‘What we’s to do for cheers, now, I declar I don’t know,’ said Aunt Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle Tom’s weekly for an indefinite length of time, without any more ‘cheers,’ there seemed some encouragement to hope that a way would be discovered at present.
‘Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last week,’ suggested Mose.
‘You go ‘long! I’ll boun’ you pulled ’em out; some o’ your shines,’ said Aunt Chloe.
‘Well, it’ll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!’ said Mose.
‘Den Uncle Peter mus’n’t sit in it, ‘cause he al’ays hitches when he gets a singing. He hitched pretty nigh across de room, t’other night,’ said Pete.
‘Good Lor! get him in it, then,’ said Mose, ‘and den he’d begin, “Come, saints and sinners, hear me tell,” and den down he’d go’ — and Mose imitated precisely the nasal tones of the old man, tumbling on the floor to illustrate the supposed catastrophe.
‘Come, now, be decent, can’t ye?’ said Aunt Chloe; ‘an’t yer ‘shamed?’
Mas’r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, and declared decidedly that Mose was a ‘buster.’ So the maternal admonition seemed rather to fail of effect.
‘Well, ole man,’ said Aunt Chloe, ‘ you’ll have to tote in them ar bar’ls.’
‘Mother’s bar’ls is like dat ar widder’s Mas’r George was reading ‘bout in de good book — dey never fails,’ said Mose, aside to Pete.
‘I’m sure one on ’em caved in last week,’ said Pete, ‘and let ’em all down in de middle of de singin’; dat are was failin’, warn’t it?’
During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty casks had been rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling by stones on each side, boards were laid across them, which arrangement, together with the turning down of certain tubs and pails, and the disposing of the rickety chairs, at last completed the preparation.
‘Mas’r George is such a beautiful reader now, I know he’ll stay to read for us,’ said Aunt Chloe; ‘‘pears like ‘twill be so much more interestin’.’
George very readily consented; for your boy is always ready for anything that makes him of importance.
The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from the old grey-headed patriarch of eighty to the young girl and lad of fifteen. A little harmless gossip ensued on various themes, such as where old Aunt Sally got her new red headkerchief, and how ‘missis was a going to give Lizzy that spotted muslin gown, when she’d got her new berage made up and how Mas’r Shelby was thinking of buying a new sorrel colt that was going to prove an addition to the glories of the place. A few of the worshippers belonged to families hard by, who had got permission to attend, and who brought in various choice scraps of information, about the sayings and doings at the house and on the place, which circulated as freely as the same sort of small change does in higher circles.
After a while the singing commenced, to the evident delight of all present. Not even all the disadvantage of nasal intonation could prevent the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs at once wild and spirited. The words were sometimes the well-known and com mon hymns sung in the churches about, and sometimes of a wilder, more indefinite character, picked up at camp-meetings.
The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was sung with great energy and unction —
‘ Die on the field of battle,
Die on the field of battle,
Glory in my soul.’
Another special favourite had oft repeated the words —
‘Oh, I’m going to glory — won’t you come along with me?
Don’t you see the angels beck’ning, and a calling me away?
Don’t you see the golden city and the everlasting day?
There were others which made incessant mention of ‘Jordan’s banks,’ and ‘Canaan’s fields,’ and the ‘New Jerusalem for the negro mind, impassioned and imaginative, always attaches itself to hymns and expressions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and, as they sung, some laughed, and some cried, and some clapped hands, or shook hands rejoicingly with each other, as if they had fairly gained the other side of the river.
Various exhortations or relations of experience followed, and intermingled with the singing. One old grey-headed woman, long past work, but much revered as a sort of chronicle of the past, rose, and leaning on her staff, said —
‘Well, chil’en! Well, I’m mighty glad to hear ye all and see ye all once more, ‘cause I don’t know when I’ll be gone to glory; but I’ve done got ready, chil’en; ‘pears like I’d got my little bundle all tied up, and my bonnet on, jest a waitin’ for the stage to come along and take me home; sometimes, in the night, I think I hear the wheels a rattling, and I’m looking-out all the time; now you jest be ready too, for I tell ye all, chil’en,’ she said, striking her staff hard on the floor, ‘dat are glory is a mighty thing! It’s a mighty thing, chil’en — you don’no nothing about it — it’s wonderful.’ And the old creature sat down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome, while the whole circle struck up —
‘Oh, Canaan, bright Canaan,
I’m bound for the land of Canaan.’
Mas’r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation, often interrupted by such exclamations as. ‘The sakes now!” Only hear that!’
‘Jest think on’t!’
‘Is all that a comin’ sure enough?’
George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religious things by his mother, finding himself an object of general admiration, threw in expositions of his own, from time to time, with a commendable seriousness and gravity, for which he was admired by the young, and blessed by the old; and it was agreed, on all hands, that a ‘minister couldn’t lay it off better than he did that ‘’twas reely ‘mazin’!’
Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters in the neighbourhood. Having naturally an organization in which the morale was strongly predominant, together with a greater breadth and cultivation of mind than obtained among his companions, he was looked up to with great respect, as a sort of minister among them; and the simple, hearty, sincere style of his exhortations might have edified even better educated persons. But it was in prayer that he especially excelled. Nothing could exceed the touching simplicity, the child-like earnestness of his prayer, enriched with the language of Scripture, which seemed so entirely to have wrought itself into his being as to have become a part of himself, and to drop from his lips unconsciously; in the language of a pious old negro, he ‘prayed right up.’ And so much did his prayer always work on the devotional feelings of his audiences, that there seemed often a danger that it would be lost altogether in the abundance of the responses which broke out everywhere around him.
* * * The foregoing chapter is extracted from Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a book written by Mrs. Stowe in 1852, and which we would strongly advise all our young readers to peruse. Written in the best style of the distinguished authoress, this work contains a most vivid and powerful portrayal of the horrors and cruelties of the infamous institution of Slavery — an institution now happily abolished. Uncle Tom’s Cabin made a profound sensation throughout the whole civilised world; and by its influence on the public mind, contributed, in no small degree, towards hastening the removal of the yoke from the poor slave.
FRANKNESS.
HERE is one kind of frankness, which is the result of perfect unsuspiciousness, and which requires a measure of ignorance of the world and of life: this kind appeals to our generosity and tenderness. There is another, which is the frankness of a strong but pure mind, acquainted with life, clear in its discrimination, and upright in its intention, yet above disguise or concealment: this kind excites respect The first seems to proceed simply from impulse, the second from impulse and reflection united; the first proceeds, in a measure, from ignorance, the second from knowledge; the first is born from an undoubting confidence in others, the second from a virtuous and well-grounded reliance in oneself.
&n
bsp; It was said of Alice H — that she had the mind of a man, the heart of a woman, and the face of an angel — a combination that all my readers will think peculiarly happy.
There never was a woman who was so unlike the mass of society in her modes of thinking and acting, yet so generally popular. But the most remarkable thing about her was her proud superiority to all disguise, in thought, word, and deed. She pleased you; for she spoke out a hundred things that you would conceal, and spoke them with a dignified assurance that made you wonder that you had ever hesitated to say them yourself. Nor did this unreserve appear like the weakness of one who could not conceal, or like a determination to make war on the forms of society. It was rather a calm, well-guided integrity, regulated by a just sense of propriety; knowing when to be silent, but speaking the truth when it spoke at all.
Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled superficial observers into supposing themselves fully acquainted with her real character long before they were, as the beautiful transparency of some lakes is said to deceive the eye as to their depth; yet the longer you knew her, the more variety and compass of character appeared through the same transparent medium. But you may just visit Miss Alice for half an hour to-night, and judge for yourselves. You may walk into this little parlour. There sits Miss Alice on that sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves into a satin dress, in which peculiarly angelic employment she may persevere till we have finished another sketch.
Do you see that pretty little lady, with sparkling eyes, elastic form, and beautiful hand and foot, that is sitting opposite to her? She is a belle; the character is written in her face — it sparkles from her eye — it dimples in her smile, and pervades the whole woman’
But there — Alice has risen, and is gone to the mirror, and is arranging the finest auburn hair in the world in the most tasteful manner. The little lady watches every motion as comically as a kitten watches a cotton-ball.
‘It is all in vain to deny it, Alice — you are really anxious to look pretty this evening,’ said she.
‘I certainly am,’ said Alice, quietly.
‘Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A. and Mr. B.,’ said the little accusing angel.
‘Certainly I do,’ said Alice, as she twisted her fingers in a beautiful curl.
‘Well, I would not tell of it, Alice, if I did.’
‘Then you should not ask me,’ said Alice.
‘I declare! Alice!’
‘And what do you declare?’
‘I never saw such a girl as you are!’
‘Very likely,’ said Alice, stooping to pick up a pin.
‘Well, for my part,’ said the little lady, ‘ I never would take any pains to make anybody like me — particularly a gentleman.’
‘I would,’ said Alice, ‘ if they would not like me without.’
‘Why, Alice, I should not think you were so fond of admiration.’
‘I like to be admired very much,’ said Alice, returning to the sofa, ‘and I suppose everybody else does.’
‘I don’t care about admiration,’ said the little lady.
‘I would be as well satisfied that people should not like me as that they should.’
‘Then, cousin, I think it’s a pity we all like you so well,’ said Alice, with a good-humoured smile. If Miss Alice had penetration, she never made a severe use of it—’
‘But really, cousin,’ said the little lady, ‘ I should not think such a girl as you would think anything about dress, or admiration, and all that.’
‘I don’t know what sort of a girl you think I am,’ said Alice; ‘but, for my own part, I only pretend to be a common human being, and am not ashamed of common human feelings. If God has made us so that we love admiration, why should we not honestly say so? I love it — you love it — everybody loves it; and why should not everybody say it?’
‘Why, yes,’ said the little lady, ‘I suppose everybody has — has a — a general love for admiration. I am willing to acknowledge that I have; but—’
‘But you have no love for it in particular,’ said Alice, ‘I suppose you mean to say; that is just the way the matter is commonly disposed of. Everybody is willing to acknowledge a general wish for the good opinion of others, but half the world are ashamed to own it when it comes to a particular case. Now I have made up my mind, that if it is correct in general, it is correct in particular, and I mean to own it both ways,’
‘But, somehow, it seems mean!’ said the little lady.
