June 19, 1851 Transcription

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Chapter IV.—An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

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

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

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

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

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

In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread; and by the side of it was a piece of carpeting, of some considerable size. On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished consideration, and made so far as possible sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks. In fact, that corner was the drawing room of the establishment. In the other corner was a bed of much humbler pretensions, and evidently designed for use. The wall over the fireplace was adorned with some very bilious[1] Scriptural prints and a portrait of General Washington, drawn and colored in a manner which would certainly have astonished that hero, if ever he had happened to meet with its like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, Aunt Chloe, I’m getting mighty hungry,” said George; “aint that cake in the skillet almost done?”

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

And with this final expression of contempt for Sally’s greenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly-baked poundcake, of which no city confectioner need to have been ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, Aunt Sally[2] began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper department.

“Here you, Mose and Peet! get out de way, you niggers! Get away, Mericky,[3] honey—mammy’ll give her baby some fire by and by. Now, mass’r George, you jes take off dem books, and set down now with my ole man, and I’ll take up de sausages and have der first griddle full of cakes on your plates in less dan no time.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Dem Lincons aint much count, no way,” said Aunt Chloe, contemptuously; “I mean, set alongside our folks. They’s spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way; but as to gettin up anything in style, they don’t begin to have a notion on’t. Set mass’r Lincon, now, alongside mass’r Shelby! Good Lor! and missis Lincon—can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis—so kinder splendid, yer know! Oh, go way; don’t tell me nothin of dem Lincons”—and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who hoped she did know something of the world.

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

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

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

“Thought so!—didn’t she—thar she was, showin em as innocent—ye see, its jest here, Jinny don’t know. Lor, the family aint nothin! She can’t be spected to know! Taint no fault o’ hern. Ah, mass’r George, you doesn’t know half yer privileges in yer family and bringin up.” Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion.

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

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

“And so yer telled Tom, did yer! Oh Lor! what young uns will be up ter! Yer crowed over Tom! Oh Lor! mass’r George, if yer wouldn’t make a hombug laugh!”

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

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

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

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

“And what did mother say?” said George.

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

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

“Didn’t I? And wan’t I behind der dining-room door dat bery day, and didn’t I see der Gineral pass his plate three times for some more dat bery pie—and says he, ‘you must have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby.’ Lor! I was fit to split myself.”

“And der Gineral, he knows what cookin is,” said Aunt Chloe, drawing herself up with an air—“Bery nice man, der Gineral! He comes of one der[4] bery fustest families in Ole Virginny! He knows what’s what, now, as well as I do—der Gineral. Yer see there’s pints in all pies, mass’r George; but taint everybody knows what they is, or as orter be. But the Gineral, he knows; I knew by his marks he made. Yes, he knows what der pints is!”

By this time Master George had arrived at that pass to which even a boy can come, (under uncommon circumstances, when he really could not eat another morsel,) and therefore he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads and glistening eyes which were regarding their operations hungrily from the opposite corner.

“Here, you Mose, Peet,” he said, breaking off liberal bits, and throwing it at them; “you want some, don’t you? Come, Aunt Chloe, bake em some cakes.”

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and began alternately filling its mouth and her own, and distributing to Mose and Peet, who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs as they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling each other, and occasionally pulling the baby’s toes.

“Oh! go long, will ye,” said the mother, giving now and then a kick, in a kind of general way, under the table, when the movement became too obstreperous. “Can’t ye be decent when white folks comes to see ye? Stop dat ar, now, will ye? Better mind yerselves, or I’ll take ye down a button-hole lower, when mass’r George is gone.”

What meaning was couched under this terrible threat, it is difficult to say; but certain it is, that its awful indistinctness seemed to produce very little impression on the young sinners addressed.

“La, now,” said Uncle Tom, “they’s so full of tickle all the while, they can’t behave theirselves.”

Here the boys emerged from under the table, and with hands and face well plastered with molasses, began a vigorous kissing of the baby.

“Get along wid ye,” said the mother, pushing away their woolly heads. “Ye’ll all stick together, and never get clar, if ye do dat fashion. Go long to de spring, and wash yerselves,” she said, seconding her exhortations by a slap, which resounded very formidably, but which seemed only to knock out so much more laugh from the young ones, as they tumbled precipitately over each other out of doors, where they fairly screamed with merriment.

