Uncle Tom's Cabin. Harriet Beecher Stowe

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СКАЧАТЬ 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,—it's wonderful." And the old creature sat down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while the whole circle struck up—

      O Canaan, bright Canaan

      I'm bound for the land of Canaan.

      Mas'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 't was reely 'mazin'!"

      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 childlike 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 prayer 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 signed 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 reassured 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 cigar.

      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 by, Arthur, who was that low–bred fellow that you lugged in to our dinner–table today?"

      "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."

      "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! O, 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.

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