June 26, 1851 Transcription

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Chapter V.—Showing the Feelings of Living Property on changing Owners.

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment for the night. He was lounging in a large easy chair, looking over some letters that had come in the afternoon mail, and she was standing before her mirror, brushing out the complicated braids and curls in which Eliza had arranged her hair; for, noticing her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused her attendance that night, and ordered her to bed. The employment naturally enough suggested her conversation with the girl in the morning, and turning to her husband, she said, carelessly—

“By the bye, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you lugged in to our dinner-table to-day?”

“Haley is his name,” said Shelby, turning himself rather uneasily in his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a letter.

“Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray?”

“Well, he’s a man that I transacted some business with last time I was at Natchez,” said Mr. Shelby.

“And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and dine here, ay?”

“Why, I invited him—I had some accounts with him,” said Shelby.

“Is he a negro-trader?” said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a certain embarrassment in her husband’s manner.

“Why, my dear, what put that into your head?” said Shelby, looking up.

“Nothing, only Eliza came in here after dinner, in a great worry, crying and taking on, and said you were talking with a trader, and that she heard him make an offer for her boy, the ridiculous little goose!”

“She did, hey?” said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper, which he seemed for a few moments quite intent upon, not perceiving that he was holding it bottom upwards.

“It will have to come out,” said he, mentally—as well now as ever.[1]

“I told Eliza,” said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing her hair, “that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had anything to do with that sort of persons. Of course I knew you never meant to sell any of our people—least of all to such a fellow.”

“Well, Emily,” said her husband, “so I have always felt and said; but the fact is, that my business lies so that I cannot get on without. I shall have to sell some of my hands.”

“To that creature! Impossible, Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious.”

“I’m sorry to say that I am,” said Mr. Shelby. “I’ve agreed to sell Tom.”

“What, our Tom?—that good, faithful creature—been your faithful servant from a boy. Oh! Mr. Shelby—and you have promised him his freedom too—you and I have spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can believe anything now—I can believe now that you could sell little Harry, poor Eliza’s only child,” said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between grief and indignation.

“Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to sell Tom and Harry both, and I don’t know why I am to be rated as if I were a monster, for doing what every one does every day.”

“But why, of all others, choose these?” said Mrs. Shelby. “Why sell them, of all on the place, if you must sell at all?”

“Because they will bring the highest sum of any—that’s why. I could choose another, if you say so. The fellow made me a high bid on Eliza, if that would suit you any better,” said Mr. Shelby.

“The wretch!” said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.

“Well, I didn’t listen to it a moment—out of regard to your feelings, I wouldn’t—so give me some credit.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, “forgive me. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared for this; but surely you will allow me to intercede for these poor creatures. Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr. Shelby, that if he were put to it, he would lay down his life for you.”

“I know it, I dare say—but what’s the use of all this!—I can’t help myself.”

“Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice—I’m willing to bear my part of the inconvenience. Oh, Mr. Shelby, I have tried—tried most faithfully, as a Christian woman should—to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent creatures. I have cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and known all their little cares and joys for years; and how can I ever hold up my head again among them, if, for the sake of a little paltry gain, we sell such a faithful, excellent, confiding creature as poor Tom, and tear from him in a moment all we have taught him to love and value? I have taught them the duties of the family, of parent and child, and husband and wife; and how can I bear to have this open acknowledgment that we care for no tie, no duty, no relation, however sacred, compared with money? I have talked with Eliza about her boy—her duty to him as a Christian mother, to watch over him, pray for him, and bring him up in a Christian way; and now what can I say if you tear him away and sell him, soul and body, to a profane, unprincipled man, just to save a little money? I have told her that one soul is worth more than all the money in the world; and how will she believe me when she sees us turn round and sell her child—sell him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body and soul?”

“I’m sorry you feel so about it, Emily, indeed I am,” said Mr. Shelby, “and I respect your feelings too, though I don’t pretend to share them to their full extent; but I tell you now, solemnly, it’s of no use—I can’t help myself. I didn’t mean to tell you this, Emily; but, in plain words, there is no choice between selling these two and selling everything. Either they must go or all must. Haley has come into possession of a mortgage which, if I don’t clear off with him directly, will take everything before it. I’ve raked, and scraped, and borrowed, and all but begged, and the price of these two was needed to make up the balance, and I had to give them up. Haley fancied the child—he agreed to settle the matter that way, and no other. I was in his power, and had to do it. If you feel so to have them sold, would it be any better to have all sold?”

Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning to her toilette, she rested her face in her hands, and gave a sort of groan.

“This is God’s curse on slavery!—a bitter, bitter, most accursed thing—a curse to the master and a curse to the slave. I was a fool to think I could make anything good out of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under laws like ours—I always felt it was—I always thought so when I was a girl—I thought so still more after I joined the church; but I thought I could gild it over—I thought, by kindness, and care, and instruction, I could make the condition of mine better than freedom—fool that I was!”

“Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite.”

“Abolitionist! If they knew all I know about slavery, they might talk! We don’t need them to tell us—you know I never thought that slavery was right, never felt willing to own slaves.”

“Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men,” said Mr. Shelby. “You remember Mr. B.’s sermon the other Sunday.”

“I don’t want to hear such sermons—I never wish to hear Mr. B. in our church again. Ministers can’t help the evil, perhaps—can’t cure it, any more than we can—but defend it!—it always went against my common-sense! and I think you didn’t think much of that sermon either.”

“Well,” said Shelby, “I must say these ministers sometimes carry matters farther than we poor sinners would exactly dare to do. We men of the world must wink pretty hard at various things, and get used to a deal that isn’t the exact thing, but we don’t quite fancy when women and ministers come out broad and square, and go beyond us in matters of either modesty or morals—that’s a fact! But now, my dear, I trust you see the necessity of the thing—and you see that I have done the very best that circumstances would allow.”

“Oh, yes—yes,” said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstractedly fingering her gold watch—“I haven’t any jewelry of any amount,” she added, thoughtfully; but would not this watch do something—it was an expensive one when it was bought.[2] If I could only at least save Eliza’s child, I would sacrifice anything I have.”

“I’m sorry, very sorry, Emily,” said Mr. Shelby—“I’m sorry this takes hold of you so; but it will do no good. The fact is, Emily, the thing’s done—the bills of sale are already signed and in Haley’s hands, and you must be thankful it is no worse. That man has had it in his power to ruin us all, and now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as I do, you’d think that we had had a narrow escape.”

“Is he so hard, then?”

“Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather—a man alive to nothing but trade and profit—cool, and unhesitating, and unrelenting as death and the grave. He’d sell his own mother at a good per centage—not wishing the old woman any harm, either.”

“And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom and Eliza’s child!”

“Well, my dear, the fact is that this goes rather hard with me—it’s a thing I hate to think of. Haley wants to drive matters, and take possession to-morrow. I’m going to get out my horse bright and early, and be off. I can’t see Tom, that’s a fact; and you had better arrange a drive somewhere, and carry Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she is out of sight.”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Shelby, “I’ll be in no sense accomplice or help in this cruel business. I’ll go and see poor old Tom, God help him, in his distress. They shall see, at any rate, that their mistress can feel for and with them. As to Eliza, I dare not think about it. The Lord forgive us. What have we done, that this cruel necessity should come on us?”


There was one listener to this conversation, whom Mr. and Mrs. Shelby little suspected.

Communicating with their apartment was a large closet, opening by a door into the outer passage. When Mrs. Shelby had dismissed Eliza for the night, her feverish and excited mind had suggested the idea of this closet, and she had hidden herself there, and, with her ear pressed close against the crack of the door, had lost not a word of the conversation.

When the voices died into silence, she rose and crept stealthily away. Pale, shivering, with rigid features and compressed lips, she looked an entirely altered being from the soft and timid creature she had been hitherto. She moved cautiously along the entry, paused one moment at her mistress’s door, and raised her hands in mute appeal to Heaven, and then turned and glided into her own room. It was a quiet, neat apartment, on the same floor with her mistress. There was the pleasant sunny window where she had often sat singing at her sewing—there a little case of books and various little fancy articles, ranged by them, the gifts of Christmas holydays—there was her simple wardrobe in the closet and in the drawers—here was, in short, her home; and, on the whole, a happy one it had been to her. But there, on the bed, lay her slumbering boy, his long curls falling negligently around his unconscious face, his rosy mouth half open, his little, fat hands thrown out over the bed-clothes, and a smile spread like a sunbeam over his whole face.

“Poor boy! poor fellow!” said Eliza,” they have sold you! but your mother will save you yet!”

No tear dropped over that pillow—in such straits as these, the heart has no tears to give—it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence. She took a piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote hastily—

“Oh, missis! dear missis! don’t think me ungrateful—don’t think hard of me, any way—I heard all you and master said to-night. I am going to try to save my boy—you will not blame me. God bless and reward you for all your kindness.”

Hastily folding and directing this, she went to a drawer and made up a little package of clothing for her boy, which she tied with a handkerchief firmly round her waist—and so fond is a mother’s remembrance, that, even in the terrors of that hour, she did not forget to put in the little package one or two of his favorite toys, reserving a gaily painted parrot to amuse him when she should be called on to awaken him. It was some trouble to arouse the little sleeper; but after some effort he sat up, and was playing with his bird, while his mother was putting on her bonnet and shawl.

“Where are you going, mother?” said he, as she drew near the bed with his little coat and cap.

