Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, Original Edition | Liberty - Chapter 9

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Dream Audio Books presents Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet beecher Stowe,
chapter nine, 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 cozy parlor, and
glittered on the sides of the tea cups and well
brightened teapot. As Senator Bird was drawing off his boots

(00:23):
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. Missus Bird, looking the
very picture of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the table,
ever and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number of
frolics and juveniles who were effervescing in all those modes

(00:45):
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 mustn'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 tonight, said she

(01:06):
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 a night and have a little
comfort at home. I'm tired to death and my head aches.
Missus 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,

(01:29):
no doctoring. A coup 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,

(01:49):
And what have they been doing in the Senate? Now?
It was a very unusual thing for gentle little missus
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.
Mister Bird therefore opened his eyes in surprise and said,
not very much of importance. Well, but is it true

(02:13):
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 didn't think any Christian legislature would pass it. Why, Mary,
you are getting to be a politician all at once,
No nonsense. I wouldn't give a flip for all your
politics generally, but I think this is something downright cruel

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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

(02:57):
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 those poor creatures a night,
does it, And to give them something comfortable to eat
and a few old clothes, and send them quietly about
their business. Why, yes, my dear, that would be aiding
in a betting. You know, missus Bird was a timid,

(03:20):
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 size 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

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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

(04:04):
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 defenseless kitten. I'll

(04:28):
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 tell you what he'd say,

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we boys never stoned another kitten. On the present occasion,
missus 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 in Christian you won't shoot me now, Mary,

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if I say I do, I never could have thought
it of you, John. He didn'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.

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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 mustn't suffer our feelings to run away with our judgment.

(05:56):
You must consider it's 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.

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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 around to
do as He bids us. Now listen to me, Mary,
and I can state to you a very clear argument
to show. Oh nonsense, John, you can talk all night,
but you wouldn't do it. I put it to you, John,

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would you now turn away a poor, shivering, hungry creature
from your door 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

(07:03):
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

(07:24):
to wipe his glasses. Missus Bird, seeing the defenseless 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 maybe you'd take her
up and put her in jail, wouldn't you. You would

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make a great hand at that. Of course it would
be a very painful duty, began mister Bird in a
moderate tone. Duty, John, don't use that word. You know.
It isn'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,

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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,

(08:26):
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 round and round a plain right thing,
and you don't believe 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
wouldn't do it any sooner than I. At this critical juncture,

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Old Cudjo, the black man of all work, put his
head in at the door and wished missus would come
into the kitchen, And our senator, tolerably relieved, looked after
his little wife with a whis whimsical mixture of amusement
and vexation and seating himself in the armchair, began to
read the papers. After a moment, his wife's voice was
heard at the door in a quick, earnest tone. John, John,

(09:12):
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 stalking 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

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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 Cudjo had got the boy

(09:58):
on his knee and was busy pulling off his shoes
and stockings and chafing his little cold feet. Sure now,
if she ain't a sight to behold, said old Dinah,
compassionately peers liked. Was the heat that made her faint.
She was toalible pert when she come in and asked
if she couldn't warm herself here spell And I was
just to ask in here, where's she come from? And

(10:21):
she fainted right down? Never done much hard work, yess,
by the looks of her hands, poor creature, said missus
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, oh
my Harry, have they got him? The boy at this

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jumped from Cudjoe's knee, and running to her side, put
up his arms. Oh he's here, he's here, she exclaimed.
Oh ma'am, she said wildly to missus Bird, do protect us,
don't let them get him. Nobody shall hurt you here,
poor woman, said missus Bird encouragingly. You are safe. Don't

(11:03):
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
missus Bird, the poor woman was in time rendered more calm.
A temporary bed was provided for her on the settle

(11:23):
near the fire, and after a short time she fell
into a heavy slumber, with a 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

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beguiled of her vigilant hold. Mister and missus 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 missus Bird busied herself with her knitting work, and
mister pretended to be reading the paper. I wonder who
and what she is, said mister Bird at last, as

(12:06):
he laid it down. When she wakes up and feels
a little rested, we will see, said missus Bird. I say, wife,
said mister Bird, after musing in silence over his newspaper. Well, dear,
she couldn't wear one of your gowns. Could she buy
any letting down or such matter? She seems to be
rather larger than you are. A quite perceptible smile glimmered

(12:29):
on Missus Bird's face as she answered, we'll see another pause,
and mister Bird again broke out. I say, wife, well,
what now? Why there's that old bombas and 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

(12:52):
to say that the woman was awake and wanted to
see missus Mister and Missus 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.

