INTRODUCTORY NOTE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
CHAPTER LI
CHAPTER LII
CHAPTER LIII
CHAPTER LIV
CHAPTER LV
CHAPTER LVI
CHAPTER LVII
APPENDIX I
APPENDIX II
APPENDIX III
The original title page
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
THE preparation of A Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin was also directly a preparation for Mrs. Stowe’s second great novel based on the moral and social conditions induced by African slavery in the United States. Out of the familiarity which she acquired with the history and the laws of the slave States both through her own investigation and through that of her friends, especially her legal friends, sprang almost as a matter of necessity the tale of Dred. She has herself in her Preface spoken of the use she made of Judge Ruffin’s decision which she had already included in A Key. The basis of the entire story, as is well known, is the insurrection led by Nat Turner in eastern Virginia in 1831. One of the principal participators in that affair was named Dred. Years afterward when bringing out a new edition of the novel Mrs. Stowe changed the title to Nina Gordon, the name of the principal heroine; but it bore this title for a few years only, the old title being restored finally.
The story was written in 1855 and the spring of 1856, and in his Life of his mother Mr. Stowe gives an interesting incident illustrative of her artistic care in her work. On a sultry summer night, he says in effect, there was a terrific thunderstorm, which threw the young daughters of the house into a panic, and they crept trembling to their mother’s room, to find her lying quietly in bed, with the window-shades drawn, watching with intense interest the action of the storm. “ I have been writing a description of a thunderstorm for my book,” she said, “and I am watching to see if I need to correct it in any particular.” The description occurs in the chapter entitled Life in the Swamps.
It was important for her own interests that Mrs. Stowe should secure a copyright for the book in England, where a great audience awaited her, and she made a journey abroad in the early summer of 1856 with this end particularly in view. She had already arranged with Messrs. Sampson Low & Co for its republication, and she wrote for the English edition a special preface which states concisely the aim she had in view in writing Dred.
“The author’s object in this book is to show the general effect of slavery on society; the various social disadvantages which it brings, even to its most favored advocates; the shiftlessness and misery and backward tendency of all the economical arrangements of slave States; the retrograding of good families into poverty; the deterioration of land; the worse demoralization of all classes, from the aristocratic, tyrannical planter to the oppressed and poor white, which is the result of the introduction of slave labor. It is also an object to display the corruption of Christianity which arises from the same source, — a corruption that has gradually lowered the standard of the church, North and South, and been productive of more infidelity than the works of all the encyclopaedists put together.”
The success of the book was immediate and great both in the United States and in England. In the latter country a hundred thousand copies were sold in a month. It was not received with unanimous favor by the critics. The great vogue of Uncle Tom’s Cabin naturally led to a challenge of the author when she appeared a second time, and Mrs. Stowe sums up in one of her letters the reception Dred had from various organs. “It is very bitterly attacked,” she writes to her husband, “both from a literary and a religious point of view. The Record is down upon it with a cartload of solemnity; the Athenæum with waspish spite; the Edinburgh goes out of its way to say that the author knows nothing of the society she describes; but yet it goes everywhere, is read everywhere, and Mr. Low says that he puts the hundred and twenty-fifth thousand to press confidently.” One of the most thorough-going appreciations of the book was from Harriet Martineau, who writes: “The genius carries all before it, and drowns everything in glorious pleasure. So marked a work of genius claims exemption from every sort of comparison; but, as you ask for my opinion of the book, you may like to know that I think it far superior to Uncle Tom. I have no doubt that a multitude of people will say it is a falling off, because they made up their minds that any new book of yours must be inferior to that, and because it is so rare a thing for a prodigious fame to be sustained by a second book; but in my own mind I am entirely convinced that the second book is by far the best. Such faults as you have are in the artistic department, and there is less defect in Dred than in Uncle Tom, and the whole material and treatment seem to me richer and more substantial.... I see no limit to the good it may do by suddenly splitting open Southern life, for everybody to look into. It is precisely the thing that is most wanted, — just as Uncle Tom was wanted, three years since, to show what negro slavery in your republic was like. It is plantation life particularly, in the present case, that I mean.”
The two books Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Dred were the great contributions which Mrs. Stowe made toward the illumination of the Christian world on the subject of slavery. They stood side by side in a momentous period, buttressed by the storehouse of facts contained in A Key. Her interest in the subject went far back into her childhood, as has been shown in the Introduction to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and it was of course impossible that she should
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
THE writer of this book has chosen, once more, a subject from the scenes and incidents of the slave-holding States.
The reason for such a choice is two-fold. First, in a merely artistic point of view, there is no ground, ancient or modern, whose vivid lights, gloomy shadows, and grotesque groupings, afford to the novelist so wide a scope for the exercise of his powers. In the near vicinity of modern civilization of the most matter-of-fact kind exist institutions which carry us back to the twilight of the feudal ages, with all their exciting possibilities of incident. Two nations, the types of two exactly opposite styles of existence, are here struggling; and from the intermingling of these two a third race has arisen, and the three are interlocked in wild and singular relations, that evolve every possible combination of romance. Hence, if the writer’s only object had been the production of a work of art, she would have felt justified in not turning aside from that mine whose inexhaustible stores have but begun to be developed.
