 | CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A SENATOR IS BUT A MAN. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A SENATOR IS BUT A MAN.
The light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carpet
of a cosey parlor, and glittered on the sides of the tea-cups and
well-brightened tea-pot, as Senator Bird was drawing off his
boots, preparatory to inserting his feet in a pair of new handsome
slippers, which his wife had been working for him while
away on his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird, looking the very
picture of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the
table, ever and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number
of frolicsome juveniles, who were effervescing in all those
modes of untold gambol and mischief that have astonished
mothers ever since the flood.
“Tom, let the door-knob alone, — there 's a man! Mary!
Mary! don't pull the cat's tail, — poor pussy! Jim, you
must n't climb on that table, — no, no! — You don't know,
my dear, what a surprise it is to us all, to see you here
to-night!” said she, at last, when she found a space to say
something to her husband.
“Yes, yes, I thought I 'd just make a run down, spend the
night, and have a little comfort at home. I 'm tired to death,
and my head aches!”
Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor-bottle, which stood
in the half-open closet, and appeared to meditate an approach
to it, but her husband interposed.
“No, no, Mary, no doctoring! a cup of your good hot tea,
and some of our good home living, is what I want. It 's a
tiresome business, this legislating!”
And the senator smiled, as if he rather liked the idea of
considering himself a sacrifice to his country.
“Well,” said his wife, after the business of the tea-table
was getting rather slack, “and what have they been doing
in the Senate?”
Now, it was a very unusual thing for gentle little Mrs.
Bird ever to trouble her head with what was going on in the
house of the state, very wisely considering that she had
enough to do to mind her own. Mr. Bird, therefore, opened
his eyes in surprise, and said,
“Not very much of importance.”
“Well; but is it true that they have been passing a law
forbidding people to give meat and drink to those poor colored
folks that come along? I heard they were talking of some
such law, but I did n't think any Christian legislature would
pass it!”
“Why, Mary, you are getting to be a politician, all at once.”
“No, nonsense! I would n't give a fip for all your politics,
generally, but I think this is something downright cruel and
unchristian. I hope, my dear, no such law has been passed.”
“There has been a law passed forbidding people to help off
the slaves that come over from Kentucky, my dear; so much
of that thing has been done by these reckless Abolitionists,
that our brethren in Kentucky are very strongly excited, and
it seems necessary, and no more than Christian and kind, that
something should be done by our state to quiet the excitement.”
“And what is the law? It don't forbid us to shelter these
poor creatures a night, does it, and to give 'em something
comfortable to eat, and a few old clothes, and send them
quietly about their business?”
“Why, yes, my dear; that would be aiding and abetting,
you know.”
Mrs. Bird was a timid, blushing little woman, of about four
feet in height, and with mild blue eyes, and a peach-blow
complexion, and the gentlest, sweetest voice in the world; —
as for courage, a moderate-sized cock-turkey had been known
to put her to rout at the very first gobble, and a stout house-dog,
of moderate capacity, would bring her into subjection
merely by a show of his teeth. Her husband and children were
her entire world, and in these she ruled more by entreaty and
persuasion than by command or argument. There was only
one thing that was capable of arousing her, and that provocation
came in on the side of her unusually gentle and sympathetic
nature; — anything in the shape of cruelty would throw
her into a passion, which was the more alarming and inexplicable
in proportion to the general softness of her nature.
Generally the most indulgent and easy to be entreated of all
mothers, still her boys had a very reverent remembrance of a
most vehement chastisement she once bestowed on them,
because she found them leagued with several graceless boys of
the neighborhood, stoning a defenceless kitten.
“I 'll tell you what,” Master Bill used to say, “I was
scared that time. Mother came at me so that I thought she
was crazy, and I was whipped and tumbled off to bed, without
any supper, before I could get over wondering what had come
about; and, after that, I heard mother crying outside the
door, which made me feel worse than all the rest. I 'll tell
you what,” he 'd say, “we boys never stoned another kitten!”
On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly, with very
red cheeks, which quite improved her general appearance, and
walked up to her husband, with quite a resolute air, and said,
in a determined tone,
“Now, John, I want to know if you think such a law as
that is right and Christian?”
“You won't shoot me, now, Mary, if I say I do!”
“I never could have thought it of you, John; you did n't
vote for it?”
“Even so, my fair politician.”