His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his eyes that he at once divined that something unusual was the matter.

“Hush, Harry,” she said, “musn’t speak loud, or they will hear us. A wicked man was coming to take little Harry away from his mother, and carry him ’way off in the dark; but mother won’t let him—she is going to put on her little boy’s cap and coat, and run off with him, so the ugly man can’t catch him.”

Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the child’s simple outfit, and taking him in her arms, she whispered to him to be very still, and opening a door in her room which led into the outer verandah, she glided noiselessly out.

It was a sparkling, frosty, star-light night, and the mother wrapped the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet with vague terror, he clung round her neck.

Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end of the porch, rose with a low growl, as she came near. She gently spoke his name, and the animal, an old pet and playmate of hers, instantly, wagging his tail, prepared to follow her, though apparently revolving much in his simple dog’s head what such an indiscreet midnight promenade might mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence or impropriety in the measure seemed to embarrass him considerably, for he often stopped, as Eliza glided forward, and looked wistfully, first at her and then at the house, and then, as if reassured by reflection, he pattered along after her again. A few minutes brought them to the window of Uncle Tom’s cottage, and Eliza, stopping, tapped lightly on the window-pane.

The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom’s had, in the order of hymn-singing, been protracted to a very late hour; and as Uncle Tom had indulged himself in a few lengthy solos afterwards, the consequence was, that although it was now between twelve and one o’clock, he and his worthy help-meet were not yet asleep.

“Good Lord, what’s that?” said Aunt Chloe, starting up and hastily drawing the curtain. “My sakes alive, if it aint Lizzy![3] Get on your clothes, old man, quick—there’s old Bruno, too, a pawin’ round; what on airth! I’m gwine to open the door; and, suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and the light of the tallow candle which Tom had hastily lighted fell on the haggard face and dark, wild eyes of the fugitive.

“Lord bless you—I’m skeered to look at ye, Lizzy. Are ye tuck sick, or what’s come over ye?”

“I’m running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe, carrying off my child; master sold him.”

“Sold him?” echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay.”

“Yes, sold him,” said Eliza, firmly; “I crept into the closet by mistress’s door to-night, and I heard master tell missis that he had sold my Harry and you, Uncle Tom, both of you, to a trader; and that he was going off this morning on his horse, and that the man was to take possession to-day.”

Tom had stood, during this speech, with his hands raised, and his eyes dilated like a man in a dream. Slowly and gradually, as its meaning came over him, he collapsed rather than seated himself on his old chair, and sunk his head down upon his knees.

“The good Lord have pity on us,” said Aunt Chloe. Oh! it don’t seem as if it was true! What has he done, that mass’r should sell him?

“He hasn’t done anything—it isn’t for that. Master don’t want to sell; and missis—she’s always good. I heard her plead and beg for us; but he told her ’twas no use; that he was in this man’s debt, and that this man had got the power over him; and that if he didn’t pay him off clear, that it would end in his having to sell the place and all the people, and move off. Yes, I heard him say there was no choice between selling these two and selling all, the man was driving him so and hard; master said he was sorry; but oh, missis—you ought to have heard her talk. If she aint a Christian and an angel, there never was one. I’m a wicked girl to leave her so; but then I can’t help it. She said herself one soul was worth more than the world, and this boy has a soul; and if I let him be carried off, who knows what’ll become of it? It must be right; but if it aint right, the Lord forgive me, for I can’t help doing it!”

“Well, old man!” said Aunt Chloe, “why don’t you go too? Will you wait to be toted down river, where they kill niggers with hard work and starving? I’d a heap rather die than go there, any day! There’s time for ye—be off with Lizzy—you’ve got a pass to come and go any time. Come, bustle up, and I’ll get your things together.”

Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully but quietly around, and said—

“No, no—I aint going—let Eliza go—it’s her right! I wouldn’t be the one to say no—taint in natur for her to stay—but you heard what she said! If I must be sold, or all the people on the place and everything go to rack, why, let me be sold. I spose I can bar it as well as any on em,” he added, while something like a sob and a sigh shook his broad, rough chest convulsively. “Mass’r always has found me on the spot—he always will. I never have broke trust nor used my pass no ways contrary to my word, and I never will. It’s better for me alone to go, than to break up the place and sell all. Mass’r aint to blame, Chloe, and he’ll take care of you and the poor”———[4]

Here he turned to the rough trundle bed full of little woolly heads, and broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of the chair, and covered his face with his large hands. Sobs, heavy, hoarse, and loud, shook the chair, and great tears fell through his fingers on the floor—just such tears, sir, as you dropped into the coffin where lay your first born son—such tears, woman, as you shed when you heard the cries of your dying babe; for, sir, he was a man—and you are but another man, and woman, though dressed in silk and jewels. You are but a woman, and in life’s great straits and mighty griefs ye feel but one sorrow.