But this object, however legitimate, was not the only nor the highest one. It is the moral bearings of the subject involved which have had the chief influence in its selection. The issues presented by the great conflict between liberty and slavery do not grow less
important from year to year. On the contrary, their interest increases with every step in the development of the national career. Never has there been a crisis in the history of this nation so momentous as the present. If ever a nation was raised up by Divine Providence, and led forth upon a conspicuous stage, as if for the express purpose of solving a great moral problem in the sight of all mankind, it is this nation. God in his providence is now asking the American people, Is the system of slavery, as set forth in the American slave code, right? Is it so desirable, that you will directly establish it over broad regions, where, till now, you have solemnly forbidden it to enter? And this question the American people are about to answer. Under such circumstances the writer felt that no apology was needed for once more endeavoring to do something towards revealing to the people the true character of that system. If the people are to establish such a system, let them do it with their eyes open, with all the dreadful realities before them.
One liberty has been taken which demands acknowledgment in the outset. The writer has placed in the mouth of one of her leading characters a judicial decision of Judge Ruffin, of North Carolina, the boldness, clearness, and solemn eloquence of which have excited admiration both in the Old World and the New. The author having no personal acquaintance with that gentleman, the character to whom she attributes it is to be considered as created merely on a principle of artistic fitness.
To maintain the unity of the story, some anachronisms with regard to the time of the session of courts have been allowed; for works of fiction must sometimes use some liberties in the grouping of incidents. But as mere cold art, unquickened by sympathy with the spirit of the age, is nothing, the author hopes that those who now are called to struggle for all that is noble in our laws and institutions may find in this book the response of a sympathizing heart.
DRED
A TALE OF THE GREAT DISMAL SWAMP
CHAPTER I
THE MISTRESS OF CANEMA
“BILLS, Harry? — Yes. — Dear me, where are they? — There! — No. Here? — Oh, look! — What do you think of this scarf? Isn’t it lovely?”
“Yes, Miss Nina, beautiful — but” —
“Oh, those bills! — Yes — well, here goes — here — perhaps in this box. No — that’s my opera-hat. By the bye, what do you think of that? Isn’t that bunch of silver wheat lovely? Stop a bit — you shall see it on me.”
And, with these words, the slight little figure sprang up as if it had wings, and, humming a waltzing-tune, skimmed across the room to a looking-glass, and placed the jaunty little cap on the gay little head, and then, turning a pirouette on one toe, said, “There, now!”
“There, now!” Ah, Harry! ah, mankind generally! the wisest of you have been made fools of by just such dancing, glittering, fluttering little assortments of curls, pendants, streamers, eyes, cheeks, and dimples! The little figure, scarce the height of the Venus, rounded as that of an infant, was shown to advantage by a coquettish morning-dress of buff muslin, which fluttered open in front to display the embroidered skirt, and trim little mouse of a slipper. The face was one of those provoking ones which set criticism at defiance. The hair, waving, curling, dancing hither and thither, seemed to have a wild, laughing grace of its own; the brown eyes twinkled like the pensants of a chandelier; the little, wicked nose, which bore the forbidden upward curve, seemed to assert its right to do so with a saucy freedom; and the pendants of multiplied brilliants that twinkled in her ears, and the nodding wreath of silver wheat that set off her opera-hat, seemed alive with mischief and motion.
“Well, what do you think?” said a lively, imperative voice, — just the kind of voice that you might have expected from the figure.
The young man to whom this question was addressed was a well-dressed, gentlemanly person of about thirty-five, with dark complexion and hair, and deep blue eyes. There was something marked and peculiar in the square, high forehead, and the finely formed features, which indicated talent and ability; and the blue eyes had a depth and strength of color that might cause them at first glance to appear black. The face, with its strongly marked expression of honesty and sense, had about it many careworn and thoughtful lines. He looked at the little, defiant fay for a moment with an air of the most entire deference and admiration; then a heavy shadow crossed his face, and he answered abstractedly, “Yes, Miss Nina, everything you wear becomes pretty — and that is perfectly charming.”
“Isn’t it, now, Harry? I thought you would think so. You see, it’s my own idea. You ought to have seen what a thing it was when I first saw it in Mme. La Blanche’s window. There was a great hot-looking feather on it, and two or three horrid bows. I had them out in a twinkling, and got this wheat in — which shakes so, you know. It’s perfectly lovely! — Well, do you believe, the very night I wore it to the opera, I got engaged?”
“Engaged, Miss Nina?”
“Engaged! — Yes, to be sure! Why not?”
“It seems to me that’s a very serious thing, Miss Nina.”
“Serious! — ha! ha! ha!” said the little beauty, seating herself on one arm of the sofa, and shaking the glittering hat back from her eyes. “Well, I fancy it was — to him, at least. I made him serious, I can tell you!”
