July 10, 1851 Transcription

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Chapter VII.—The Mother’s Struggle.

It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more wholly desolate and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footsteps from Uncle Tom’s cabin.

Her husband’s sufferings and dangers, the danger of her child, all blended in her mind with a confused and stunning sense of the risk she was running in leaving the only home she had ever known, and cutting loose from the protection of a friend whom she loved and revered. Then there was the parting from every familiar object—the place where she had grown up, the trees under which she had played, the groves where she had walked many an evening in happier days, by the side of her young husband—everything, as it lay in the clear frosty moonlight, seemed to speak reproachfully to her, and ask her whither could she go from a home like that?

But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysm of frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy was old enough to have walked by her side, and in an indifferent case she would only have led him by the hand; but now the bare thought of putting him out of her arms made her shudder, and she strained him to her bosom with a convulsive grasp as she went rapidly forward. The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled at the sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow sent the blood backward to her heart, and quickened her footsteps. She wondered within herself at the strength that seemed to be come upon her, for she felt the weight of her boy as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of fear seemed to increase the supernatural strength[1] that bore her on, while from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent ejaculations, the prayer to a Friend above—“Lord, help! Lord, save me!”

If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, to-morrow morning—if you had seen the man, and heard that the papers were signed and delivered, and you had only from twelve c’clock[2] till morning to make good your escape, how fast could you walk? How many miles could you make in those few brief hours, with the darling at your bosom—the little sleepy head on your shoulder—the small, soft arms trustingly holding on to your neck?

For the child slept; at first the novelty and alarm kept him waking; but his mother so hurriedly repressed every breath or sound, and so assured him that if he were only still, she would certainly save him, that he clung quietly round her neck, only asking, as he found himself sinking to sleep—

“Mother, I don’t need to keep awake, do I?”

“No, my darling; sleep if you want to.”

“But mother, if I do get asleep, you won’t let him get me.”

“No! so may God help me!” said his mother, with a paler cheek and a brighter light in her large dark eyes.

“You’re sure, aint you, mother?”

“Yes, sure!” said the mother, in a voice that startled herself, for it seemed to her to come from a spirit within, that was no part of her; and the boy dropped his little weary head on her shoulder, and was soon asleep. How the touch of those warm arms, the gentle breathings that came in her neck, seemed to add fire and spirit to her movements. It seemed to her as if strength poured into her in electric streams, from every gentle touch and movement of her sleeping, confiding child. Sublime is the dominion of the mind over the body, that for a time can make flesh and nerve impregnable, and string the sinews, like steel, so that the weak become so mighty!

The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passed by her dizzily as she passed on, and still she walked, leaving one familiar object after another, slacking not, pausing not, till reddening daylight found her many a long mile from all traces of any familiar objects upon the open highway.

She had often been with her mistress, to visit some connections in the little village of T———, not far from the Ohio river, and knew the road well. To go thither, to escape across the Ohio river, were the first hurried outlines of her plan of escape—beyond which she could only hope in God.

When horses and vehicles began to move along the highway, with that keen and alert[3] perception peculiar to a state of excitement, and which seems to be a sort of inspiration, she became aware that her headlong pace and distracted air might bring on her remark and suspicion. She therefore put the boy on the ground, and, adjusting her dress and bonnet, she walked on at as rapid a pace as she thought consistent with the preservation of appearances. In her little bundle she had provided a store of cakes and apples, which she used as expedients for quickening the speed of the child—rolling the apple some yards before them, when the boy would run with all his might after it; and this ruse, often repeated, carried them over many a half mile.

After a while they came to a thick patch of woodland, through which murmured a clear brook. As the child complained of hunger and thirst, she climbed over the fence with him; and sitting down behind a large rock which concealed them from the road, she gave him a breakfast out of her little package. The boy wondered and grieved that she could not eat, and when, putting his arms round her neck, he tried to wedge some of his cake into her mouth, it seemed to her that the rising in her throat would choke her.

“No, no, Harry, darling, mother can’t eat till you are safe. We must go on—on—till we come to the river.” And she hurried again into the road, and again constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly forward.

