He 's here; he 's everywhere!
2d Woman.
Lor! you an't gwine to make me believe dat ar! I know de Lord an't here; 't an't
no use talking, though. I 's jest gwine to camp down, and sleep while I ken.
Uncle T. [Solus.]
O Lord God! Where are thou? Verily thou art a God that hidest thyself, O God of
Israel, the Saviour! [Lies down to sleep.]
Music and Voice in the air.
When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and the rivers they
shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be
burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee; for I am the Lord thy God, the
Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.
SCENE III.--The Cotton-House and Scales. LEGREE, QUIMBO and SAMBO.
Sambo.
Dat ar Tom 's gwine to make a powerful deal o' trouble; kept a puttin' into
Lucy's basket. One o' these yer dat will get all der niggers to feelin' 'bused,
if mas'r don't watch him!
Legree.
Hey-day! The black cuss! He 'll have to get a breakin' in, won't he, boys?
Quimbo.
Ay, ay! let Mas'r Legree alone for breakin' in! De debil heself could n't beat
mas'r at dat!
Leg.
Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to do, till he gets over his
notions. Break him in!
Samb.
Lord, mas'r 'll have hard work to get dat out o' him!
Leg.
It 'll have to come out of him, though!
Samb.
Now, dar 's Lucy; de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on de place!
Leg.
Take care, Sam! I shall begin to think what 's the reason for your spite agin
Lucy.
Samb.
Well, mas'r knows she sot herself up agin mas'r, and would n't have me when he
telled her to.
Leg.
I 'd a flogged her into 't, only there 's such a press of work it don't seem
wuth a while to upset her jist now. She 's slender; but these yer slender gals
will bear half killin' to get their own way.
Samb.
Wal, Lucy was reall aggravatin' and lazy, sulkin' round; would n't do
nothin'--and Tom he tuck up for her.
Leg.
He did, eh! Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure of flogging her. It 'll be a
good practice for him, and he won't put it on to the gals like you devils,
neither.
Samb. and Quim.
Ho, ho! haw! haw! haw!
Samb.
Wal, but, mas'r, Tom and Misse Cassy, and dey among 'em, filled Lucy's basket. I
ruther guess der weight 's in it, mas'r!
Leg.
I do the weighing! So Misse Cassy did her day's work.
Samb.
She picks like de debil and all his angels!
Leg.
She 's got 'em all in her, I believe! O, here they come!
Enter UNCLE TOM, and women with baskets. Leg.
Come, on here! [Weighs TOM'S basket.] Soh! Ah! Well for you! [TOM places LUCY'S
basket on the scales.] What, ye lazy beast! short again? Get away-- ye 'll catch
it pretty soon!
Lucy. [Groans.]
O Lor! O Lor!
[Sits.] Cas.
[Brings her basket to the scales.]
Leg.
Well, my beauty! How d' ye like it?
Cas.
Beaucoup mieux que de vivre avec une bete telle comme vous.
[Exit.] Leg.
And now, come here, you Tom! You see, I telled ye I did n't buy ye jest for the
common work; I mean to promote ye, and make a driver of ye; and to-night ye may
jest as well begin to get yer hand in. Now, ye jest take this yer gal and flog
her. Ye 've seen enough on 't to know how.
Uncle T.
I beg mas'r's pardon; hopes mas'r won't set me at that. It 's what I an't used
to; never did; and can't do, no way possible.
Leg.
Ye 'll larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did know, before I 've done
with ye! [Thrashes TOM with cowhide.] There, now! will ye tell me ye can't do i
t?
Uncle T.
Yes, mas'r! I 'm willin' to work, night and day, and work while there 's life
and breath in me; but this yer thing I can't feel it right to do; and, mas'r, I
never shall do it--never!
Lucy.
O Lord!
Slaves.
O! O!
Leg. [Foaming.]
What! ye blasted black beast! tell me ye don't think it right to to what I tell
ye! What have any of you cussed cattle to do with thinking what 's right? I 'll
put a stop to it! Why, what do ye think ye are? May be ye think ye 'r a
gentleman, master Tom, to be a telling your master what 's right, and what an't!