‘It is mean to live for it, to be selfishly engrossed in it, but not mean to enjoy it when it comes, or even to seek it, if we neglect no higher interest in doing so. All that God made us to feel is dignified and pure, unless we pervert it.’
‘But, Alice, I never heard any person speak out so frankly as you do.’
‘Almost all that is innocent and natural may be spoken out; and as for that which is not innocent and natural, it ought not even to be thought.’
‘But can everything be spoken that may be thought?’ said the laughing lady.
‘No; we have an instinct which teaches us to be silent sometimes; but, if we speak at all, let it be in simplicity and sincerity.’
‘Now, for instance, Alice,’ said the lady, ‘it is very innocent and natural, as you say, to think this, that, and the other good thing of yourself, especially when everybody is telling you of it; now, would you speak the truth if any one asked you on this point?’
‘If it were a person who had a right to ask, and if it were a proper time and place, I would,’ said Alice.
‘Well, then,’ said the bright lady, ‘I ask you, Alice, in this very proper time and place, do you think that you are handsome?’
‘Now, I suppose you expect me to make a curtsey to every chair in the room before I answer,’ said Alice; ‘ but, dispensing with that ceremony, I will tell you fairly, I think I am.’
‘Do you think that you are good?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Alice.
‘Well, but do not you think you are better than most people?’
‘As far as I can tell, I think I am better than some people; but really, cousin, I do not trust my own judgment in this matter,’ said Alice.
‘Well, Alice, one more question. Do you think James Martyrs likes you or me best?’
‘I do not know,’ said Alice.
‘I did not ask you what you knew, but what you thought,’ said the lady; ‘you must have some thought about it?’
‘Well, then, I think he likes me best,’ said Alice.
Just then the door opened, and in walked the identical James Martyrs. Alice blushed, looked a little comical, and went on with her sewing, while the little lady began —
‘Really, Mr. James, I wish you had come a minute sooner, to hear Alice’s confessions.’
‘What has she confessed?’ said James.
‘Why, that she is handsomer and better than some folks.’
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said James.
‘Oh, that’s not all; she wants to look pretty, and loves to be admired, and all—’
‘It sounds very much like her,’ said James, looking at Alice.
‘Oh, but besides that,’ said the lady, ‘ she has been preaching a discourse in justification of vanity and self-love—’
‘And next time you shall take notes when I preach,’ said Alice; ‘for I don’t think your memory is remarkably happy.’
‘You see, James,’ said the lady, ‘that Alice makes it a point to say the whole truth when she speaks at all, and I have been puzzling her with questions. I really wish you would ask her some, and see what she will say. But, mercy! there is Uncle C — come to take me to ride. I must run.’ And off flew the little humming-bird, leaving James and Alice tête-à-tête.
‘There really is one question,’ said James, clearing his voice.
Alice looked up.
‘There is one question, Alice, which I wish you would answer.’
Alice did not inquire what the question was, but began to look
very solemn; and just then the door was shut — and so I never knew what it was that Alice’s friend James wanted to be enlightened about
HUM, THE SON OF BUZ.
AT Rye Beach, during our summer’s vacation, there came, as there always will to seaside visitors, two or three cold, chilly, rainy days — days when the skies that long had not rained a drop seemed suddenly to bethink themselves of their remissness, and to pour down water, not by drops, but by pailfuls. The chilly wind blew and whistled, the water dashed along the ground, and careered in foamy rills along the roadside, and the bushes bent beneath the constant flood. It was plain that there was to be no sea-bathing on such a day, no walks, no rides; and so, shivering and drawing our blanket-shawls close about us, we sat down to the window to watch the storm outside. The rose-bushes under the window hung dripping under their load of moisture, each spray shedding a constant shower on the spray below it. On one of these lower sprays, under the perpetual drip, what should we see but a poor little humming-bird, drawn up into the tiniest shivering ball, and clinging with a desperate grasp to his uncomfortable perch! A humming-bird we knew him to be at once, though his feathers were so matted and glued down by the rain that he looked not much bigger than a honey-bee, and as different as possible from the smart, pert, airy little character that we had so often seen flirting with the flowers. He was evidently a humming-bird in adversity, and whether he ever would hum again looked to us exceedingly doubtful. Immediately, however, we sent out to have him taken in. When the friendly hand seized him, he gave a little faint watery squeak, evidently thinking that his last hour was come, and that grim Death was about to carry him off to the land of dead birds What a time we had reviving him, — holding the little wet thing in the warm hollow of our hands, and feeling him shiver and palpitate! His eyes were fast closed; his tiny claws, which looked slender as cobwebs, were knotted close to his body, and it was long before one could feel the least motion in them. Finally, to our great joy, we felt a brisk little kick, and then a flutter of wings, and then a determined peck of the beak, which showed that there was some bird left in him yet, and that he meant at any rate to find out where he was.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 569