“You ought to be ashamed, John! Poor, homeless, houseless
creatures! It 's a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and
I 'll break it, for one, the first time I get a chance; and
I hope I shall have a chance, I do! Things have got to a
pretty pass, if a woman can't give a warm supper and a bed
to poor, starving creatures, just because they are slaves, and
have been abused and oppressed all their lives, poor things!”
“But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are all quite
right, dear, and interesting, and I love you for them; but,
then, dear, we must n't suffer our feelings to run away with
our judgment; you must consider it 's not a matter of private
feeling, — there are great public interests involved, — there
is such a state of public agitation rising, that we must put
aside our private feelings.”
“Now, John, I don't know anything about politics, but I
can read my Bible; and there I see that I must feed the
hungry, clothe the naked, and comfort the desolate; and that
Bible I mean to follow.”
“But in cases where your doing so would involve a great
public evil —”
“Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it
can't. It 's always safest, all round, to do as He bids us.”
“Now, listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a very
clear argument, to show —”
“O, nonsense, John! you can talk all night, but you
would n't do it. I put it to you, John, — would you now
because he was a runaway? Would you, now?”
Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the misfortune
to be a man who had a particularly humane and accessible
nature, and turning away anybody that was in trouble
never had been his forte; and what was worse for him in this
particular pinch of the argument was, that his wife knew it,
and, of course, was making an assault on rather an indefensible
point. So he had recourse to the usual means of gaining
time for such cases made and provided; he said “ahem,” and
coughed several times, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and
began to wipe his glasses. Mrs. Bird, seeing the defenceless
condition of the enemy's territory, had no more conscience
than to push her advantage.
“I should like to see you doing that, John — I really
should! Turning a woman out of doors in a snow-storm, for
instance; or, may be you 'd take her up and put her in jail,
would n't you? You would make a great hand at that!”
“Of course, it would be a very painful duty,” began Mr.
Bird, in a moderate tone.
“Duty, John! don't use that word! You know it is n 't
a duty — it can't be a duty! If folks want to keep their
slaves from running away, let 'em treat 'em well, — that 's my
doctrine. If I had slaves (as I hope I never shall have), I 'd
risk their wanting to run away from me, or you either, John.
I tell you folks don't run away when they are happy; and
when they do run, poor creatures! they suffer enough with
cold and hunger and fear, without everybody's turning against
them; and, law or no law, I never will, so help me God!”
“Mary! Mary! My dear, let me reason with you.”
“I hate reasoning, John, — especially reasoning on such
subjects. There 's a way you political folks have of coming
in it yourselves, when it comes to practice. I know you well
enough, John. You don't believe it 's right any more than
I do; and you would n't do it any sooner than I.”
At this critical juncture, old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-work,
put his head in at the door, and wished “Missis would
come into the kitchen;” and our senator, tolerably relieved,
looked after his little wife with a whimsical mixture of amusement
and vexation, and, seating himself in the arm-chair,
began to read the papers.
After a moment, his wife's voice was heard at the door, in
a quick, earnest tone, — “John! John! I do wish you 'd come
here, a moment.”
He laid down his paper, and went into the kitchen, and
started, quite amazed at the sight that presented itself: — A
young and slender woman, with garments torn and frozen,
with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn away from the cut
and bleeding foot, was laid back in a deadly swoon upon two
chairs. There was the impress of the despised race on her
face, yet none could help feeling its mournful and pathetic
beauty, while its stony sharpness, its cold, fixed, deathly aspect,
struck a solemn chill over him. He drew his breath short,
and stood in silence. His wife, and their only colored domestic,
old Aunt Dinah, were busily engaged in restorative
measures; while old Cudjoe had got the boy on his knee, and
was busy pulling off his shoes and stockings, and chafing his
little cold feet.
“Sure, now, if she an't a sight to behold!” said old Dinah,
compassionately; “'pears like 't was the heat that made her
faint. She was tol'able peart when she cum in, and asked if
she could n't warm herself here a spell; and I was just a askin'
done much hard work, guess, by the looks of her hands.”
“Poor creature!” said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as the
woman slowly unclosed her large, dark eyes, and looked
vacantly at her. Suddenly an expression of agony crossed
her face, and she sprang up, saying, “O, my Harry! Have
they got him?”
The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe's knee, and, running
to her side, put up his arms. “O, he 's here! he 's here!”
she exclaimed.