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Did you want me? Said Missus 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
forlorn and imploring expression that the tears came into the
little woman's eyes. You needn't be afraid of anything. We

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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 mister Bird, taking up the
interrogatory tonight, how did you come? I crossed on the ice?
Crossed on the ice, said every one present, Yes, said

(13:58):
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 missus said kudjo.
The ice is all in broken up blocks, a swingin'
and teeterin' up and down the river. I know it was,
I know it, said she wildly. But I did it.

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I wouldn't have thought I could. I didn't think I
could get over, but I didn't care. I could but
die if I didn'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 mister Bird, Yes, sir, I belonged to a man
in Kentucky. Was he unkind to you, No, sir, he

(14:42):
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
Missus Bird with a keen, scrutinizing glance, and it did
not gape her that she was dressed in deep mourning. Ma'am.

(15:03):
She said, suddenly, have you ever lost a child? The
question was unexpected, and it was thrust on a new wound,
for it was only a month since a darling child
of the family had been laid in the grave. Mister
Bird turned round and walked to the window, and Missus
Bird burst into tears, but recovering her voice, she said,

(15:24):
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 him 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,

(15:47):
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 couldn't stand it, ma'am. I knew
I never should be good for anything if they did.
And when I knew the papers, the papers were signed
and he was sold, I took him and came off

(16:09):
in the night, and they chased me. The man had
brought him and some of masses folks, and they were
coming down right behind me, and I heard him. 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

(16:31):
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 disconsolately
into the skirts of their mother's gown, where they were
sobbing and wiping their eyes and noses to their heart's content.

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Missus Bird had her face fairly hidden in her pocket handkerchief,
and old Dinah, with tears streaming down her black, honest face,
was acculating Lord would have mercy on us. With all
the fervor of a camp meeting, while old Kudjo, rubbing
his eyes very hard with his cuffs and making a
most uncommon variety of wry faces, occasionally responded in the

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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

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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 anyway, And my mistress was kind.

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But they couldn'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 couldn't help himself, and that
the papers were all drawn. And then it was I

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took him and left my home and came away. I
knew twas no use of my trying to live if
they did it, For it appears 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

(18:39):
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,
subtle depth of anguish in her large dark eye that
spoke of something far otherwise. And where do you mean

(19:01):
to go, my poor woman, said missus 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 missus Bird's face. Poor thing, said missus Bird, involuntarily,
is a very great way off, think, said the woman earnestly,

(19:24):
much further than you think, poor child, said missus 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.
Missus Bird and her husband re entered the parlor. She

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sat down in her little rocking chair before the fire,
swaying thoughtfully to and fro. Mister 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

(20:08):
scent bright and early to morrow morning. If twas only
the woman, she could lie quiet till it was over.
But that little chap can't be kept 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

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night to night how is it possible where too? Well?
I know pretty well where too, 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

(20:50):
at last, beginning to tug at his bootstraps 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 low for aught, I see, hang it all. And
he drew the other boot anxiously on and looked out
of the window. Now, little missus Bird was a discreet woman,

(21:12):
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

(21:36):
Van Tromp, who 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 isn't found in a hurry. There she'd
be safe enough. But the plague of the thing is
nobody could drive a carriage there tonight. But me, why not?

(21:58):
Cutjo is an excellent aye, aye, 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 urns to take. And so you see
there's no help for it. Cudjo must put in the
horses as quietly as may be, about twelve o'clock, and

(22:21):
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

(22:42):
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
decided the clever fellow to get such a pretty creature

(23:03):
into such a passionate admiration of him. And so what
could he do but walk off somberly 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 poor little Henry's so saying,

(23:26):
he turned quickly on his feet and shut the door
after him. His wife opened the little bedroom door adjoining
her room, and taking the candle, set it down on
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 pause, while
two boys who boylike had followed close on her heels,

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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? Missus Bird slowly opened the drawer.

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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 that were peeping from the folds of a paper.
There was a toy horse, and a wagon, a top,
a ball, memorials gathered with many a tear and many
a heartbreak. She sat down by the drawer, and, leaning

(24:33):
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. You
going to give away those things, my dear boys, she said,

(24:56):
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 heartbroken and sorrowful than I am. And I hope
God will send his blessings with them. There are in

(25:19):
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 distress. Among
such was the delicate woman who sits there by the lamp,
dropping slow tears while she prepares the memorials of her

(25:42):
own lost one for the outcast wanderer. After a while,
missus Bird opened a wardrobe, and, taking from thence a
plain serviceable dress or two, sat down busily to her
work table, and, with needle, scissors and thimble at hand,
quietly comit hence the letting down process which her husband
had recommended, and continued busily at it till the old

(26:06):
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. Missus
Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had collected in
a small plain trunk and locking it. Desired her husband

(26:26):
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. Mister Bird
hurried her into the carriage, and Missus Bird pressed on
after her to the carriage steps. Eliza leaned out of
the carriage and put out her hand, a hand as

(26:47):
soft and beautiful as was given in return. She fixed
her large, dark eyes full of earnest meaning, on Missus
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.

