 | CHAPTER XXVI.
DEATH. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
DEATH.
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes.
Eva's bed-room was a spacious apartment, which, like
all the other rooms in the house, opened on to the broad
verandah. The room communicated, on one side, with her
father and mother's apartment; on the other, with that appropriated
to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own eye
and taste, in furnishing this room in a style that had a peculiar
keeping with the character of her for whom it was
intended. The windows were hung with curtains of rose-colored
and white muslin, the floor was spread with a matting
which had been ordered in Paris, to a pattern of his own
device, having round it a border of rose-buds and leaves, and
a centre-piece with full-blown roses. The bedstead, chairs,
and lounges, were of bamboo, wrought in peculiarly graceful
and fanciful patterns. Over the head of the bed was an
alabaster bracket, on which a beautiful sculptured angel
stood, with drooping wings, holding out a crown of myrtle-leaves.
From this depended, over the bed, light curtains of
rose-colored gauze, striped with silver, supplying that protection
from mosquitos which is an indispensable addition to all
sleeping accommodation in that climate. The graceful bamboo
lounges were amply supplied with cushions of rose-colored
damask, while over them, depending from the hands of sculptured
figures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed.
room, where a Parian vase, wrought in the shape of a white
lily, with its buds, stood, ever filled with flowers. On this
table lay Eva's books and little trinkets, with an elegantly
wrought alabaster writing-stand, which her father had supplied
to her when he saw her trying to improve herself in
writing. There was a fireplace in the room, and on the
marble mantle above stood a beautifully wrought statuette of
Jesus receiving little children, and on either side marble
vases, for which it was Tom's pride and delight to offer
bouquets every morning. Two or three exquisite paintings
of children, in various attitudes, embellished the wall. In
short, the eye could turn nowhere without meeting images of
childhood, of beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never
opened, in the morning light, without falling on something
which suggested to the heart soothing and beautiful thoughts.
The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a
little while was fast passing away; seldom and more seldom
her light footstep was heard in the verandah, and oftener and
oftener she was found reclined on a little lounge by the open
window, her large, deep eyes fixed on the rising and falling
waters of the lake.
It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was so
reclining, — her Bible half open, her little transparent fingers
lying listlessly between the leaves, — suddenly she heard her
mother's voice, in sharp tones, in the verandah.
“What now, you baggage! — what new piece of mischief!
You 've been picking the flowers, hey?” and Eva heard the
sound of a smart slap.
“Law, Missis! — they 's for Miss Eva,” she heard a voice
say, which she knew belonged to Topsy.
“Miss Eva! A pretty excuse! — you suppose she wants
you!”
In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge, and in the
verandah.
“O, don't, mother! I should like the flowers; do give
them to me; I want them!”
“Why, Eva, your room is full now.”
“I can't have too many,” said Eva. “Topsy, do bring
them here.”
Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head,
now came up and offered her flowers. She did it with a look
of hesitation and bashfulness, quite unlike the eldrich boldness
and brightness which was usual with her.
“It 's a beautiful bouquet!” said Eva, looking at it.
It was rather a singular one, — a brilliant scarlet geranium,
and one single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It
was tied up with an evident eye to the contrast of color, and
the arrangement of every leaf had carefully been studied.
Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said, — “Topsy, you arrange
flowers very prettily. Here,” she said, “is this vase I
have n't any flowers for. I wish you 'd arrange something
every day for it.”
“Well, that 's odd!” said Marie. “What in the world do
you want that for?”
“Never mind, mamma; you 'd as lief as not Topsy should
do it, — had you not?”
“Of course, anything you please, dear! Topsy, you hear
your young mistress; — see that you mind.”
Topsy made a short courtesy, and looked down; and, as
she turned away, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek.
“You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do something
for me,” said Eva to her mother.
“O, nonsense! it 's only because she likes to do mischief.
She knows she must n't pick flowers, — so she does it;
that 's all there is to it. But, if you fancy to have her pluck
them, so be it.”
“Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used
to be; she 's trying to be a good girl.”
“She 'll have to try a good while before she gets to be
good,” said Marie, with a careless laugh.
“Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy! everything has
always been against her.”
“Not since she 's been here, I 'm sure. If she has n't
been talked to, and preached to, and every earthly thing done
that anybody could do; — and she 's just so ugly, and always
will be; you can't make anything of the creature!”