“And now,” said Eliza, as she stood in the door, “I saw my husband only this afternoon, and I little knew then what was to come. They have pushed him to the very last standing-place, and he told me to-day that he was going to run away. Do try if you can to get word to him. Tell him how I went, and why I went; and tell him I’m going to try and find Canada. You must give my love to him, and tell him if I never see him again.” She turned away and stood with her back to them for a moment, and then added, in a husky voice, “Tell him to be as good as he can, and try and meet me in the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“Call Bruno in there,” she added. “Shut the door on him, poor beast! He mustn’t go with me.”

A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings, and clasping her wondering and affrighted child in her arms, she glided noiselessly away.

[to be continued.]


This Stowe Center edition reproduces the National Era serial text of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The wording of the newspaper in many cases differs from publisher John P. Jewett’s first edition. At the conclusion of each installment, notes are provided on a small selection of textual variants, those which have the greatest interpretive significance. The model for these notes is editor John Bryant’s concept of fluid-text editing, which foregrounds the interpretation of textual variants as an act of critical reading. Readers who hold alternate interpretations are encouraged to submit comments to the blog. For general comments on the text and works cited, see the Note on the Text.

Note 1

said he, mentally—as well now as ever. ¶ “I told | Era pg. 101
said he, mentally; “as well now as ever.” ¶ “I told | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 55

In the Era, the phrase “as well now as ever” is presumably spoken silently within Mr. Shelby’s head as a continuation following the narrator’s qualification that his thought is spoken mentally. In the Jewett edition, the phrase is also spoken within his head, but the quotation is marked as in-thought speech because the semicolon divides the two clauses. It is characteristic of the Jewett compositors that the reasonably clear styling of the serial (which probably reflects the manuscript) is considered deficient. [Back]

Note 2

she added, thoughtfully; but would not this watch do something—it was an expensive one when it was bought. | Era pg. 101
she added, thoughtfully; “but would not this watch do something?—it was an expensive one, when it was bought. | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 59

The Era does not mark the reopening of Mrs. Shelby’s quotation, and her question is not marked. Mrs. Shelby’s speech is marked as closing at the paragraph’s end, so this may be an error. But the serial reader has no obvious clue as to when she switches from silent musing to speaking aloud. The reader may assume that she continues musing to herself while hoping for some thought to emerge: at some point presumably she begins speaking. In the Jewett edition, which has an opening quotation mark and a question mark at the end of the phrase, Mrs. Shelby directs an appeal to her husband, who does not proffer a response.

The serial punctuation places greater blame for failure to act on Mrs. Shelby. The effect is subtle, but the repunctuation of the Jewett edition places blame more directly on Mr. Shelby because he appears to ignore his wife’s spoken question. By imagining a dramatic performance—Mrs. Shelby speaks an aside that he cannot hear but audience can; or she addresses him directly and he responds with body language but no words—the degree of Mrs. Shelby’s blame can shift. [Back]

Note 3

if it aint Lizzy! Get on | Era pg. 101
if it an’t Lizy! Get on | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 62

The Era spelling Lizzy with two z’s is the most common. In pronunciation, it rhymes with busy. The Jewett edition form “Lizy” may be pronounced with a long i sound like the full name Eliza.

Cassy in the serial will give her daughter’s name as “Elisé” (12 February 1852), but the Jewett edition has the form “Elise” (2: 206) with no accent. Stowe seems to have wavered on the preferred dialect pronunciation of the French name while writing the serial. The attentive Era reader might recognize Eliza as Cassy’s daughter, but the time difference between installments diminishes the likelihood. The reader of the book might read much faster, so by removing the accent the identity of Cassy’s daughter is less prominent.

The forms “aint” and “an’t” are the preferred forms in each version. Stowe’s manuscript form matches the serial. [Back]

Note 4

and the poor”———¶ Here he | Era pg. 101
and the poor—”¶ Here he | Jewett (1852) vol. 1, pg. 64

In both the Era and the Jewett edition, grief causes Tom’s speech to falter when he turns to his children. A manuscript draft page of this section is extant in the Sara Thompson Kinney Papers at the Connecticut State Library and is reproduced on the “Uncle Tom’s Cabin & American Culture” site. Stowe’s manuscript suggests that Tom’s pause is extended after these words, that his grief is particularly unbearable, which the serial’s longer em dash emphasizes. While Stowe’s longer em dashes are also used in manuscript to mark changes in speakers, it is notable that the serial compositors fairly often identified longer manuscript dashes as rhetorically significant—and preserved them. In contrast, the Jewett edition compositors almost never retained Stowe’s longer em dashes—they routinely discard them. In chapters to follow in the serial, longer em dashes mark interrupted passages as rhetorically significant.[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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