She was many miles past any neighborhood where she was personally known. If she should chance to meet any who knew her, she reflected that the well-known kindness of the family would be of itself a blind to suspicion, as making it an unlikely supposition that she could be a fugitive. As she was also so white as not to be known as of colored lineage, without a critical survey, and her child was white also, it was much easier for her to pass on unsuspected.

On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farm-house, to rest herself, and buy some dinner for her child and self—for as the danger decreased with the distance, the supernatural tension of the nervous system lessened, and she found herself both weary and hungry.

The good woman, kindly and gossiping, seemed rather pleased than otherwise, with having somebody come in to talk with, and accepted without examination Eliza’s statement that she “was going on a little piece to spend a week with her friends”—all which she hoped in her heart might prove strictly true.

An hour before sunset she entered the village of T———, by the Ohio river, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in heart. Her first glance was at the river, which lay, like Jordan, between her and the Canaan of liberty on the other side.

It was now early spring, and the river was swollen and turbulent; great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to and fro in the turbid waters. Owing to the peculiar form of the shore on the Kentucky side, the land bending far out into the water, the ice had been lodged and detained in great quantities, and the narrow channel which swept round the bend was full of ice, piled one cake over another—thus forming a temporary barrier to the descending ice, which lodged and formed a great undulating raft, filling up the whole river, and extending almost to the Kentucky shore.

Eliza stood for a moment contemplating this unfavorable aspect of things, which she saw at once must prevent the usual ferry-boat from running, and then turned into a small public house on the bank, to make a few inquiries.

The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewing operations over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal, stopped, with a fork in her hand, as Eliza’s sweet and plaintive voice arrested her.

“What is it?” she said.

“Isn’t there any ferry or boat that takes people over to B—— now?” she said.

“No, indeed,” said the woman, “the boats has stopped running.”

Eliza’s look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, and she said, inquiringly—

“May be your wanting to get over?—anybody sick? ye seem mighty anxious.”

“I’ve got a child that’s very dangerous,” said Eliza. I never heard of it till last night, and I’ve walked quite a piece to-day, in hopes to get to the ferry.”

“Well, now, that’s onlucky,” said the woman, whose motherly sympathies were much aroused; “I’m re’ely consarned for ye. Solomon!” she called, from the window, towards a small back building. A man in leather apron and very dirty hands appeared at the door.

“I say, Sol,” said the woman, “is that ar man going to tote them bar’ls over to-night?”

“He said he should try, if twas any way prudent,” said the man.

“There’s a man a piece down here, that’s going over with some truck this evening, if he durs’to; he’ll be in here to supper to-night, so you’d better set down and wait. That’s a sweet little fellow,” added the woman, offering him a cake.

But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.

“Poor fellow! he isn’t used to walking, and I’ve hurried him on so,” said Eliza.

“Well, take him into this room,” said the woman, opening into a small bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laid the weary boy upon it, and held his hands in hers till he was fast asleep. For her there was no rest. As a fire in her bones, the thought of the pursuer urged her on, and she gazed with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters that lay between her and liberty.

Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the course of her pursuers.


Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried on table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen before, that it required more than one to make a bargain. So, although the order was fairly given out in Haley’s hearing, and carried to Aunt Chloe by at least half a dozen juvenile messengers, that dignitary only gave certain very gruff snorts, and tosses of her head, and went on with every operation in an unusually leisurely and circumstantial manner. For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among the servants generally, that missis would not be particularly disobliged by delay, and it was wonderful what a number of counter accidents occurred constantly, to retard the course of things. One luckless wight contrived to upset the gravy, and then gravy had to be got up de novo, with due care and formality, Aunt Chloe watching and stirring with dogged precision, answering shortly to all suggestions of haste, that she “warnt a going to have raw gravy on the table, to help nobody’s catchings.” One tumbled down with the water, and had to go to the spring for more; and another precipitated the butter into the path of events, and there was from time to time giggling news brought into the kitchen that mass’r Haley was mighty oneasy, and that he couldn’t sit in his cheer no ways, but was a walkin and stalkin to the winders and through the porch.