“But, mamma, it 's so different to be brought up as I 've
been, with so many friends, so many things to make me good
and happy; and to be brought up as she 's been, all the time,
till she came here!”
“Most likely,” said Marie, yawning, — “dear me, how hot
it is!”
“Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could become
an angel, as well as any of us, if she were a Christian?”
“Topsy! what a ridiculous idea! Nobody but you would
ever think of it. I suppose she could, though.”
“But, mamma, is n't God her father, as much as ours?
Is n't Jesus her Saviour?”
“Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody,”
said Marie. “Where is my smelling-bottle?”
“It 's such a pity, — oh! such a pity!” said Eva, looking
out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself.
“What 's a pity?” said Marie.
“Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live
with angels, should go all down, down, down, and nobody help
them! — oh, dear!”
“Well, we can't help it; it 's no use worrying, Eva! I
don't know what 's to be done; we ought to be thankful for
our own advantages.”
“I hardly can be,” said Eva, “I 'm so sorry to think of
poor folks that have n't any.”
“That 's odd enough,” said Marie; — “I 'm sure my
religion makes me thankful for my advantages.”
“Mamma,” said Eva, “I want to have some of my hair
cut off, — a good deal of it.”
“What for?” said Marie.
“Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while
I am able to give it to them myself. Won't you ask aunty
to come and cut it for me?”
Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from the
other room.
The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and,
shaking down her long golden-brown curls, said, rather playfully,
“Come, aunty, shear the sheep!”
“What 's that?” said St. Clare, who just then entered
with some fruit he had been out to get for her.
“Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair; —
there 's too much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I
want to give some of it away.”
Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors.
“Take care, — don't spoil the looks of it!” said her father;
“cut underneath, where it won't show. Eva's curls are my
pride.”
“O, papa!” said Eva, sadly.
“Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time I
said St. Clare, in a gay tone.
“I shall never go there, papa; — I am going to a better
country. O, do believe me! Don't you see, papa, that I
get weaker, every day?”
“Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing,
Eva?” said her father.
“Only because it is true, papa: and, if you will believe it
now, perhaps you will get to feel about it as I do.”
St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eying the
long, beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from the
child's head, were laid, one by one, in her lap. She raised
them up, looked earnestly at them, twined them around her
thin fingers, and looked, from time to time, anxiously at her
father.
“It 's just what I 've been foreboding!” said Marie; “it 's
just what has been preying on my health, from day to day,
bringing me downward to the grave, though nobody regards
it. I have seen this, long. St. Clare, you will see, after a
while, that I was right.”
“Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt!” said
St. Clare, in a dry, bitter tone.
Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with her
cambric handkerchief.
Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the
other. It was the calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half
loosed from its earthly bonds; it was evident she saw, felt,
and appreciated, the difference between the two.
She beckoned with her hand to her father. He came, and
sat down by her.
“Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know I
must go. There are some things I want to say and do, —
speak a word on this subject. But it must come; there 's
no putting it off. Do be willing I should speak now!”
“My child, I am willing!” said St. Clare, covering his
eyes with one hand, and holding up Eva's hand with the
other.
“Then, I want to see all our people together. I have
some things I must say to them,” said Eva.
“Well,” said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance.
Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the whole
of the servants were convened in the room.
Eva lay back on her pillows; her hair hanging loosely
about her face, her crimson cheeks contrasting painfully
with the intense whiteness of her complexion and the thin
contour of her limbs and features, and her large, soul-like
eyes fixed earnestly on every one.
The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The
spiritual face, the long locks of hair cut off and lying by
her, her father's averted face, and Marie's sobs, struck at
once upon the feelings of a sensitive and impressible race;
and, as they came in, they looked one on another, sighed, and
shook their heads. There was a deep silence, like that of a
funeral.
Eva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round at
every one. All looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the
women hid their faces in their aprons.
“I sent for you all, my dear friends,” said Eva, “because
I love you. I love you all; and I have something to say to
you, which I want you always to remember...... I am
going to leave you. In a few more weeks, you will see me
no more —”
Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs,
and lamentations, which broke from all present, and in which
her slender voice was lost entirely. She waited a moment,
and then, speaking in a tone that checked the sobs of all, she
said,
“If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen
to what I say. I want to speak to you about your souls.
..... Many of you, I am afraid, are very careless. You
are thinking only about this world. I want you to remember
that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I am going
there, and you can go there. It is for you, as much as me.