“O, ma'am!” said she, wildly, to Mrs. Bird, “do protect
us! don't let them get him!”
“Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman,” said Mrs.
Bird, encouragingly. “You are safe; don't be afraid.”
“God bless you!” said the woman, covering her face and
sobbing; while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get
into her lap.
With many gentle and womanly offices, which none knew
better how to render than Mrs. Bird, the poor woman was, in
time, rendered more calm. A temporary bed was provided
for her on the settle, near the fire; and, after a short time,
she fell into a heavy slumber, with the child, who seemed no
less weary, soundly sleeping on her arm; for the mother
resisted, with nervous anxiety, the kindest attempts to take
him from her; and, even in sleep, her arm encircled him
with an unrelaxing clasp, as if she could not even then be
beguiled of her vigilant hold.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlor, where,
strange as it may appear, no reference was made, on either
side, to the preceding conversation; but Mrs. Bird busied
herself with her knitting-work, and Mr. Bird pretended to be
reading the paper.
“I wonder who and what she is!” said Mr. Bird, at last,
as he laid it down.
“When she wakes up and feels a little rested, we will see,”
said Mrs. Bird.
“I say, wife!” said Mr. Bird, after musing in silence over
his newspaper.
“Well, dear!”
“She could n't wear one of your gowns, could she, by any
letting down, or such matter? She seems to be rather larger
than you are.”
A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird's face, as
she answered, “We 'll see.”
Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out,
“I say, wife!”
“Well! What now?”
“Why, there 's that old bombazin cloak, that you keep on
purpose to put over me when I take my afternoon's nap;
you might as well give her that, — she needs clothes.”
At this instant, Dinah looked in to say that the woman was
awake, and wanted to see Missis.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the
two eldest boys, the smaller fry having, by this time, been
safely disposed of in bed.
The woman was now sitting up on the settle, by the fire.
She was looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm, heart-broken
expression, very different from her former agitated
wildness.
“Did you want me?” said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones.
“I hope you feel better now, poor woman!”
A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer; but
she lifted her dark eyes, and fixed them on her with such a
little woman's eyes.
“You need n't be afraid of anything; we are friends here,
poor woman! Tell me where you came from, and what you
want,” said she.
“I came from Kentucky,” said the woman.
“When?” said Mr. Bird, taking up the interrogatory.
“To-night.”
“How did you come?”
“I crossed on the ice.”
“Crossed on the ice!” said every one present.
“Yes,” said the woman, slowly, “I did. God helping
me, I crossed on the ice; for they were behind me — right
behind — and there was no other way!”
“Law, Missis,” said Cudjoe, “the ice is all in broken-up
blocks, a swinging and a tetering up and down in the water!”
“I know it was — I know it!” said she, wildly; “but I
did it! I would n't have thought I could, — I did n't think
I should get over, but I did n't care! I could but die, if I
did n't. The Lord helped me; nobody knows how much the
Lord can help 'em, till they try,” said the woman, with a
flashing eye.
“Were you a slave?” said Mr. Bird.
“Yes, sir; I belonged to a man in Kentucky.”
“Was he unkind to you?”
“No, sir; he was a good master.”
“And was your mistress unkind to you?”
“No, sir — no! my mistress was always good to me.”
“What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and
run away, and go through such dangers?”
The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird, with a keen, scrutinizing
deep mourning.
“Ma'am,” she said, suddenly, “have you ever lost a child?”
The question was unexpected, and it was a thrust on a new
wound; for it was only a month since a darling child of the
family had been laid in the grave.
Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and
Mrs. Bird burst into tears; but, recovering her voice, she
said,
“Why do you ask that? I have lost a little one.”
“Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after
another, — left 'em buried there when I came away; and I
had only this one left. I never slept a night without him;
he was all I had. He was my comfort and pride, day and
night; and, ma'am, they were going to take him away from
me, — to sell him, — sell him down south, ma'am, to go all
alone, — a baby that had never been away from his mother in
his life! I could n't stand it, ma'am. I knew I never should
be good for anything, if they did; and when I knew the
papers were signed, and he was sold, I took him and came off
in the night; and they chased me, — the man that bought
him, and some of Mas'r's folks, — and they were coming down
right behind me, and I heard 'em. I jumped right on to the
ice; and how I got across, I don't know, — but, first I knew, a
man was helping me up the bank.”