So you pretend it 's wrong to flog the gal.
Uncle T.
I think so, mas'r; the poor crittur 's sick and feeble; 't would be downright
cruel, and it 's what I never will do, nor begin to.
Leg.
Well, here 's a pious dog, at last set down among us sinners! a saint, a
gentleman, and no less, to talk to us sinners about our sins; powerful holy
critter he must be! Here, you rascal! you make believe to be so pious--did n't
you never hear, out of your Bible, "Servants obey your masters"? An't I your
master? Did n't I pay down twelve hundred dollars, cash, for all there is inside
yer old cussed black shell? An't yet mine, now, body and soul? Tell me!
Uncle T.
No, no, no! my soul an't yours, mas'r! You have n't bought it--you can't buy it!
It has been bought and paid for by One that 's able to keep it. No matter, no
matter, you can't harm me!
Leg.
I can't! we 'll see! we 'll see! Here Sambo! Quimbo! give this dog such a
breakin' in as he won't get over this month!
SCENE IV.--An old Gin-house Garret. UNCLE TOM lying on the floor.
Uncle Tom.
O, good Lord, do look down! Give me the vict-ry! give me the vict'ry!
Enter CASSY, with lantern. Uncle T.
Who 's there? O, for mercy's sake, give me some water!
Cassy.
Drink all you want. I knew how 't would be! 'T an't the first time I been out o'
night carrying water to such as you.
Uncle T.
Thank ye, missis!
Cas.
Don't call me missis! I 'm a miserable slave like you. A lower one that you can
ever be! But let me see if I can't make you more comfortable. [Places a pillow
under his head.] There, my poor fellow, there! that 's the best I can do for
you!
Uncle T.
Thank you, missis!
Cas. [Sitting.]
It 's no use, my poor fellow; it 's of no use, this you 've been trying to do.
You were a brave fellow; you had the right on your side; but it 's all in vain,
and out of the question, for you to struggle. You are in the devil's hands; he
is the strongest, and you must give up.
Uncle T.
O, Lord! O, Lord! how can I give up?
Cas.
There 's no use calling on the Lord; he never hears! There is n't any God, I
believe; or, if there is, he 's taken sides against us. All goes against us,
heaven and earth. Everything is pushing us into hell. Why shouldn't we go? You
see, you don't know anything about it; I do. I 've been on this pl
ace five
years, body and soul, under this man's foot, and I hate him as I do the devil!
Here you are, on a lone plantation, ten miles from any other, in the swamps; not
a white person here who could testify if you were burned alive; if you were
scalded, cut into inch-pieces, set up for the dogs to tear, or hung up and
whipped to death. There's no law here, of God or man, that can do you, or any
one of us, the least good; and this man! there 's no earthly thing that he 's
too good to do. I could make any one's hair rise, and their teeth chatter, if I
should only tell what I 've seen and been knowing to here; and it 's no use
resisting! Did I want to live with him? Was n't I a woman delicately bred? And
he! God in heaven! what was he, and is he? And yet I 've lived with him these
five years, and cursed every moment of my life, night and day! And now he 's got
a new one; a young thing, only fifteen; and she brought up, she says, piously!
Her good mistress taught her to read the Bible, and she's brought her Bible
here, to hell, with her!
Uncle T.
perish!
Cas.
And what are these miserable low dogs you work with, that you should suffer on
their account? Every one of them would turn against you the first time they got
a chance. They are all of 'em as low and cruel to each other as they can be; and
there 's no use in your suffering to keep from hurting them.
Uncle T.
Poor critturs! what made 'em cruel? And if I give out, I shall get used to 't,
and grow, little by little, just like 'em! No, no, missis! I've lost everything;
wife, and children, and home, and a kind mas'r; and he would have set me free,
if he 'd only lived a week longer. I 've lost everything in this world, and it
's clean gone forever; and now I can't lose heaven, too; no, I can't get to be
wicked, besides all!
Cas.