But, if you want to go there, you must not live idle, careless,
thoughtless lives. You must be Christians. You must
remember that each one of you can become angels, and be
angels forever..... If you want to be Christians, Jesus
will help you. You must pray to him; you must read —”
The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, and
said, sorrowfully,
“O, dear! you can't read, — poor souls!” and she hid her
face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob
from those she was addressing, who were kneeling on the
floor, aroused her.
“Never mind,” she said, raising her face and smiling
brightly through her tears, “I have prayed for you; and I
know Jesus will help you, even if you can't read. Try all to
do the best you can; pray every day; ask Him to help you,
and get the Bible read to you whenever you can; and I think
I shall see you all in heaven.”
“Amen,” was the murmured response from the lips of Tom
and Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the
Methodist church. The younger and more thoughtless ones,
heads bowed upon their knees.
“I know,” said Eva, “you all love me.”
“Yes; oh, yes! indeed we do! Lord bless her!” was the
involuntary answer of all.
“Yes, I know you do! There is n't one of you that
has n't always been very kind to me; and I want to give
you something that, when you look at, you shall always
remember me. I 'm going to give all of you a curl of my
hair; and, when you look at it, think that I loved you and am
gone to heaven, and that I want to see you all there.”
It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and
sobs, they gathered round the little creature, and took from
her hands what seemed to them a last mark of her love.
They fell on their knees; they sobbed, and prayed, and kissed
the hem of her garment; and the elder ones poured forth
words of endearment, mingled in prayers and blessings, after
the manner of their susceptible race.
As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was apprehensive
for the effect of all this excitement on her little patient,
signed to each one to pass out of the apartment.
At last, all were gone but Tom and Mammy.
“Here, Uncle Tom,” said Eva, “is a beautiful one for
you. O, I am so happy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see
you in heaven, — for I 'm sure I shall; and Mammy, — dear,
good, kind Mammy!” she said, fondly throwing her arms
round her old nurse, — “I know you 'll be there, too.”
“O, Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no
how!” said the faithful creature. “'Pears like it 's just
taking everything off the place to oncet!” and Mammy gave
way to a passion of grief.
Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the
turned, Topsy was standing there.
“Where did you start up from?” she said, suddenly.
“I was here,” said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“O, Miss Eva, I 've been a bad girl; but won 't you give
me one, too?”
“Yes, poor Topsy! to be sure, I will. There — every
time you look at that, think that I love you, and wanted you
to be a good girl!”
“O, Miss Eva, I is tryin!” said Topsy, earnestly; “but,
Lor, it 's so hard to be good! 'Pears like I an't used to it,
no ways!”
“Jesus knows it, Topsy; he is sorry for you; he will help
you.”
Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passed
from the apartment by Miss Ophelia; but, as she went, she
hid the precious curl in her bosom.
All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy
lady had wiped away many tears of her own, during the scene;
but concern for the consequence of such an excitement to her
young charge was uppermost in her mind.
St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his
hand shading his eyes, in the same attitude. When they
were all gone, he sat so still.
“Papa!” said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his.
He gave a sudden start and shiver; but made no answer.
“Dear papa!” said Eva.
“I cannot,” said St. Clare, rising, “I cannot have it so!
The Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me!” and St.
Clare pronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, indeed.
“Augustine! has not God a right to do what he will with
his own?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Perhaps so; but that does n't make it any easier to bear,”
said he, with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned
away.
“Papa, you break my heart!” said Eva, rising and
throwing herself into his arms; “you must not feel so!” and
the child sobbed and wept with a violence which alarmed
them all, and turned her father's thoughts at once to another
channel.
“There, Eva, — there, dearest! Hush! hush! I was
wrong; I was wicked. I will feel any way, do any way, —
only don't distress yourself; don't sob so. I will be resigned;
I was wicked to speak as I did.”
Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father's arms; and
he, bending over her, soothed her by every tender word he
could think of.
Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her
own, when she fell into violent hysterics.
“You did n't give me a curl, Eva,” said her father, smiling
sadly.
“They are all yours, papa,” said she, smiling, — “yours
and mamma's; and you must give dear aunty as many as she
wants. I only gave them to our poor people myself, because
you know, papa, they might be forgotten when I am gone,
and because I hoped it might help them remember.....