“Did ye ever see such aggravatin young uns?” said Aunt Chloe, rather complacently, as producing an old towel, kept for such emergencies, she poured a little water out of the cracked teapot on it, and began rubbing off the molasses from the baby’s face and hands; and having polished her till she shone, she set her down in Tom’s lap, while she busied herself in clearing away supper. The baby employed the intervals in pulling Tom’s nose, scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his woolly hair, which last operation seemed to afford her special content.

“Aint she a peart young un?” said Tom, holding her from him to take a full length view; then getting up, he set her on his broad shoulder, and began capering and dancing with her, while mass’r George snapped at her with his pocket handkerchief, and Mose and Peet, now returned again, roared after her like bears, till Aunt Chloe declares that they “fairly took her head off” with their noise. As, according to her own statement, this surgical operation was a matter of daily occurrence in the cabin, the declaration no whit abated the merriment, till every one had roared and tumbled and danced themselves down to a state of composure.

“Well, now, I hopes you’r done,” said Aunt Chloe, who had been busy in pulling out a rude box of a trundle bed; “and now, you Mose and you Peet, get into thar, for we’s goin to have the meetin.”

“Oh! mother, we don’t wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin—meetins is so curis. We likes em.”

“La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let em sit up,” said mass’r George, decisively, giving a push to the rude machine.

Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed highly delighted to push the thing under, saying, as she did so, “Well, mebbe ’twill do em some good.”

The house now resolved itself into a committee of the whole, to consider the accommodations and arrangements for the meeting.

“What we’s to do for cheers, now, I declar I don’t know,” said Aunt Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle Tom’s, weekly, for an indefinite length of time, without any more “cheers,” there seemed some encouragement to hope that a way would be discovered at present.

“Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last week,” suggested Mose.

“You go long! I’ll boun you pulled em out; some o’ your shines,” said Aunt Chloe.

“Well, it’ll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!” said Mose.

“Den Uncle Peter musn’t sit in it, cause he ally’s hitches when he gets a singing. He hitched pretty nigh across de room t’other night,” said Pete.

“Good Lor! get him in it, then,” said Mose, “and den he’d begin, ‘Come saints and sinners, hear me tell,’ and den down he’d go”—and Mose imitated precisely the nasal tones of the old man, tumbling on the floor, to illustrate the supposed catastrophe.

“Come now, be decent, can’t ye!” said Aunt Chloe; “aint yer shamed?”

Mass’r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and declared decidedly that Mose was a “buster.” So the maternal admonition seemed rather to fail of effect.

“Well, ole man,” said Aunt Chloe, “you’ll have to tote in them ar bar’ls.

“Mother’s bar’ls is like dat ar widder’s, mass’r George was reading bout, in de good book—dey never fails,” said Mose aside to Peet.

“I’m sure one on em caved in last week,” said Peet, “and let em all down in de middle of de singin; dat ar was failin, warnt it?”

During this aside between Mose and Peet, two empty casks had been rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling by stones on each side, boards were laid across them, which arrangement, together with the turning down of certain tubs and pails, and the disposing of the rickety chairs, at last completed the preparations.

“Mass’r George is such a beautiful reader, now; I know he’ll stay to read for us,” said Aunt Chloe; “pears like twill be so much more interestin.”

George very readily consented, for your boy is always ready for anything that makes him of importance.

The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from the old gray-headed patriarch of eighty to the young girl and lad of fifteen. A little harmless gossip ensued on various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally got her new red head-kerchief, and how “Missis was a going to give Lizzy that spotted muslin gown when she’d got her new berage made up;” and how mass’r Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt, that was going to prove an addition to the glories of the place. A few of the worshippers belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to attend, and who brought in various choice scraps of information about the sayings and doings at the house and on the place, which circulated as freely as the same sort of small change does in higher circles.

After a while the singing commenced, to the evident delight of all present. Not even all the disadvantage of nasal intonation could prevent the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited. The words were sometimes the well-known and common hymns sung in the churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character, picked up at camp-meetings.

The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was sung with great energy and unction:

“Die on the field of battle,
Die on the field of battle,
Glory in my soul.”

Another special favorite had oft repeated the words—

“Oh! I’m going to glory, won’t you come along with me?
Don’t you see the angels beck’ning, and a calling me away?
Don’t you see the golden city and the everlasting day?”

There were others, which made incessant mention of “Jordan’s banks,” and “Canaan’s fields,” and the “New Jerusalem;” for the negro mind, impassioned and imaginative, always attaches itself to hymns and expressions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and, as they sung, some laughed, and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook hands rejoicingly with each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side of the river.

Various exhortations, or relations of experience, followed, and intermingled with the singing. One old gray-headed woman, long past work, but much revered as a sort of chronicle of the past, rose, and leaning on her staff, said—

“Well, chil’en! Well, I’m mighty glad to hear ye all, and see ye all once more, cause I don’t know when I’ll be gone to glory; but I’ve done got ready, chil’en; pears like I’d got my little bundle all tied up, and my bonnet on, jest a waitin for the stage to come along and take me home; sometimes, in the night, I think I hear the wheels a ratlin, and I’m a lookin out all the time; now, you jest be ready too, for I tell ye all, chil’en,” she said, striking her staff hard on the floor, “dat ar glory is a mighty thing!—it’s a mighty thing, chil’en—you don’no nothing about it—its wonderful.” And the old creature sat down with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while the whole circle struck up—

“Oh Canaan, bright Canaan, I’m bound for the land of Canaan.”

Mass’r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation, often interrupted by such exclamations as “The sakes now!” “Only hear that!” “Jest think on’t!” “Is all that a comin sure enough?”

George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious things by his mother, finding himself an object of general admiration, threw in expositions of his own, from time to time, with a commendable seriousness and gravity, for which he was admired by the young and blessed by the old; and it was agreed, on all hands, that “a minister couldn’t lay it off better than he did;” that “’twas reely masin!”

Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters, in the neighborhood. Having naturally an organization in which the morale was strongly predominant, together with a greater breadth and cultivation of mind than obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with great respect, as a sort of minister among them; and the simple, hearty, sincere style of his exhortations might have edified even better educated persons. But it was in prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing could exceed the touching simplicity, the child-like earnestness of his prayer, enriched with the language of Scripture, which seemed so entirely to have wrought itself into his being as to have become a part of himself, and to drop from his lips unconsciously; in the language of a pious old negro, he “prayed right up.” And so much did his prayers[5] always work on the devotional feelings of his audiences, that there seemed often a danger that it would be lost altogether in the abundance of the responses which broke out everywhere around him.

———

While this scene was passing in the cabin of the man, one quite otherwise passed in the halls of the master.

The trader and Mr. Shelby were seated together in the dining room afore named, at a table covered with papers and writing utensils.

Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bills, which, as they were counted, he pushed over to the trader, who counted them likewise.

“All fair!” said the trader, “and now for signing these yer.”

Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale towards him, and sighed[6] them, like a man that hurries over some disagreeable business, and then pushed them over with the money. Haley produced, from a well-worn valise, a parchment, which, after looking over it a moment, he handed to Mr. Shelby, who took it with a gesture of suppressed eagerness.

“Wal, now, the thing’s done!” said the trader, getting up.

“It’s done!” said Mr. Shelby, in a musing tone; and, fetching a long breath, he repeated, “It’s done!

“Yer don’t seem to feel much pleased with it, ’pears to me,” said the trader.

“Haley,” said Mr. Shelby, “I hope you’ll remember that you promised, on your honor, you wouldn’t sell Tom, without knowing what sort of hands he ’s going into.”

“Why, you’ve just done it, sir,” said the trader.

“Circumstances, you well know, obliged me,” said Shelby, haughtily.

“Wal, you know, they may ’blige me, too,” said the trader. “Howsomever, I’ll do the very best I can in gettin Tom a good berth; as to my treatin on him bad, you needn’t be a grain afeard. If there’s anything that I thank the Lord for, it is that I’m never noways cruel.”

After the expositions which the trader had previously given of his humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel particularly re-assured by these declarations; but, as they were the best comfort the case admitted of, he allowed the trader to depart in silence, and betook himself to a solitary segar.[7]

[to be continued.]

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, see the Textual Introduction.

Note 1

some very bilious Scriptural prints and | Era pg. 97
some very brilliant scriptural prints, and | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 40

The Era’s adjective “bilious” suggests poor quality and—when used of people, like these portraits of Scriptural figures—melancholy aspect or skin discoloration that is characteristic of liver dysfunction. A bilious print may be a cheap print or one that has suffered significant paper discoloration from age or exposure. Because the inhabitants of the cabin are slaves, the serial reader is reminded that Tom and Chloe are lowly and cannot purchase high-quality prints, which are markers of middle-class life.

The Jewett edition’s “brilliant,” in contrast, suggests a high-quality print, which clashes with the emphasis on Tom and Chloe’s limited economic means. Stowe’s revision for the Jewett edition improves the quality of the reproductions but lessens the emphasis on the slave’s limited economic means.