But it can't be that the Lord will lay sin to our account; he won't charge it to
us, when we 're forced to it; he 'll charge it to tham that drove us to it.
Uncle T.
Yes; but that won't keep us from growing wicked. If I get to be as hard-hearted
as that ar' Sambo, and as wicked, it won't make much odds to me how I came so;
it 's the bein' so; that ar 's what I'm a dreadin'.
Cas.
O, God a' mercy! you speak the truth! O! O! O!
Uncle T.
Please missis, I saw 'em throw my coat in that ar' corner. In the pocket is my
Bible; if missis would please get it for me. [CASSY brings it.] There 's a place
marked here, if missis 'll please to read it. I want to hear it.
Cas. [Reads.]
"And when they were come to the place which is called Calvary, there they
crucified him, and the malefactors one on the right hand, and the other on the
left. Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them, they know not what they do!"
[She throws down the book violently, and buries her face in her hands.] Uncle T.
[Sobbing.]
If we could only keep up to that ar'! it seemed to come so natural to him, and
we have to fight so hard for 't! O, Lord, help us! O, blessed Lord Jesus, do
help us! Missis, I can see that somehow you 're quite 'bove me in everything;
but there 's one thing missis might learn, even from poor Tom. Ye said the Lord
took sides against us, because he lets us be 'bused and knocked round; but ye
see what come on his own Son--the blessed Lord of Glory! Wa'n't he al'ays poor?
and have we, any on us, yet come so low as he come? The Lord ha'n't forgot us; I
'm sartin o' that ar'! If we suffer with him, we shall also reign, Scripture
says; but if we deny him, he also will deny us. Didn't they all suffer; the Lord
and all his? It tells how they were stoned and sawn asunder, and wandered about
in sheepskins and goatskins, and was destitute, afflicted, tormented. Sufferin'
an't no reason to make us think the Lord's turned agin us, but jest the
contrary, if we only hold on to him, and does n't give up to sin.
Cas.
But why does he put us where we can't help but sin?
Uncle T.
I think we can help it.
Cas.
You 'll see! What 'll you do? To-morrow they 'll be at you again! I know 'em, I
have seen all their doings; I can't bear to think of all they 'll bring you to;
and they 'll make you give out at last!
Uncle T.
Lord Jesus! you will take care of my soul! O, Lord, do! don't let me give out!
Cas.
O, dear, I 've heard all this crying and praying before; and yet they 've been
broken down and brought under. There 's Emmeline, she 's trying to hold on, and
you 're trying; but what use? You must give up, or be killed by inches!
Uncle T.
Well, then, I will die! Spin it out as long as they can, they can't help my
dying some time! and, after that, they can't do no more. I 'm clar! I 'm set! I
know the Lord 'll help me, and bring me through.
Cas.
Maybe it 's the way, but those that have given up, there 's no hope for
them--none! We live in filth and grow loathsome, till we loathe ourselves! And
we long to die, and we don't dare to kill ourselves. No hope! no hope! no hope!
This girl now, just as old as I was.
You see me now; see what I am! Well, I was brought up in luxury: the first I
remember is, the playing about, when I was a child, in splendid parlors; kept
dressed up like a doll; company and visitors praising me. There was a garden
opening from the saloon windows; and there I used to play hide-and-go-seek,
under the orange-trees, with my brothers and sisters.
I went to a convent, and there I learned music, French, and embroidery, and what
not. When I was fourteen, I came out to my father's funeral. He died very
suddenly, and when the property came to be settled, they found that there was
scarcely enough to cover the debts; and when the creditors took an inventory of
the property, I was set down in it. My mother was a slave-woman, and my father
in the list. I 'd always known who I was, but never thought much about it.
Nobody ever expects that a strong, healthy man is a going to die. My father was
a well man only four hours before he died; it was one of the first cholera cases
in New Orleans.
The day after the funeral, my father's wife took her children and went up to her
father's plantation.
I thought they treated me strangely, but did n't know why. There was a young
lawyer whom they left to settle the business; and he came every day, and was
about the house and spoke very politely to me. He brought with him, one day, a
young man, the handsomest I had ever seen. I shall never forget that evening. I
walked with him in the garden. I was lonesome and full of sorrow, and he was so
kind and gentle to me; and he told me that he had seen me before I went to the
convent; and that he had loved me a great while, and that he would be my friend
and protector; in short, though he did n't tell me, he had paid two thousand
dollars
for me, and I was his property. I became his willingly, for I loved him.
Loved!--O, how I did love that man! How I love him now, and always shall, while
I breathe! He was so beautiful, so high, so noble! Everything that money could
buy, he gave me; but I did n't set any value on all that; I only cared for him.
I loved him better than my God and my own soul; and, if I tried, I could n't do
any other way from what he wanted me to do.
I wanted only one thing--I did want him to marry me. I thought if he loved me,
as he said he did, and if I was what he seemed to think I was, he would be
willing to marry me and set me free. But he convinced me that it would be
impossible; and he told me that, if we were only faithful to each other, it was
marriage before God. If that is true, was n't I that man's wife? Was n't I
faithful? For seven years, did n't I study every look and motion, and only life
and breathe to please him? He had the yellow fever, and for twenty days and
nights I watched with him, I alone; and gave him all his medicine, and did
everything for him; and then he called me his good angel, and said I 'd saved
his life.
We have two beautiful children. The first was a boy, and we called him Henry. He
was the image of his father. He had such beautiful eyes, such a forehead, and
his hair hung all in curls around it! And he had all his father's spirit, and
his talent too. Little Elise, he said, looked like me. He used to tell me that I
was the most beautiful woman in Louisiana, he was so proud of me and the
children. O, those were happy days! I thought I was as happy as any one could
be; but then there came evil times. He had a cousin come to New Orleans who was
his particular friend; he thought all the world of him; but from the first time
I saw him, I could n't tell why, I dreaded him, for I felt sure he was going to
bring misery on us. He got Henry to going out with him, and often would not come
home nights till two or three o'clock. I did not dare to say a word; for Henry
was so high-spirited I was afraid to. He got him to the gaming houses; and he
was one of the sort that, when he once got a going there, there was no holding
back. And then he introduced him to another lady, and I saw soon that his heart
was gone from me. He never told me, but I saw it; I knew it day after day. I
felt my heart breaking, but I could not say a word. Would you believe it? at
last the wretch offered to buy me and the children of Henry, to clear off his
gambling debts, which stood in the way of his marrying as he wished!--and he
sold us! He told me one day that he had business in the country, and should be
gone two or three weeks. He spoke kinder than usual, and said he should come
back; but it did n't deceive me; I knew that the time had come; I was just like
one turned into stone; I could n't speak nor shed a tear. He kissed me and
kissed the children a good many times, and went out. He saw him get on his
horse, and I watched him till he was quite out of sight; and then I fell down
and fainted.
Then he came, the cursed wretch! he came to take possession. He told me that he
had bought me and my children, and showed me the papers. I cursed him before
God, and told him I'd die sooner than live with him.
"Just as you please," said he; "but if you don't behave reasonably I 'll sell
both the children, where you shall never see them again." He told me that he
always had meant to have me, from the first time he saw me; and that he had
drawn Henry on, and got him in debt, on purpose to make him willing to sell me.
That he got him in love with another woman; and that I might know, after all
that, that he should not give up for a few airs and tears, and things of that
sort.
I gave up, for my hands were tied. He had my children; whenever I resisted his
will anywhere, he would talk about selling them, and he made me as submissive as
he desired. O, what a life it was! To live with my heart breaking every day,--to
keep on, on, on, loving, when it was only misery; and to be bound, body and
soul, to one I hated! Yet I was afraid to refuse him anything. He was very hard
to the children. Elise was a timid little thing; but Henry was bold and
high-spirited like his father,--he had always been so indulged. He was always
scolding him, and I used to live in daily fear. I tried to make the child
respectful. I tried to keep them apart. No use--none! He sold both those
children. One day, when I came home from riding, I looked all over the house,
and called,--and they were gone! He told me he had sold them; he showed me the