You are a Christian, are you not, papa?” said Eva, doubtfully.
“Why do you ask me?”
“I don't know. You are so good, I don't see how you
can help it.”
“What is being a Christian, Eva?”
“Loving Christ most of all,” said Eva.
“Do you, Eva?”
“Certainly I do.”
“You never saw him,” said St. Clare.
“That makes no difference,” said Eva. “I believe him,
and in a few days I shall see him;” and the young face grew
fervent, radiant with joy.
St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seen
before in his mother; but no chord within vibrated to it.
Eva, after this, declined rapidly; there was no more any
doubt of the event; the fondest hope could not be blinded.
Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick room; and Miss
Ophelia day and night performed the duties of a nurse, — and
never did her friends appreciate her value more than in that
capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect
adroitness and practice in every art which could promote
neatness and comfort, and keep out of sight every disagreeable
incident of sickness, — with such a perfect sense of time,
such a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy in remembering
every prescription and direction of the doctors, —
she was everything to him. They who had shrugged their
shoulders at her little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike
the careless freedom of southern manners, acknowledged that
now she was the exact person that was wanted.
Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered
much from nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her to
be carried; and it was Tom's greatest delight to carry her little
frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and
down her room, now out into the verandah; and when the
fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake, — and the child felt
freshest in the morning, — he would sometimes walk with her
under the orange-trees in the garden, or, sitting down in
some of their old seats, sing to her their favorite old hymns.
Her father often did the same thing; but his frame was
slighter, and when he was weary, Eva would say to him,
“O, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! it pleases him;
and you know it 's all he can do now, and he wants to do
something!”
“So do I, Eva!” said her father.
“Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything
to me. You read to me, — you sit up nights, — and Tom has
only this one thing, and his singing; and I know, too, he
does it easier than you can. He carries me so strong!”
The desire to do something was not confined to Tom.
Every servant in the establishment showed the same feeling,
and in their way did what they could.
Poor Mammy's heart yearned towards her darling; but she
found no opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that
the state of her mind was such, it was impossible for her to
rest; and, of course, it was against her principles to let any
one else rest. Twenty times in a night, Mammy would be
roused to rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket-handkerchief,
to see what the noise was in Eva's room, to
let down a curtain because it was too light, or to put it up
because it was too dark; and, in the day-time, when she
longed to have some share in the nursing of her pet, Marie
seemed unusually ingenious in keeping her busy anywhere
and everywhere all over the house, or about her own person;
so that stolen interviews and momentary glimpses were all
she could obtain.
“I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself,
now,” she would say, “feeble as I am, and with the whole
care and nursing of that dear child upon me.”
“Indeed, my dear,” said St. Clare, “I thought our cousin
relieved you of that.”
“You talk like a man, St. Clare, — just as if a mother
could be relieved of the care of a child in that state; but,
then, it 's all alike, — no one ever knows what I feel! I can't
throw things off, as you do.”
St. Clare smiled. You must excuse him, he could n't
help it, — for St. Clare could smile yet. For so bright and
placid was the farewell voyage of the little spirit, — by such
sweet and fragrant breezes was the small bark borne towards
the heavenly shores, — that it was impossible to realize that it
was death that was approaching. The child felt no pain, —
only a tranquil, soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly
increasing; and she was so beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so
happy, that one could not resist the soothing influence of
that air of innocence and peace which seemed to breathe
around her. St. Clare found a strange calm coming over him.
It was not hope, — that was impossible; it was not resignation;
it was only a calm resting in the present, which seemed
so beautiful that he wished to think of no future. It was
like that hush of spirit which we feel amid the bright, mild
woods of autumn, when the bright hectic flush is on the trees,
and the last lingering flowers by the brook; and we joy in it
all the more, because we know that soon it will all pass away.
The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and
foreshadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she
said what she would not disturb her father by saying. To
him she imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul
feels, as the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay forever.
Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night
in the outer verandah, ready to rouse at every call.
“Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere
and everywhere, like a dog, for?” said Miss Ophelia.
in bed in a Christian way.”
“I do, Miss Feely,” said Tom, mysteriously. “I do, but
now —”
“Well, what now?”
“We must n't speak loud; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear
on 't; but Miss Feely, you know there must be somebody
watchin' for the bridegroom.”