“Sarves him right!” said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. “He’ll get wus nor oneasy one of these days, if he don’t mend his ways. His master’ll be sending for him, and then see how he’ll look.”

“He’ll go to torment, and no mistake,” said little Jake.

“He desarves it!” said Aunt Chloe, grimly, he’s broke a many many many hearts,[4] I tell ye all!” she said, stopping, with a fork uplifted in her hands; “it’s like what mass’r George reads in Ravelations—souls a callin under the altar! and a callin on the Lord for vengeance on sich! and by and by, the Lord he’ll hear em—so he will!”

Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listened to with open mouth; and the dinner being now fairly sent in, the whole kitchen was at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to her remarks.

“Sich’ll be burnt up forever, and no mistake! wont ther,” said Andy.

“I’d be glad to see it, I’ll be boun,” said little Jake.

“Chil’en!” said a voice, that made them all start. It was Uncle Tom, who had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at the door.

“Chil’en!” he said, “I’m afeard you dont know what ye’re sayin. Forever is a dre’ful word, chil’en; its awful to think on’t. You oughtenter wish that ar to any human crittur!”

“We wouldn’t to anybody but the soul-drivers,” said Andy; “nobody can help wishing it to them, they’s so awful wicked.”

“Dont natur herself kinder cry out on em?” said Aunt Chloe. “Dont dey tear der suckin baby right off his mother’s breast, and sell him, and der little children as is crying and holding on by her clothes; dont dey pull em off and sells em? Dont dey tear wife and husband apart?” said Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry—“when it’s jest takin the very life on em—and all the while does they feel one bit—dont dey drink and smoke, and take it oncommon easy? Lor, if the devil don’t get them, what’s he good for?” And Aunt Chloe covered her face with her checked apron, and began to sob in good earnest.

“Pray for them that ’spitefully use you, the good book says,” says Tom.

“Pray for ’em!” said Aunt Chloe; “Lor, it’s too tough! I can’t pray for ’em.”

“It’s natur, Chloe, and natur’s strong,” said Tom, “but the Lord’s grace is stronger; besides, you oughter think what an awful state a poor crittur’s soul’s in that’ll do them ar things—you oughter thank God that you aint \it

ike} him, Chloe. I’m sure I’d rather be sold ten thousand times over than to have all that ar poor crittur’s got to answer for.”

“So’d I, a heap,” said Jake. Lor! shouldn’t we cotch it, Andy?”

Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.

“I’m glad mass’r didn’t go off this morning as he looked to,” said Tom; “that ar hurt me more than the sellin—it did,” said Tom. “Mebbe it might have been natural for him, but ’twould have come desp’t hard on me, as has known him from a baby; but I’ve seen mass’r, and I begin ter feel sort o’ reconciled to the Lord’s will now. Mass’r couldn’t help hisself; he did right, but I’m feared things will be kinder goin to rack when I’m gone. Mass’r can’t be spected to be a pryin round everywhar, as Joe done, a keepin up all the ends. The boys all means well, but they’s powerful careless! That ar troubles me.”

The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor.

“Tom,” said his master, kindly, “I want you to notice that I give this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not on the spot when he wants you; he’s going to-day to look after his other business, and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like, boy.”

“Thank you, mass’r,” said Tom.

“And mind yerself,” said the trader, “and don’t come it over your master with any o’ yer nigger tricks, for I’ll take every cent out of him if you aint thar. If he’d hear to me, he wouldn’t trust any on ye—slippery as eels!”

“Mass’r,” said Tom—and he stood very straight—“I was jist eight years old when ole missis put you into my arms, and you wasn’t a year old. ‘Thar,’ says she, ‘Tom, that’s to be your young mass’r; take good care on him,’ says she. And now I jist ask you, mass’r, have I ever broke word to you, or gone contrary to you, specially since I was a Christian?”

Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.

“My good boy,” said he, “the Lord knows you say but the truth! and if I was able to help it, all the world shouldn’t buy you.”

“And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs. Shelby, “you shall be redeemed as soon as I can any way bring together means. Sir,” she said to Haley, “take good account of who you sell him to, and let me know.”