The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to a place
where tears are dry; but every one around her was, in some
way characteristic of themselves, showing signs of hearty
sympathy.
The two little boys, after a desperate rummaging in their
pockets, in search of those pocket-handkerchiefs which mothers
know are never to be found there, had thrown themselves
they were sobbing, and wiping their eyes and noses, to their
hearts' content; — Mrs. Bird had her face fairly hidden in
her pocket-handkerchief; and old Dinah, with tears streaming
down her black, honest face, was ejaculating, “Lord have
mercy on us!” with all the fervor of a camp-meeting; —
while old Cudjoe, rubbing his eyes very hard with his cuffs,
and making a most uncommon variety of wry faces, occasionally
responded in the same key, with great fervor. Our
senator was a statesman, and of course could not be expected
to cry, like other mortals; and so he turned his back to the
company, and looked out of the window, and seemed particularly
busy in clearing his throat and wiping his spectacle-glasses,
occasionally blowing his nose in a manner that was
calculated to excite suspicion, had any one been in a state to
observe critically.
“How came you to tell me you had a kind master?” he
suddenly exclaimed, gulping down very resolutely some kind
of rising in his throat, and turning suddenly round upon the
woman.
“Because he was a kind master; I 'll say that of him, any
way; — and my mistress was kind; but they could n't help
themselves. They were owing money; and there was some
way, I can't tell how, that a man had a hold on them, and
they were obliged to give him his will. I listened, and heard
him telling mistress that, and she begging and pleading for
me, — and he told her he could n't help himself, and that the
papers were all drawn; — and then it was I took him and
left my home, and came away. I knew 't was no use of my
trying to live, if they did it; for 't 'pears like this child is all
I have.”
“Have you no husband?”
“Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is real
hard to him, and won't let him come to see me, hardly ever;
and he 's grown harder and harder upon us, and he threatens
to sell him down south; — it 's like I'll never see him again!”
The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these words
might have led a superficial observer to think that she was
entirely apathetic; but there was a calm, settled depth of
anguish in her large, dark eye, that spoke of something far
otherwise.
“And where do you mean to go, my poor woman?” said
Mrs. Bird.
“To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very
far off, is Canada?” said she, looking up, with a simple, confiding
air, to Mrs. Bird's face.
“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Bird, involuntarily.
“Is 't a very great way off, think?” said the woman,
earnestly.
“Much further than you think, poor child!” said Mrs.
Bird; “but we will try to think what can be done for you.
Here, Dinah, make her up a bed in your own room, close by
the kitchen, and I 'll think what to do for her in the morning.
Meanwhile, never fear, poor woman; put your trust in God;
he will protect you.”
Mrs. Bird and her husband reëntered the parlor. She sat
down in her little rocking-chair before the fire, swaying
thoughtfully to and fro. Mr. Bird strode up and down the
room, grumbling to himself, “Pish! pshaw! confounded
awkward business!” At length, striding up to his wife, he
said,
“I say, wife, she 'll have to get away from here, this very
night. That fellow will be down on the scent bright and
early to-morrow morning; if 't was only the woman, she could
still by a troop of horse and foot, I 'll warrant me; he 'll
bring it all out, popping his head out of some window or door.
A pretty kettle of fish it would be for me, too, to be caught
with them both here, just now! No; they 'll have to be got
off to-night.”
“To-night! How is it possible? — where to?”
“Well, I know pretty well where to,” said the senator,
beginning to put on his boots, with a reflective air; and,
stopping when his leg was half in, he embraced his knee with
both hands, and seemed to go off in deep meditation.
“It 's a confounded awkward, ugly business,” said he, at
last, beginning to tug at his boot-straps again, “and that 's a
fact!” After one boot was fairly on, the senator sat with
the other in his hand, profoundly studying the figure of the
carpet. “It will have to be done, though, for aught I see, —
hang it all!” and he drew the other boot anxiously on, and
looked out of the window.
Now, little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman, — a woman
who never in her life said, “I told you so!” and, on the
present occasion, though pretty well aware of the shape her
husband's meditations were taking, she very prudently forbore
to meddle with them, only sat very quietly in her chair, and
looked quite ready to hear her liege lord's intentions, when he
should think proper to utter them.