The continuation of the line, the “drawn and colored” portrait of George Washington, introduces complications for either reading. In the serial, the source of Washington’s astonishment may be the poor quality of the reproduction. Stowe’s continuining emphasis is on the poor quality of the illustrations, a marker of the thinly-concealed poverty that is an ever-present threat, which encourages Tom to rely on the spiritual consolation of the Bible. In the Jewett edition reading—which has a strong claim to authorial revision—Washington’s astonishment could have originated in the coloring or retouching of the printed image. One may infer that darker hues render General Washington as a blackface minstrel (see Zwarg 277–79).

If the reading “bilious” is Stowe’s authentic manuscript reading—and it is a highly unusual word that is likely to be authorial—she revises to emphasize the prominence of the pictures as subversive but diminishes their use as markers for the limited economic means of the lowly. [Back]

Note 2

entertainment, Aunt Sally began now | Era pg. 97
entertainment, Aunt Chloe began now | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 42

The Era reading “Sally” is an obvious error, and it is probably a compositor error. The source for the error is the confusion of Chloe and her apprentice cook Sally. The Jewett edition reading “Chloe” is correct. [Back]

Note 3

Get away, Mericky, honey—mammy’ll give | Era pg. 97
Get away, Mericky, honey,—mammy ’ll give | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 42
Get away, Polly, honey,—mammy ’ll give | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 42

In the Era, Chloe and Tom’s youngest daughter is named “Mericky.” The form is repeated in the first two printings of the Jewett edition. Copies with the title page marked as 10,000th and later have the reading “Polly.” Stowe presumably renamed the child later during composition, perhaps when proofreading. Chloe uses the name “Polly” in the 1 April 1852 serial installment, which makes the Era serial inconsistent in its two usages, just as the initial printings of the Jewett edition are inconsistent.

The original manuscript name “Mericky” may be a dialect rendering of “America,” which marks the baby as a national Everyman (or Everychild) character. The name “Polly” is repeated for other minor characters, and attentive readers of the corrected edition will note that Polly as a name reappears in names of other incidental slave characters, a reminder that Tom and Chloe’s child could be sold as Chloe fears.

The replacement name “Polly,” a generic name for birds, may remind readers of literary antecedents. For example, Daniel DeFoe’s Robinson Crusoe tames a parrot and names it “Poll.” The bird name also recalls a famous emblem of slavery in Laurence Stern’s A Sentimental Journey (1768). The caged starling elicits emotional sympathy but remains a permanent captive: public fascination with the bird’s verbal pleas for freedom ignite a lively trade in the bird but prompt no one to free it. In Stowe’s work, little Harry’s toy is a painted parrot, and Stowe often uses bird metaphors to describe black characters, for example, as roosting crows or game birds like partridges. Stowe (and her implied white readers) seem to relish her literary fluorishes, but such metaphors lessen the humanity of these minor characters. [Back]

Note 4

of one der bery fustest | Era pg. 97
of one of de bery fustest | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 46

The Era form lacks the preposition of. Though the possible cause is elision in the manuscript, the more probabe cause is a typesetter’s error, as the missing word would have appeared at the end of the line. The Jewett phrase “of de” is more likely to be authorial. The Era form is nearly impossible to detect as faulty: the form “de” outnumbers “der” in Era by a ratio of only 2 to 1. However, Stowe or the Jewett compositor have a definite preference in the book: “de” outnumbers “der” by a ratio of 5 to 1. [Back]

Note 5

so much did his prayers always work | Era pg. 97
so much did his prayer always work | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 52

In the Era, Tom offers multiple prayers in the presence of his auditors. The Era’s plural form departs from the two previous references to Tom’s prayer as a singular aspect of his personality. And as the line continues, the narrator cautions that “it” might be lost in the responses. Since the word “it” has no singular antecedent, the correct form should be “prayer.” The plural form is presumably a compositor’s mistake in the Era. Tom as metaphor is a living Bible, so Stowe presumably intended also that his prayer be singular. [Back]

Note 6

him, and sighed them, like | Era pg. 97
him, and signed them, like | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 53

The Era spelling “sighed” is an obvious error, but the intriguing slip highlights Arthur Shelby’s reluctance to sign the papers that will conclude Tom and little Harry’s sale. The Jewett edition is corrected.[Back]
Note 7

a solitary segar. | Era pg. 97
a solitary cigar. | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 54

The Era spelling “segar” is an acceptable alternate spelling, but “cigar” is used elsewhere in the serial text. The Jewett edition “cigar” is more common. [Back]

Chapter and Commentary Table of Contents

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