“Lor, yes, for that matter,” said the trader, “I may bring him up in a year, not much the woss for wear, and trade him back.”

“I’ll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,” said Mrs. Shelby.

“Of course,” said the trader, “all’s equal with me; lives trade ’em up as down! so I does a good business. All I want is a livin, you know, ma’am—that’s all any on us wants, I spose.”

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of putting a constraint on their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the greater became Mrs. Shelby’s dread of his succeeding in recapturing Eliza and her child, and of course the greater her motive for detaining him by every female artifice. She therefore graciously smiled, assented, chatted familiarly, and did all she could to make time pass imperceptibly.

At two o’clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts, apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the morning.

Sam was then new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous and ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was boasting in flourishing style to Andy of the evident and imminent success of the operation, now that he had “farly come to it.”

“Your master, I spose, don’t keep no dogs,” said Haley, thoughtfully, as he prepared to mount.

“Heaps on ’em,” said Sam, triumphantly; “thar’s Bruno—he’s a roarer! and besides that, bout every nigger on us keeps a pup of some natur ur uther.”

“Poh!” said Haley—and he said something else, too, with regard to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered—

“I don’t see no use cussin on ’em! no way.”

“But your master don’t keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don’t) for trackin out niggers.”

Sam knew exactly what he meant, but ke[5] kept on a look of earnest and desperate simplicity.

“Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they’s the kind, though they han’t never had no practice. They’s far dogs, though, at most anything, if you’d get ’em started. Here, Bruno,” he called, whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously toward them.

“You go hang!” said Haley, getting up. “Come, tumble up now.”

Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to Haley’s indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding whip.

“I’s stonished at yer, Andy,” said Sam, with awful gravity. “This yer’s a seris bisness, Andy. Yer musn’t be a makin game. Thus yer aint no way to help mass’r.”

“I shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley, decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. “I know the way of all of ’em—they makes tracks for the underground.”

“Sartin,” said Sam, “dat’s de idee. Mass’r Haley hits de thing right in de middle. Now, der’s two roads to de river—de dirt road and der pike—which mass’r mean to take?”

Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said by a vehement reiteration.

“Cause,” said Sam, “I’d ruther be clined to magine that Lizy’d take de dirt road, bein it’s the least travelled.”

Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view of the case.

“If yer warn’t both on yer such cussed liars now!” he said, contemplatively, as he pondered a moment——

The pensive, reflecting tone in which this was spoken appeared to amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so as apparently to run a great risk of falling off his horse, while Sam’s face was immovably composed into the most doleful gravity.

“Course,” said Sam, “mass’r can do as he’d ruther; go the straight road, if mass’r thinks best—it’s all one to us. Now, when I study pon it, I think de straight road de best, decidedly.[6]

“She would naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley, thinking aloud, and not minding Sam’s remark.

“Dar aint no sayin!” said Sam; “gals is pecular; they never does nothin yer thinks they will; mose gen’lly the contrar. Gals is nat’lly made contrary; and so if you thinks they’ve gone one road, it is sartin you’d better go tother, and then you’ll be sure to find ’em. Now, my private ’pinion is, Lizy took der dirt road, so I think we’d better take der straight one.”

This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem to dispose Haley particularly to the straight road, and he announced decidedly that he should go the other, and asked Sam when they should come to it.

“A little piece ahead,” said Sam, giving a wink to Andy with the eye which was on Andy’s side of the head; and he added, gravely, “but I’ve studded on der matter, and I’m quite clar we ought not to go dat ar way. I nebber been over it no way. It’s despit lonesome, and we might lose our way—whar we’d come to, de Lord only knows.”

“Nevertheless,” said Haley, “I shall go that way.”

“Now I think on’t, I think I hearn ’em tell that dat ar road was all fenced up down by der creek, and thar, an’t it, Andy?”

Andy wasn’t certain; he’d only “hearn tell” about that road, but never been over it. In short, he was strictly non-committal.

Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between lies of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in favor of the dirt road aforesaid. The mention of the thing, he thought he perceived was involuntary on Sam’s part at first, and his confused attempts to dissuade him he sat down to a desperate lying on second thoughts, as being unwilling to implicate Eliza.