(27:09):
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 a betters our good senator in his
native state had not been exceeded by any of his

(27:31):
brethren at Washington in the sort of eloquence which has
won for them immortal renown. How sublimely he had sat
with his hands in his pocket 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

(27:53):
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,

(28:14):
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 defenseless 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,

(28:37):
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 exalt
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

(28:57):
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

(29:19):
political sinner, he was in a fair way to expiate
it by his knight'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 suited to
the manufacture of mud. And the road was an Ohio
railroad of the good old times. And pray, what sort

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of a road may that be? Says some Eastern traveler
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,

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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,

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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,

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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.

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After various ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as the Senator
is losing all patients, 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 knows quite unceremoniously, and he considers himself fairly extinguished.

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Child cries, and Cudjo on the outside delivers animated addresses
to the horses who are kicking and floundering and 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 the back seat, his elbows encountering
her bonnet and both her feet being jammed into his hat,

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which flies off in the concussion. After a few moments,
the slough is past and the horses stop panting. The
Senator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet and
hushes her child, and they brace themselves for what is
yet to come For a while only the continuous bump bump,
intermingled just by way of variety with divers side plunges

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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, Kudjo appears
at the door. Please, sir, it's powerful bad spot this year.

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I don't know how we's to get clear out. I'm
a thinkin we'll have to be gettin' rails. The Senator
despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm foothold down
goes one foot in immeasurable depth. He tries to pull
it up, loses his balance and tumbles over into the mud,
and is fished out in very despairing condition by Kujo.

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But we forbear out of sympathy to our reader's bones
Western travelers who have beguiled the midnight hour in the
interesting process of pulling down rail fences to pry their
carriages out of mud holes. We'll have a respectful and
mournful sympathy with our unfortunate hero, we beg them to
drop a silent tear and pass on. It was full

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late in the night when the carriage emerged, dripping and
bespattered out of the creek and stood at the door
of a large farmhouse. 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

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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 day's 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 travelers with a dismal

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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 Tromp was one quite a considerable
landowner and slave owner in the state of Kentucky, having

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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

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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

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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.

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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 him.
Give our respects to 'em, said John. Tell em it's
no matter how soon they call. Make no kinder difference

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to us, said John, running his fingers through the shock
of hair that thatched his head, and burst 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,

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opened the door of a small bedroom 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 needn't be a bitter, feared let
who will come here. I'm up to all that sort

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of thing, he said, pointing to two or three goodly
rifles over the mantelpiece. And most people that know me
know that twouldn't be healthy to try to get anybody
out of my house when I'm agin it, so now
you just go to sleep now, as quiet as if
your mother was a rockin ye, said he as he
shut the door. Why this is an uncommon handsome one,

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said he to the senator. Ah, well, Hanslun's 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. Oh oh ah, nah, I want to know,
said the good man pitifully. Show now, show that's nature. Now,

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poor critter, hunted down now like a deer, hunted down
just for having natural feelin's, and doin what no kind
o mother could help a doin. I tell you what,
these here things make me come the nis to swearin
now almost anything, said honest John, as he wiped his
eyes with the back of a great freckled yellow hand.

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I tell you what, stranger. It was years and years
before I'd joined the church, cause the ministers round in
our parts used to preach that the Bible went in
for these ear cuttings up and I couldn't be up
to him with their Greek and Hebrew, And so I
took up again em Bible and all. I never joined
the church till I found a minister that was up

(38:04):
to him, all in Greek and all that, and he said,
right the contrary, And then I took right hold and
joined the church. I did now, fact, said John, who
had been all this time uncorking some very frisky bottle cider,
which at this juncture he presented. Ye'd better just put
up here now till daylight, said he heartily, And I'll

(38:25):
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'n your road
you came on. That road's mighty bad. John equipped himself,

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and with a lantern in hand, was soon seen guiding
the Senator's carriage towards the 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. Aye aye, said John, with
equal conciseness. They shook hands and parted. End of chapter nine,

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