“But is this true, Miss Nina? Are you really engaged?”
“Yes, to be sure I am — to three gentlemen; and going to stay so till I find which I like best. Maybe, you know, I sha’n’t like any of them.”
“Engaged to three gentlemen, Miss Nina?”
“To be sure! — Can’t you understand English, Harry? I am now — fact.”
“Miss Nina, is that right?”
“Right? — why not? I don’t know which to take — I positively don’t; so I took them all on trial, you know.”
“Pray, Miss Nina, tell us who they are.”
“Well, there’s Mr. Carson; he’s a rich old bachelor — horridly polite — one of those little, bobbing men, that always have such shiny dickies and collars, and such bright boots, and such tight straps. And he’s rich — and perfectly wild about me. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, you know; so I just said yes, to have a little quiet. Besides, he is very convenient about the opera and concerts, and such things.”
“Well, and the next?”
“Well, the next is George Emmons. He’s one of your pink-and-white men, you know, who look like cream-candy, as if they were good to eat. He’s a lawyer, of a good family, — thought a good deal of, and all that. Well, really, they say he has talents — I’m no judge. I know he always bores me to death; asking me if I have read this or that —— marking places in books that I never read. He’s your sentimental sort — writes the most romantic notes on pink paper, and all that sort of thing.”
“And the third?”
“Well, you see, I don’t like him a bit — I’m sure I don’t. He’s a hateful creature! He isn’t handsome; he’s proud as Lucifer; and I’m sure I don’t know how he got me to be engaged. It was a kind of an accident. He’s real good, though — too good for me, that’s a fact. But, then, I’m afraid of him a little.”
“And his name?”
“Well, his name is Clayton, — Mr. Edward Clayton, at your service. He’s one of your high-and-mighty people — with such deep-set eyes — eyes that look as if they were in a cave — and such black hair! And his eyes have a desperate sort of sad look, sometimes — quite Byronic. He’s tall, and rather loose-jointed — has beautiful teeth; his mouth, too, is — well, when he smiles, sometimes it really is quite fascinating; and then he’s so different from other gentlemen! He’s kind — but he don’t care how he dresses; and wears the most horrid shoes. And, then, he isn’t polite — he won’t jump, you know, to pick up your thread or scissors; and sometimes he’ll get into a brown study, and let you stand ten minutes before he thinks to give you a chair, and all such provoking things. He isn’t a bit of a lady’s man. Well, consequence is, as my lord won’t court the girls, the girls all court my lord — that’s the way, you know; and they seem to thi
nk it’s such a feather in their cap to get attention from him, — because, you know, he’s horrid sensible. So, you see, that just set me out to see what I could do with him. Well, you see, I wouldn’t court him; — and I plagued him, and laughed at him, and spited him, and got him gloriously wroth; and he said some spiteful things about me, and then I said some more about him, and we had a real up-and-down quarrel; — and then I took a penitent turn, you know, and just went gracefully down into the valley of humiliation — as we witches can; and it took wonderfully —— brought my lord on to his knees before he knew what he was doing. Well, really, I don’t know what was the matter, just then, but he spoke so earnest and strong that actually he got me to crying — hateful creature! — and I promised all sorts of things, you know — said altogether more than will bear thinking of.”
“And are you corresponding with all these lovers, Miss Nina?”
“Yes — isn’t it fun? Their letters, you know, can’t speak.. If they could, when they come rustling together in the bag, wouldn’t there be a muss?”
“Miss Nina, I think you have given your heart to this last one.”
“Oh, nonsense, Harry! Haven’t got any heart! — don’t care two pins for any of them! All I want is to have a good time. As to love, and all that, I don’t believe I could love any of them; I should be tired to death of any of them in six weeks. I never liked anything that long.”
“Miss Nina, you must excuse me, but I want to ask again, is it right to trifle with the feelings of gentlemen in this way?”
“Why not? — Isn’t all fair in war? Don’t they trifle with us girls, every chance they get — and sit up so pompous in their rooms, and smoke cigars, and talk us over, as if they only had to put out their finger and say, ‘Come here,’ to get any of us? I tell you, it’s fun to bring them down! — Now, there’s that horrid George Emmons — I tell you, if he didn’t flirt all winter with Mary Stephens, and got everybody to laughing about her! — it was so evident, you see, that she liked him — she couldn’t help showing it, poor little thing! — and then my lord would settle his collar, and say he hadn’t quite made up his mind to take her, and all that. Well, I haven’t made up my mind to take him, either — and so poor Mary is avenged. As to the old bach — that smooth-dicky man — you see, he can’t be hurt; for his heart is rubbed as smooth and hard as his dicky, with falling in love and out again. He’s been turned off by three girls, now; and his shoes squeak as brisk as ever, and he’s just as jolly. You see, he didn’t use to be so rich. Lately, he’s come into a splendid property; so, if I don’t take him, poor man, there are enough that would be glad of him.”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 62