When, therefore, Sam indicated the road, Haley plunged briskly into it, followed by Sam and Andy.

Now, the road in fact was an old one that had formerly been a thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many years after the laying of the new pike. It was open for about an hour’s ride, and after that it was cut across by various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly well—indeed, the road had been so long closed up that Andy had never heard of it. He therefore rode along with an air of dutiful submission, only groaning and vociferating occasionally that ’twas “desp’t rough, and bad for Jerry’s foot.”

“Now, I jest give yer warning,” said Haley, “I know yer; yer won’t get me to turn off this yer road with all yer fussin—so you shet up.”

“Mass’r will go his own way,” said Sam, with rueful submission, at the same time winking most portentously to Andy, whose delight was now very near the explosive point.

Sam was in wonderful spirits—professed to keep a very brisk lookout—at one time exclaiming that he saw “a gal’s bonnet” on the top of some distant eminence, or calling to Andy “if that thar wasn’t ‘Lizy’ down in the hollow,” always making these exclamations in some rough or craggy part of the road, where the sudden quickening of speed was a special inconvenience to all parties concerned, and thus keeping Haley in a state of constant commotion.

After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party made a precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a large farming establishment. Not a soul was in sight, all the hands being employed in the fields; but as the barn stood conspicuously and plainly square across the road, it was evident that their journey in that direction had reached a decided finale.

“Want dat ar what I telled mass’r,” said Sam, with an air of injured innocence. “How does strange gentlemen spect to know more about a country dan der natives born and raised!”

“You rascal,” said Haley, “you knew all about this.”

“Didn’t I tell yer I knowd, and yer wouldn’t believe me. I telled mass’r ’twas all shet up, and fenced up, and I didn’t spec we could get thro—Andy heard me.”

It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had to pocket his wrath with the best grace he was able, and all three faced to the right about, and took up their line of march for the highway.

In consequence of all the various delays, it was only about three-quarters of an hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep in the village tavern, that the party came riding into the same place. Eliza was standing by the window, looking out in another direction, when Sam’s quick eye caught a glimpse of her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis, Sam contrived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic ejaculation, which startled her at once; she drew suddenly back; the whole train swept by the window, round to the front door.

A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment to Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her child, and sprang down the steps towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her just as she was disappearing down the bank, and, throwing himself from his horse, calling loudly to Sam and Andy, he was after her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment her feet to her scarce seemed to touch the ground, and a moment brought her to the water’s edge. Right on behind they came, and nerved with strength such as God gives only to the desperate, with one wild cry, and flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap, impossible to anything but madness and despair; and Haley, Sam, and Andy, instinctively cried out, and lifted up their hands as she did it.

The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she staid there not a moment—with wild cries and desperate energy she leaped to another and still another cake, stumbling, leaping, slipping, springing[7] upwards again! Her shoes are gone, her stockings cut from her feet, while blood marked every step—but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly as in a dream she saw the Ohio side, and a man helping her up the bank.

“Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar,” said the man, with an oath.

Eliza recognised the voice and face of a man who owned a farm not far from her old home.

“Oh, Mr. Symmes—save me—do save me—do hide me,” said Eliza.

“Why, what’s this?” said the man. “Why, if taint Shelby’s gal.”

“My child! this boy—he’d sold him! There is his mass’r,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. “Oh, Mr. Symmes, you’ve got a little boy.”

“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drew her up the steep bank. “Besides, you’r a right brave gal. I like grit, wherever I see it.”

When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused.

“I’d be glad to do something for ye,” said he, “but then there’s nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do is to tell you to go thar,” said he, pointing to a large white house which stood by itself, off the main street of the village. “Go thar; they’r kind folks. Thar’s no kind’r danger but they’ll help you—they’r up to all that sort o’ thing.”

“The Lord bless you,” said Eliza, earnestly.

“No casion, no casion in the world,” said the man. “What I’ve done ’s of no ’count.”

“And, oh, surely, sir, you won’t tell any one.”

“Go to thunder, gal. What do you take a feller for? In course not,” said the man. “Come, now, go along like a likely sensible gal, as you are. You’ve arnt your liberty, and you shall have it for all me.”

The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmly and swiftly away. The man stood and looked after her.

“Shelby, now, mebbe won’t think this yer the most neighborly thing in the world, but what’s a feller to do? If he catches one of my gals in the same fix, he’s welcome to pay back. Somehow I never could see no kind o’ crittur a strivin’ and pantin’, and trying to clar theirselves with the dogs artur ’em, and go agin ’em. Besides, I don’t see no kind of casion for me to be hunter and catcher for other folks, neither.”

So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not been enlightened on[8] his constitutional relations, and consequently was betrayed into acting in a sort of Christianized manner, which, if he had been better situated and more enlightened, he would not have been left to do.

Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene, till Eliza had disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank, inquiring look on Sam and Andy.

“That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business!” said Sam.

“The gal’s got seven devils in her, I believe!” said Haley. “How like a wildcat she jumped!”

“Wal, now,” said Sam, scratching his head, “I hope mass’r’ll ’scuse us tryin dat ar road. Don’t think I feels spry enough for dat ar, no way!” and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle.

You laugh!” said the trader, with a growl.

“Lord bless ye, mass’r, I couldn’t help it, now,” said Sam, giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. She looked so curis—a leapin and springin, ice a crackin, and only to hear her, plump! ker chunk! kersplash! spring. Lord, how she goes it!” and Sam and Andy laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks.

“I’ll make ye laugh t’other side yer mouths,” said the trader, laying about their heads with his riding whip.

Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on their horses before he was up.

“Good evening, mass’r,” said Sam, with much gravity. “I berry much spect missis be anxious bout Jerry. Mass’r Haley won’t want us no longer. Missis wouldn’t hear of our ridin the critturs over Lizy’s bridge to-night;” and, with a facetious poke into Andy’s ribs, he started off, followed by the latter, at full speed—their shouts of laughter coming dimly on the wind.

[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, see the Note on the Text.

Note 1

the supernatural strength that bore | Era pg. 109
the supernatural power that bore | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 80

In the Era, what bears Eliza forward is a supernatural “strength.” In the Jewett edition what bears her forward is a supernatural “power.” While in either case the source of the power is attributed to the “Friend above,” the serial form “strength” implies that the power wells up from within the self whereas “power” (book) implies that the power descends from above. As Eliza when sentence begins wonders at the “strength that seemed to be come upon her,” the Jewett version is Stowe’s authorial revision, to avoid repeating the word “strength.” [Back]

Note 2

from twelve c’clock till morning | Era pg. 109
from twelve o’clock till morning | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 80

The Era error “c’clock” is corrected in the Jewett edition to “o’clock.” The form “c’clock” was probably caused by the letter “c” being misplaced in the case. [Back]

Note 3

with that keen and alert perception | Era pg. 109
with that [omit] alert perception | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 81

The Era phrase “keen and alert” is altered in the Jewett edition to “alert.” The revision is probably authorial. Stowe, on review, reckoned the second word “alert” to offer no additional clarification. [Back]

Note 4

broke a many many many hearts, I tell ye | Era pg. 109
broke a many, many, many hearts,—I tell ye | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 85

In the Era, the commas are omitted for Chloe’s repeated word “many.” The Jewett edition has the expected commas. The absence of commas in the serial version, which probably follows Stowe’s manuscript, highlights more emphatically the numbing pain that the trader Haley has caused Chloe. [Back]

Note 5

meant, but ke kept on | Era pg. 109
meant, but he kept on | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 89

The Era error “ke” is corrected in the Jewett edition to “he.” The form “ke” probably originates in the typesetter’s anticipation of the “k” in “kept” or by the letter “k” being misplaced in the compositor’s case. [Back]

Note 6

de best, decidedly. ¶ “She would | Era pg. 109
de best, deridedly.” ¶ “She would | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 91

The Era prints Stowe’s usual form “decidedly,” but the Jewett edition prints what may be Sam’s dialect form “deridedly.” If the Jewett form is authorial, Sam’s made-up word may be intended as a clever dig at Haley, in the sense of “deride,” which means to treat with contemptuous mockery—the term “deride” accurately characterizes Sam’s effort to mock Haley while pretending to assist him. However, “decidedly” is one of Stowe’s favorite adverbs: it appears over 30 times in both the serial and in the Jewett edition. In all other instances the word is spelled “decidedly.” However, other editions that Stowe reviewed also print “deridedly” here. This instance is the only usage of the word “deridedly” (for “decidedly”) in dialect speech.

Editors tend to credit authors for difficult readings. On that principle, “deridedly” (Jewett edition) is preferred. But a unique form may be difficult because of an inadvertent typesetting error and not because of authorial intent. The standard form “decidedly” in the Era is likewise defensible. The form “deridedly” may be a deliberate dialect form, an inadvertent accident, or an accident that once identified was accepted as the preferred reading. Though “deridedly” is the familiar form to readers of the Jewett edition and may appeal as the received text of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, “decidedly” cannot be dismissed as a nonauthoritative reading. [Back]

Note 7

still another cake, stumbling, leaping, slipping, springing upwards again! | Era pg. 109
still another cake;—stumbling—leaping—slipping—springing upwards again! | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 94

If the Era version, em dashes neither aid nor slow Eliza’s crossing. Michael T. Gilmore has argued that the em dashes in the Jewett edition hold interpretive significance: “The description is graphic, its kinetic energy conveyed by dashes, by the ‘ing’ endings of the verbs […]” (62). If the serial is closer to the authorial manuscript, then Stowe likely revised the text for the Jewett edition. It is possible, but unlikely, that a Jewett compositor—instead of Stowe—added dashes to contribute what Gilmore labels kinetic energy.

The dashes in the Jewett edition may slow the pace of reading, which contributes to the effect of moving the moment from the commonplace present of the serial into the literary present of the Jewett edition. Stowe when she begins Eliza’s run from the tavern writes that “a thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment.” Eliza’s flight across the ice floe has become one of the novel’s most illustrated and remembered scenes. The Jewett form may bear the authority of Stowe’s revision, but the serial version with no dashes cannot be dismissed as faulty. The Era like newspapers generally as a publication venue tends to represent actions as occurring in the journalistic present. Both versions may represent authorial preference, and the presence of the variant—rather than the authority of one or the other versions—highlights Stowe’s deliberate adaptation to differing publication venues, transforming the text from the newspaper’s present into the book’s more timeless literary present, one which future readers will find difficult to untangle from the prevalence of illustrations of the scene. The scene was not illustrated in the first Jewett edition, and Jo-Ann Morgan surmises that Jewett illustrator Hammatt Billings could have been influenced by stage shows for his later illustration of scene in Jewett’s 1853 illustrated edition (87). [Back]

Note 8

not been enlightened on his constitutional | Era pg. 109
not been instructed in his constitutional | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 95

If the Era version, Stowe with the phrase “enlightened on” indicates that Mr. Symmes, the Shelby’s neighbor and a slaveholder, has not himself arrived at the recommended state of feeling that would lead him to return Eliza to her owner. In the Jewett edition, Stowe blames Symmes’s failure to remand Eliza into slavery on the failure of those who are responsible for his instruction, society’s leaders. In Stowe’s world view, those who could instruct Mr. Symmes are pastors, members of the legislature, newspaper editors, and other prominent citizens. Stowe aims her derision at those who recommend the inhumane action of returning a fleeing woman and child to slavery, and it is the teachings of society’s leaders—and not Mr. Symmes’s act—that are condemned. Mr. Symmes chooses the moral act of assisting Eliza’s and her child’s flight rather than the legal act of remanding them to slavery, though he as a slaveholder could benefit from the policy recommended as economically advantageous to slaveholders and for the general economy. The Jewett text, which is presumably revised by Stowe, places greater blame on the moral leaders of society as instructors: the student Symmes, who disobeys their teaching, performs a heroic act. Symmes in a concentrated miniature scene foreshadows the choice of Senator Burr in the following installment. [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.

Chapter and Commentary Table of Contents

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