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“You know it says in Scripture, `At midnight there was
a great cry made. Behold, the bridegroom cometh.' That 's
what I 'm spectin now, every night, Miss Feely, — and I
could n't sleep out o' hearin, no ways.”
“Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so?”
“Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his
messenger in the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for
when that ar blessed child goes into the kingdom, they 'll
open the door so wide, we 'll all get a look in at the glory,
Miss Feely.”
“Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than
usual to-night?”
“No; but she telled me, this morning, she was coming
nearer, — thar 's them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely.
It 's the angels, — `it 's the trumpet sound afore the break o'
day,'” said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn.
This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom,
between ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements
had all been made for the night, when, on going to bolt her
outer door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the outer
verandah.
She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn, heartfelt
manner struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and
looked over all her little trinkets and precious things, and
designated the friends to whom she would have them given;
and her manner was more animated, and her voice more natural,
than they had known it for weeks. Her father had
been in, in the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more
like her former self than ever she had done since her sickness;
and when he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss
Ophelia, — “Cousin, we may keep her with us, after all; she
is certainly better;” and he had retired with a lighter heart
in his bosom than he had had there for weeks.
But at midnight, — strange, mystic hour! —when the veil
between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin, —
then came the messenger!
There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who
stepped quickly. It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to
sit up all night with her little charge, and who, at the turn of
the night, had discerned what experienced nurses significantly
call “a change.” The outer door was quickly opened, and
Tom, who was watching outside, was on the alert, in a
moment.
“Go for the doctor, Tom! lose not a moment,” said Miss
Ophelia; and, stepping across the room, she rapped at St.
Clare's door.
“Cousin,” she said, “I wish you would come.”
Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why
did they? He was up and in the room in an instant, and
bending over Eva, who still slept.
What was it he saw that made his heart stand still? Why
was no word spoken between the two? Thou canst say, who
hast seen that same expression on the face dearest to thee; —
thee that thy beloved is no longer thine.
On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly
imprint, — only a high and almost sublime expression, — the
overshadowing presence of spiritual natures, the dawning of
immortal life in that childish soul.
They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the
ticking of the watch seemed too loud. In a few moments,
Tom returned, with the doctor. He entered, gave one look,
and stood silent as the rest.
“When did this change take place?” said he, in a low
whisper, to Miss Ophelia.
“About the turn of the night,” was the reply.
Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared,
hurriedly, from the next room.
“Augustine! Cousin! — O! — what!” she hurriedly began.
“Hush!” said St. Clare, hoarsely; “she is dying!”
Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants.
The house was soon roused, — lights were seen, footsteps
heard, anxious faces thronged the verandah, and looked tearfully
through the glass doors; but St. Clare heard and said
nothing, — he saw only that look on the face of the little
sleeper.
“O, if she would only wake, and speak once more!” he
said; and, stooping over her, he spoke in her ear, — “Eva,
darling!”
The large blue eyes unclosed, — a smile passed over her
face; — she tried to raise her head, and to speak.
“Do you know me, Eva?”
“Dear papa,” said the child, with a last effort, throwing
her arms about his neck. In a moment they dropped again;
agony pass over the face, — she struggled for breath, and
threw up her little hands.
“O, God, this is dreadful!” he said, turning away in agony,
and wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was
doing. “O, Tom, my boy, it is killing me!”
Tom had his master's hands between his own; and, with
tears streaming down his dark cheeks, looked up for help
where he had always been used to look.
“Pray that this may be cut short!” said St. Clare, —
“this wrings my heart.”
“O, bless the Lord! it 's over, — it 's over, dear Master!”
said Tom; “look at her.”
The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted, —
the large clear eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said
those eyes, that spoke so much of heaven? Earth was past,
and earthly pain; but so solemn, so mysterious, was the
triumphant brightness of that face, that it checked even the
sobs of sorrow. They pressed around her, in breathless stillness.
“Eva,” said St. Clare, gently.
She did not hear.
“O, Eva, tell us what you see! What is it?” said her
father.
A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she
said, brokenly, — “O! love, — joy, — peace!” gave one sigh,
and passed from death unto life!
“Farewell, beloved child! the bright, eternal doors have
closed after thee; we shall see thy sweet face no more. O,
woe for them who watched thy entrance into heaven, when
they shall wake and find only the cold gray sky of daily life,
and thou gone forever!”
| CHAPTER XXVI.
DEATH. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |