it’s necessary, and can’t be helped!”

“Oh! don’t, mass’r, don’t,” said the woman, with a voice like one that is smothering.

“You’r a smart wench, Lucy,” he persisted; “I mean to do well by yer, and get yer a nice place down river, and you’ll soon get another husband, such a likely gal as you”—

“Oh! mass’r, if you only wont talk to me now,” said the woman, in a voice of such quick and living anguish, that the trader felt that there was something at present in the case beyond his style of operation. He got up, and the woman turned away, and buried her head in her cloak.

The trader walked up and down for a time, and occasionally stopped and looked at her.

“Takes it hard, rather,” he soliloquized, “but quiet tho’—let her sweat awhile! she’ll come right by and by.”

Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to last, and had a perfect understanding of its results. To him it looked like something unutterably horrible and cruel, because, poor ignorant black soul, he had not learned to generalize, and to take enlarged views. If he had only been instructed by a certain minister of Christianity, he might have thought better of it, and seen in it an every-day incident of a lawful trade—a trade which is the vital support of an institution which an American divine[*] tells us has “no evils but such as are inseparable from any other relations in social and domestic life.” But Tom, as we see, being a poor ignorant fellow, whose reading had been confined entirely to the New Testament, could not comfort and solace himself with views like these. His very soul bled within him for what seemed to him the wrongs of the poor suffering thing that lay like a crushed reed on the boxes—the feeling, living, bleeding, yet immortal thing whom American State law coolly classes with the bundles and bales and boxes among which she is lying.

Tom drew near and tried to say something, but she only groaned. Honestly and with tears running down his own cheeks, he spoke of a heart of love in the skies, of a pitying Jesus, and an eternal home; but the ear was deaf with anguish, and the palsied heart could not feel.

Night came on—night, calm, unmoved, and glorious, shining down with her innumerable and solemn angel eyes, twinkling, beautiful, but silent—there was no speech nor language—no pitying voice nor helping hand from that distant sky. One after another, the voices of business or pleasure died away, all on the boat were sleeping, and the ripples at the prow were plainly heard. Tom stretched himself out on a box, and there as he lay, he heard, ever and anon, a smothered sob or cry from the prostrate creature—“Oh! what shall I do! Oh Lord! Oh good Lord, do help me!” and so, ever and anon, until the murmur died away in silence.

At midnight, Tom waked with a sudden start. Something black passed quickly by him to the side of the boat, and he heard a splash in the water. No one else saw or heard anything. He raised his head—the woman’s place was vacant. He got up, and sought her everywhere,[9] in vain. The poor bleeding heart was still, at last, and the river rippled and dimpled just as brightly as if it had not closed above it.

Patience! patience! ye whose hearts swell indignant at wrongs like these. Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of the oppressed, is forgotten by the Man of Sorrows, the Lord of Glory! In his patient, generous bosom he bears the anguish of a world. Bear thou, like him, in patience, and labor in love, for sure as he is God, “the year of his redeemed shall come.”

The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to see to his live stock. It was now his turn to look about in perplexity.

“Where alive is that gal?” he said to Tom.

Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel, did not feel called on to state his observations and suspicions, but said he did not know.

“She surely couldn’t have got off in the night at any of the landings, for I was awake, and on the look out, whenever the boat stopped. I never trust these yer things to other folks.”

This speech was addressed to Tom, quite confidentially, as if it was something that would be specially interesting to him. Tom made no answer.

The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among boxes, bales, and barrels, around the machinery, by the chimneys, in vain.

“Now, I say, Tom, be fair about this yer,” he said, when after a fruitless search, he came where Tom was standing. “You know something about it, now. Don’t tell me, I know you do. I saw the gal stretched out here about ten o’clock, and agin at twelve, and agin between one and two, and then at four she was gone, and you was a sleeping right there all the time. Now you know something—you can’t help it.”

“Well, mass’r,” said Tom, “towards morning something brushed by me, and I kinder half woke, and then I hearn a great splash, and then I clar woke up, and the gal was gone. That’s all I know on’t.”

The trader was not shocked nor amazed—because, as we said before, he was used to a great many things that you are not used to. Even the awful presence of Death struck no solemn chill upon him. He had seen Death many times—met him in the way of trade, and got acquainted with him, and he only thought of him as a hard customer, that embarrassed his property operations very unfairly; and so he only swore that the gal was a baggage, and that he was devilish unlucky, and that if things went on in this way, he should not make a cent on the trip. In short, he seemed to consider himself an ill-used man, decidedly, but there was no help for it, as the woman had escaped into a state which never will give up a fugitive—not even at the demand of the whole glorious Union. The trader therefore sat discontentedly down with his little account book, and put down the missing body and soul under the head of losses!

“He’s a shocking creature, isn’t he—this trader? so unfeeling! it’s dreadful, really!”

“Oh, but nobody thinks anything of these traders! They are universally despised—never received into any decent society.”

But who, sir, makes the trader? Who is most to blame? The enlightened, cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the system of which the trader is the inevitable result—or the poor trader himself? You make the public sentiment that calls for his trade that debauches and depraves him till he feels no shame in it, and in what are you better than he?

Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he low, you refined and he coarse, you talented and he simple?

In the day of a future Judgment these very considerations may make it more tolerable for him than for you.

In concluding these little incidents of lawful trade, we must beg the world not to think that American legislators are entirely destitute of humanity, as might perhaps be unfairly inferred from the great efforts made in our national body to protect and perpetuate this species of traffic.

Who does not know how our great men are outdoing themselves in declaiming against the foreign slave trade. There are a perfect host of Clarksons and Wilberforces risen up among us on that subject, most edifying to hear and behold! Trading negroes from Africa, dear reader, is so horrid! It is not to be thought of! But trading them from Kentucky———that’s[10] quite another thing!

——
* Dr. Joel Parker, of Philadelphia. [Stowe’s note] [8]

Notes

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.

Note 1

Select Incidents of Lawful | Erapg. 137

select incident of lawful | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 172

The chapter title of the Era has the plural form Incidents. The chapter title of Jewett’s two-volume first edition is the singular form incident. The Jewett paperback (1852) and illustrated edition (1852/1853) also have the singular form. However, Stowe in the Jewett’s Key (1853) uses the plural form “Incidents” as a chapter title (47).

In the chapter itself, the narrator twice refers to incidents with the plural form, first as a reference to the mother Lucy’s reactions when her child is removed as “necessary incidents,” second as a reference to the chapter’s “little incidents of lawful trade.” Events that could qualify as the chapter’s “incidents” include Haley’s separation of Albert from his mother Hagar at the auction, Haley’s separation of John from the unnamed wife who finds him on the boat, and three incidents involving Haley and Lucy. He informs her that she and her child have been sold to him, he sells away her child, and she commits suicide by leaping from the boat.

If the serial form is preferred, no one of these incidents has greater prominence than the others. If the Jewett form is preferred, one incident may be raised in prominence, Lucy’s suicide, the culmination to Haley’s systematic destruction of her life. [Back]

Note 2

of certain suppositious men and | Erapg. 137

of certain supposititious men and | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 172

According to OED citation evidence, the Era form “suppositious” in the sense of pretended, imagined, or fancied (which could accord with Haley’s sense) expired in the late 18th century. If the OED evidence is authoritative, the Jewett form “suppositious,” which means based on supposition, could be considered a correction. However, Google Books shows that the earlier form did not expire entirely, and the two meanings shade easily into one another. The serial form may be preferred as closer to the manuscript, or the Jewett edition may be preferred as the more carefully proofed. The word is hyphenated in all three Jewett editions, which weakens the argument for the Jewett edition as Stowe’s preference, because proofreading words hyphenated at line end is more difficult. However, the Houghton Osgood New Edition (1879) prints the latter form also, which strengthens its claim to authorial preference. [Back]

Note 3

of despair. ¶ I mention this, of course, philosophic friend, as a psychological phenomenon. Very likely it would do no such thing for you, because you are an enlightened man, and have outgrown the old myths of past centuries. But then, you have Emerson’s Essays, and Carlyle’s Miscellanies, and other productions of the latter day, suited to your advanced development. ¶ Mr. Haley | Era pg. 137
of despair. [omit] ¶ Mr. Haley | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 172

Scholars have devoted scant attention to this pointed rebuke of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thomas Carlyle, and the sophisticated reader, for whom consolation from Scripture is a “pychological phenomenon.” E. Bruce Kirkham suggests for the purpose of the serial passage a general rebuke of “liberalism,” and he offers as a reason for the passage’s omission in the Jewett edition that Stowe’s husband Calvin objected or that it “diverted the reader from the main topic” (114). That Stowe would have removed it in deference to her husband’s urging is questionable, but the passage has sufficient rhetorical power that its ability to shift the reader’s sense of the chapter’s “main topic” is a reason for the serial passage’s importance rather than its dismissal.

The passage reorients one’s sense of Stowe’s audience toward a reader sophisticated in scholarly criticism of the Bible, and this audience’s interest in biblical criticism as an intellectual exercise is contrasted to the needs of Tom, for whom the New Testament is a source of emotional and spiritual consolation. After Lucy’s child is sold, Stowe writes that Tom sees it as cruel because his “reading had been confined entirely to the New Testament.” This distinction is applied consistently in the Era: Tom has no Bible until after he exits the riverboat. Slavery’s defenders in this chapter base their Scriptural authority on Old Testament verses whereas its opponents base their authority on New Testament verses. Stowe may have intended through chapter 14 in the Era to cite Scriptural authority for slavery selectively: Old Testament authority supports slavery, but New Testament authority undermines it. As the story grew longer, she abandoned that earlier intention. In the Jewett edition, Tom has a Bible in the St. Clare household, presumably the same Bible with which he left the St. Clare’s. How he replaced his New Testament with a Bible in the serial is never explained. Stowe in her revision for the Jewett edition replaces fairly consisently Tom’s New Testament with a Bible in chapter 14, but the reference to “New Testament” remains here after Lucy’s child is sold in this chapter.

For the refitting of Tom’s fetters as an indirect allusion to Emerson’s essay “Character,” see the chapter commentary for the 28 August installment. [Back]

Note 4

with passionate earnestness; “he and | Era pg. 137
with passionate eagerness; “he and | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 175

In the Era, Hagar addresses Haley with “passionate earnestness.” In the Jewett edition, she addresses him with “passionate eagerness.” The revision heightens Hagar’s desperation, but Stowe thereby also avoids the repetition of a form of “earnest.” Hagar had addressed her fellow slaves “earnestly” just before.

If the revision represents a substantive change and not a cleaning up of verbal repetition, it could mark a deterioration in Hagar’s emotional state. Hagar may also assume an attitude of subservience to bolster her appeal to Haley. The revision is almost certainly authorial. See note 6 below.[Back]

Note 5

reflectively. ¶ “No go tale,” said Haley— | Era pg. 137
reflectively. ¶ “No go, ’t all,” said Haley; | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 176

The Era form “No go tale” is probably a compositorial effort to resolve a phrase that resembled “No go tall” without apostrophes in the manuscript. Haley is responding to another man’s suggestion that an elderly woman like Hagar may have “a sight more wear in em.” His answer (in the serial) might be translated into more recognizable sense as “That’s a tale that won’t go anywhere.” That is, Haley responds to the other man’s story, his “tale.”

Stowe presumably intended the equivalent of “No go, at all,” rendered however in Haley’s Jewett edition dialect as “No go, ’t all.” His answer might be translated as “That won’t go, not at all,” the sense that Stowe intended. But the meaning is different. Haley is not responding to the other man’s general story: he is dismissing Hagar in particular.

If in the reader’s judgment the editor’s conjectural manuscript form “tall” does not offer an adequate reading, the Era form could be considered an error and classed among the following obvious errors, which are silently corrected in the remaining text, the Era form preceding the Jewett form in each example: “desparing old mother” becomes “despairing old mother”; “merchandis before enumerated” becomes “merchandise before enumerated”; “dressed quite respectfully” becomes “dressed quite respectably; “cherruping” becomes “chirruping”; “and [omit] gay voices” becomes “and heard gay voices”; “cotten picking” becomes “cotton-picking”; “thought of taken in a” becomes “thought of takin’ in a”; and “Bear those, like him” becomes “Bear thou, like him.” [Back]

Note 6

was rather natural, now; and the | Era pg. 137
was rather natural; and the | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 179

In the Era, the slave John’s tears are natural, and the narrator’s word “now” directs readers to the obviousness of the man’s emotional stress. In the Jewett edition, Stowe removes the word “now” from the text. In the previous paragraph, John says “I wish, now….” and Stowe in the serial’s narrative voice echoes John’s phrase. The change may have been simple modification, a deliberate effort to avoid repetition. Stowe makes many such revisions for the Jewett edition.

However, the revision also changes the distance between the man and the narrator. In the serial, the narrator echoes the man’s phrase and emphasizes the shared humanity by the echoing of his phrase. In the Jewett edition, the narrator has greater emotional distance from the man as slave, which shifts the emphasis toward the narrator’s satire on slavery’s abuses. See note 4 above. [Back]

Note 7

and children played. Suns rose and set, and men did business for some days, till the boat has passed far on her | Era pg. 137
and children played, and the boat passed on her | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 183

Movement by water takes longer in the Era, both here and when the family of George Harris crosses Lake Erie in a later installment. Perhaps Stowe wished for the Jewett edition to offer expanded compass for Tom’s journey in the company of the St. Clare family.

The editor has consulted mid-century travel tables but has yet to determine the appropriate time for steamboat passage down the Mississippi at mid-century. He would appreciate the assistance of historians of transportation. [Back]

Note 8

an American divine ∗ || ∗ Dr. Joel Parker, of Philadelphia. || tells us | Era pg. 137
an American divine ∗ || ∗ Dr. Joel Parker, of Philadelphia. || tells us | Jewett (1852), vol. 1, pg. 191

an American divine [omit] || [omit] || tells us | Jewett (1852), vol. 1, pg. 191

Stowe attributes to Joel Parker the phrase “no evils but such as are inseparable from any other relations in social and domestic life” (with italics) in the Era, and the phrase was repeated exactly in the initial printing of the Jewett edition. One can attribute versions of the phrase to Parker, who wrote in the Christian Observer under the pseudonym Meridionus. Anson Rood replied to Parker under the pseudonym “Correspondent of the New York Evangelist.” Parker delivered the sermon on 26 March 1846, and Parker and Rood in an ensuing correspondence (11 December through 19 March 1847) offered multiple variations on this phrase. Parker holds, throughout, that other domestic relations like parenting and marriage have the potential for abuse: slavery is not uniquely sinful. Stowe’s quotation reverses archly Parker’s assertion that abuse is endemic to domestic relations.

Parker did not object when the passage appeared in the Era. The phrase was reprinted in the Jewett edition, and Parker objected when attention was drawn to him by the work’s popular success. After initially resisting Parker’s request to not attribute the phrase to him, Stowe relented. Jewett first removed the quotation mark, asterisk, and the footnote. Jewett completed this alteration at approximately the time he was printing copies of the two-volume copies labeled fiftieth-thousand, though some copies with later title page slugs (through sixtieth thousand) retain the footnote. See E. Bruce Kirkham, “The First Editions of Uncle Tom’s Cabin: A Bibliographical Study” PBSA 65 no. 4 (1971), 372–73. Jewett later altered stereotype plates again so that formerly italicized matter was re-set in roman type. All subsequent American editions under Stowe’s or her publisher’s supervision follow that latter practice: no attribution to Parker, no italics, no quotation marks. Modern reprints by scholars generally follow the serial and initial Jewett edition practice.

Parker’s achievement in having the phrase removed was a pyrrhic victory, as the exchange was widely publicized. Though known for being quoted disparagingly in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Parker is otherwise forgotten today. For a brief summary of the thrust and parry that marked the controversy, which was influential in starting Stowe’s preparation of the Key (Boston: John P. Jewett, 1853), see Hedrick 225–30. Two enterprising publishers printed in pamphlet form Joel Parker’s dialogue with Rev. Anson Rood from The Christian Observer as The discussion between Rev. Joel Parker, and Rev. A. Rood… (New York: Benedict, 1852). See GoogleBooks. [Back]

Note 9

and sought her everywhere, in vain. | Era pg. 137
and sought about him in vain. | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 192

By this revision from the Era phrase “sought her everywhere” to the Jewett edition’s “sought about him” Stowe emphasizes Lucy’s absence and the reader’s shared knowledge with the narrator, that Lucy leapt from the boat. Because the reader and Tom share knowledge which Haley does not, the revision increases the distance between the reader and Haley and strengthens the reader’s identification with Tom and the narrator. [Back]

Note 10

them from Kentucky———that’s quite another | Era pg. 137
them from Kentucky,—that ’s quite another | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 194

Stowe in the Era uses longer dashes for emphasis. The longer em dash probably matches Stowe’s manuscript, though this page is not extant. In the Jewett edition Stowe’s dashes are standardized to one-em length. The serial version suggests an extended pause before the stinging blow, and it is one of the work’s oft-quoted passages. It is cited as a pithy critiques of the law’s claim to define a slave not as a human being but as property or merchandise, a “thing.” The book version includes the Jewett edition’s normalization, the comma-dash form, which does not suggest an oral pause because the Jewett edition’s distinction between the dash and comma-dash is more closely affiliated with syntax than rhetoric. Scholars may wish to cite the serial version as the more authentic authorial form. [Back]

Copyright 2011. For introduction and annotation, all rights reserved. The text is distributed under a Creative Commons License. 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.

 

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