“You see,” he said, “there 's my old client, Van Trompe,
has come over from Kentucky, and set all his slaves free; and
he has bought a place seven miles up the creek, here, back in
the woods, where nobody goes, unless they go on purpose;
and it 's a place that is n't found in a hurry. There she 'd
be safe enough; but the plague of the thing is, nobody could
drive a carriage there to-night, but me.”
“Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver.”
“Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be crossed
twice; and the second crossing is quite dangerous, unless one
knows it as I do. I have crossed it a hundred times on horseback,
and know exactly the turns to take. And so, you see,
there 's no help for it. Cudjoe must put in the horses, as
quietly as may be, about twelve o'clock, and I 'll take her
over; and then, to give color to the matter, he must carry
me on to the next tavern, to take the stage for Columbus,
that comes by about three or four, and so it will look as if I
had had the carriage only for that. I shall get into business
bright and early in the morning. But I 'm thinking I shall
feel rather cheap there, after all that 's been said and done;
but, hang it, I can't help it!”
“Your heart is better than your head, in this case, John,”
said the wife, laying her little white hand on his. “Could I
ever have loved you, had I not known you better than you
know yourself?” And the little woman looked so handsome,
with the tears sparkling in her eyes, that the senator thought
he must be a decidedly clever fellow, to get such a pretty
creature into such a passionate admiration of him; and so,
what could he do but walk off soberly, to see about the carriage.
At the door, however, he stopped a moment, and then
coming back, he said, with some hesitation,
“Mary, I don't know how you 'd feel about it, but there 's
that drawer full of things — of — of — poor little Henry's.”
So saying, he turned quickly on his heel, and shut the door
after him.
His wife opened the little bed-room door adjoining her
room, and, taking the candle, set it down on the top of a
bureau there; then from a small recess she took a key, and
put it thoughtfully in the lock of a drawer, and made a sudden
close on her heels, stood looking, with silent, significant
glances, at their mother. And oh! mother that reads this,
has there never been in your house a drawer, or a closet, the
opening of which has been to you like the opening again of a
little grave? Ah! happy mother that you are, if it has not
been so.
Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. There were little
coats of many a form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows
of small stockings; and even a pair of little shoes, worn and
rubbed at the toes, were peeping from the folds of a paper.
There was a toy horse and wagon, a top, a ball, — memorials
gathered with many a tear and many a heart-break! She sat
down by the drawer, and, leaning her head on her hands
over it, wept till the tears fell through her fingers into the
drawer; then suddenly raising her head, she began, with
nervous haste, selecting the plainest and most substantial
articles, and gathering them into a bundle.
“Mamma,” said one of the boys, gently touching her arm,
“are you going to give away those things?”
“My dear boys,” she said, softly and earnestly, “if our
dear, loving little Henry looks down from heaven, he would
be glad to have us do this. I could not find it in my heart to
give them away to any common person — to anybody that
was happy; but I give them to a mother more heart-broken
and sorrowful than I am; and I hope God will send his blessings
with them!”
There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all
spring up into joys for others; whose earthly hopes, laid in
the grave with many tears, are the seed from which spring
healing flowers and balm for the desolate and the distressed.
Among such was the delicate woman who sits there by the
of her own lost one for the outcast wanderer.
After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and, taking
from thence a plain, serviceable dress or two, she sat down
busily to her work-table, and, with needle, scissors, and
thimble, at hand, quietly commenced the “letting down”
process which her husband had recommended, and continued
busily at it till the old clock in the corner struck twelve, and
she heard the low rattling of wheels at the door.
“Mary,” said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in
his hand, “you must wake her up now; we must be off.”
Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had collected
in a small plain trunk, and locking it, desired her husband
to see it in the carriage, and then proceeded to call the
woman. Soon, arrayed in a cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that
had belonged to her benefactress, she appeared at the door
with her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her into the
carriage, and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage
steps. Eliza leaned out of the carriage, and put out her
hand, — a hand as soft and beautiful as was given in return.
She fixed her large, dark eyes, full of earnest meaning, on
Mrs. Bird's face, and seemed going to speak. Her lips
moved, — she tried once or twice, but there was no sound, —
and pointing upward, with a look never to be forgotten, she
fell back in the seat, and covered her face. The door was
shut, and the carriage drove on.
What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, that had
been all the week before spurring up the legislature of his
native state to pass more stringent resolutions against escaping
fugitives, their harborers and abettors!
Our good senator in his native state had not been exceeded
by any of his brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquence
sublimely he had sat with his hands in his pockets, and
scouted all sentimental weakness of those who would put the
welfare of a few miserable fugitives before great state interests!
He was as bold as a lion about it, and “mightily convinced”
not only himself, but everybody that heard him; —
but then his idea of a fugitive was only an idea of the letters
that spell the word, — or, at the most, the image of a little
newspaper picture of a man with a stick and bundle, with
“Ran away from the subscriber” under it. The magic of
the real presence of distress, — the imploring human eye, the
frail, trembling human hand, the despairing appeal of helpless
agony, — these he had never tried. He had never thought
that a fugitive might be a hapless mother, a defenceless
child, — like that one which was now wearing his lost boy's
little well-known cap; and so, as our poor senator was not
stone or steel, — as he was a man, and a downright noble-hearted
one, too, — he was, as everybody must see, in a sad
case for his patriotism. And you need not exult over him,
good brother of the Southern States; for we have some inklings
that many of you, under similar circumstances, would
not do much better. We have reason to know, in Kentucky,
as in Mississippi, are noble and generous hearts, to whom
never was tale of suffering told in vain. Ah, good brother!
is it fair for you to expect of us services which your own
brave, honorable heart would not allow you to render, were
you in our place?
Be that as it may, if our good senator was a political sinner,
he was in a fair way to expiate it by his night's penance.
There had been a long continuous period of rainy weather,
and the soft, rich earth of Ohio, as every one knows, is admirably
an Ohio railroad of the good old times.
“And pray, what sort of a road may that be?” says some
eastern traveller, who has been accustomed to connect no
ideas with a railroad, but those of smoothness or speed.
Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted
regions of the west, where the mud is of unfathomable and
sublime depth, roads are made of round rough logs, arranged
transversely side by side, and coated over in their pristine
freshness with earth, turf, and whatsoever may come to
hand, and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road, and
straightway essayeth to ride thereupon. In process of time,
the rains wash off all the turf and grass aforesaid, move the
logs hither and thither, in picturesque positions, up, down and
crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts of black mud intervening.
Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling
along, making moral reflections as continuously as under the
circumstances could be expected, — the carriage proceeding
along much as follows, — bump! bump! bump! slush! down
in the mud! — the senator, woman and child, reversing their
positions so suddenly as to come, without any very accurate
adjustment, against the windows of the down-hill side. Carriage
sticks fast, while Cudjoe on the outside is heard making
a great muster among the horses. After various ineffectual
pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is losing all
patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a bounce, —
two front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator,
woman, and child, all tumble promiscuously on to the front
seat, — senator's hat is jammed over his eyes and nose quite
unceremoniously, and he considers himself fairly extinguished;
— child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside delivers animated
straining, under repeated cracks of the whip. Carriage
springs up, with another bounce, — down go the hind wheels,
— senator, woman, and child, fly over on to the back seat,
his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both her feet being
jammed into his hat, which flies off in the concussion. After
a few moments the “slough” is passed, and the horses stop,
panting; — the senator finds his hat, the woman straightens
her bonnet and hushes her child, and they brace themselves
firmly for what is yet to come.
For a while only the continuous bump! bump! intermingled,
just by way of variety, with divers side plunges and
compound shakes; and they begin to flatter themselves that
they are not so badly off, after all. At last, with a square
plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then down into
their seats with incredible quickness, the carriage stops, —
and, after much outside commotion, Cudjoe appears at the
door.
“Please, sir, it 's powerful bad spot, this yer. I don't
know how we 's to get clar out. I 'm a thinkin' we 'll have
to be a gettin' rails.”
The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for
some firm foothold; down goes one foot an immeasurable
depth, — he tries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tumbles
over into the mud, and is fished out, in a very despairing condition,
by Cudjoe.
But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones.
Western travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in
the interesting process of pulling down rail fences, to pry their
carriages out of mud holes, will have a respectful and mournful
sympathy with our unfortunate hero. We beg them to
drop a silent tear, and pass on.
It was full late in the night when the carriage emerged,
dripping and bespattered, out of the creek, and stood at the
door of a large farm-house.
It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the
inmates; but at last the respectable proprietor appeared, and
undid the door. He was a great, tall, bristling Orson of a
fellow, full six feet and some inches in his stockings, and
arrayed in a red flannel hunting-shirt. A very heavy mat
of sandy hair, in a decidedly tousled condition, and a beard of
some days' growth, gave the worthy man an appearance, to
say the least, not particularly prepossessing. He stood for a
few minutes holding the candle aloft, and blinking on our
travellers with a dismal and mystified expression that was
truly ludicrous. It cost some effort of our senator to induce
him to comprehend the case fully; and while he is doing his
best at that, we shall give him a little introduction to our
readers.
Honest old John Van Trompe was once quite a considerable
land-holder and slave-owner in the State of Kentucky. Having
“nothing of the bear about him but the skin,” and being
gifted by nature with a great, honest, just heart, quite equal
to his gigantic frame, he had been for some years witnessing
with repressed uneasiness the workings of a system equally
bad for oppressor and oppressed. At last, one day, John's
great heart had swelled altogether too big to wear his bonds
any longer; so he just took his pocket-book out of his desk,
and went over into Ohio, and bought a quarter of a township
of good, rich land, made out free papers for all his people, —
men, women, and children, — packed them up in wagons, and
sent them off to settle down; and then honest John turned
his face up the creek, and sat quietly down on a snug, retired
farm, to enjoy his conscience and his reflections.
“Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and
child from slave-catchers?” said the senator, explicitly.
“I rather think I am,” said honest John, with some considerable
emphasis.
“I thought so,” said the senator.
“If there 's anybody comes,” said the good man, stretching
his tall, muscular form upward, “why here I 'm ready for
him: and I 've got seven sons, each six foot high, and they 'll
be ready for 'em. Give our respects to 'em,” said John;
“tell 'em it 's no matter how soon they call, — make no
kinder difference to us,” said John, running his fingers
through the shock of hair that thatched his head, and bursting
out into a great laugh.
Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up to
the door, with her child lying in a heavy sleep on her arm.
The rough man held the candle to her face, and uttering a
kind of compassionate grunt, opened the door of a small bed-room
adjoining to the large kitchen where they were standing,
and motioned her to go in. He took down a candle, and
lighting it, set it upon the table, and then addressed himself
to Eliza.
“Now, I say, gal, you need n't be a bit afeard, let who will
come here. I 'm up to all that sort o' thing,” said he, pointing
to two or three goodly rifles over the mantel-piece; “and most
people that know me know that 't would n't be healthy to try
to get anybody out o' my house when I 'm agin it. So now
you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as if yer mother was a
rockin' ye,” said he, as he shut the door.
“Why, this is an uncommon handsome un,” he said to the
senator. “Ah, well; handsome uns has the greatest cause
to run, sometimes, if they has any kind o' feelin, such as
decent women should. I know all about that.”
The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Eliza's history.
“O! ou! aw! now, I want to know?” said the good man,
pitifully; “sho! now sho! That 's natur now, poor crittur!
hunted down now like a deer, — hunted down, jest for havin'
natural feelin's, and doin' what no kind o' mother could help
a doin'! I tell ye what, these yer things make me come the
nighest to swearin', now, o' most anything,” said honest John,
as he wiped his eyes with the back of a great, freckled, yellow
hand. “I tell yer what, stranger, it was years and
years before I 'd jine the church, 'cause the ministers round
in our parts used to preach that the Bible went in for these
ere cuttings up, — and I could n't be up to 'em with their
Greek and Hebrew, and so I took up agin 'em, Bible and all.
I never jined the church till I found a minister that was up
to 'em all in Greek and all that, and he said right the contrary;
and then I took right hold, and jined the church, — I
did now, fact,” said John, who had been all this time uncorking
some very frisky bottled cider, which at this juncture he
presented.
“Ye 'd better jest put up here, now, till daylight,” said
he, heartily, “and I 'll call up the old woman, and have a
bed got ready for you in no time.”
“Thank you, my good friend,” said the senator, “I must
be along, to take the night stage for Columbus.”
“Ah! well, then, if you must, I 'll go a piece with you,
and show you a cross road that will take you there better
than the road you came on. That road 's mighty bad.”
John equipped himself, and, with a lantern in hand, was
soon seen guiding the senator's carriage towards a road that
ran down in a hollow, back of his dwelling. When they
parted, the senator put into his hand a ten-dollar bill.
“It 's for her,” he said, briefly.
“Ay, ay,” said John, with equal conciseness.
They shook hands, and parted.
| CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A SENATOR IS BUT A MAN. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |