Chapter 1

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCLVI. OCTOBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.

CONTENTS.

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN, 393

RIGHT DIVINE, 424

LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.–PART X., 426

NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.–NO. III., 451

RAIL AND SADDLE IN SPAIN, 475

THE WANDERER, 488

THACKERAY’S LECTURES–SWIFT, 494

NOTE TO THE ARTICLE ON THE NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE, 518

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=BLACKWOOD’S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.=

No. CCCCLVI. OCTOBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.

UNCLE TOM’S CABIN.[1]

Let us imagine one of our critical successors of a century
hence–that is, in the month of October 1953–sitting musingly
before a copy of a work called UNCLE TOM’S CABIN, which a few days
previously he had taken down by chance from one of the least-used
shelves of his library. May one also amuse one’s imagination by a
picture of the possible state of things then existing on the other
side of the Atlantic, by the light of which our shadowy friend of
1953 has read the work which his substantial one of 1853 has just
laid down?

–The present United States of America, after having been, perhaps,
more than once split asunder and soldered together again–or the
whole, or a large portion voluntarily reannexed to the mother
country, and by and by again detached–after these and other,
possibly more or less sudden, violent, and bloody vicissitudes–have
become a great Empire, under the stern, but salutary, one-willed
sway of the Emperor of America: his majesty a jet black, who had
shown consummate and unexpected high qualities for acquiring and
retaining the fear and submission of millions of the stormiest
tempers of mankind; but his lovely empress a white. He has an
immense army devoted to his person and will, composed of men of
every complexion–from black, through copper-middle tints, down to
white; and correspondingly diversified are his banners, but black, of
course, the predominant: a quadroon being commander-in-chief. As for
his majesty’s civil service, he has a coal-black chancellor, equally
at home in the profoundest mysteries of white and black letter; a
mulatto minister of instruction, and a white secretary of state;
black and white clergy, and a similarly constituted bar–here a big
black face frowning out of a white wig, and there a little white
face, grinning out of a black wig, with black and white bands, and
gowns varied _ad libitum_. And the laws which they are concerned in
administering, accord with these harmonious diversities–it being,
for instance, enacted, under heavy penalties, that no black shall, by
gesture, speech, or otherwise, presume to ridicule a white because of
his colour, nor, _vice versâ_, shall a white affect to disparage a
black because of his complexion; that the emperor and empress shall
always be of different colours, and that the succession to the throne
shall alternate between black and white, or mulatto, members of the
imperial family. By this and other provisions have been secured a
complete fusion between North and South, between black and white,
glitteringly typified by intermingled gems in the imperial crown;
the central one being the identical black diamond that figured in
the famous Exhibition in Great Britain in 1851, and presented to the
emperor by one of the descendants of her Majesty Queen Victoria,
then on the British throne! “To this _complexion_” shall it be that
matters have “come at last?”

Or will our sturdy cousins of 1953 be still republican, a united
republic, but with offices, honours, rights, and privileges, equally
distributed, as in our fancied empire, among those of every shade of
colour? Or, after a fearful succession of struggles between black and
white, … the … is predominant; … slavery, after a … sang–
… or a noble spontaneous….[2]

From a preliminary dissertation prefixed to the book, our critic of
1953 learns that it excited, almost immediately on its appearance,
a prodigious sensation among all classes, both in Europe and
America; that both sexes, high and low, young and old, literate and
illiterate, vulgar and refined, phlegmatic and excitable, shed tears
over it, and wrote and talked about it everywhere; that, within a
few months’ time, impressions of it were multiplied by millions,
and in most languages of the civilised world. That its writer, an
American woman, immediately came over to England, and made her
appearance in public assemblies, called in honour of her; and she was
also “lionised” [a word explained, in a long note, as indicating a
custom prevalent in that day, among weak persons, of running after
any notorious person weak enough to appear pleased with it] among
the fashionables and philanthropists of the day, but preserved,
nevertheless, amidst it all, true modesty of demeanour, and silence
amidst extravagant eulogy. Inflamed with curiosity, our shadowy
successor sits down to peruse a work–then possibly little, if ever,
mentioned–anxious to see what could have produced such a marvellous
effect, in the middle of the intelligent nineteenth century, on
all classes of readers; and whether it produced permanent results,
or passed away as a nine days’ wonder. Having at length closed the
pages of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, and judged it according to the critical
canons of 1953, will he deem it adequate to have produced such
effects? _What estimate will he form of our intellectual calibre?_

We cannot tell, and shall not attempt to conjecture. Dismissing,
therefore, but for a while only, the imaginary occupant of our
critical chair a century hence, let us say for ourselves, that
though our silence, and that of one or two quarterly contemporaries,
may have excited notice, both in America and this country, we have
been by no means indifferent spectators of the reception which this
singularly-successful book has met with; regarding it as one of
those sudden phenomena in literature, demanding, even, a deliberate
consideration of cause and effect. We apprehend no one will doubt
that, to excite such attention and emotion among all classes of
readers, in both hemispheres, as this work has excited, it must
possess _something_ remarkable; and what that is, it will be our
endeavour to determine. We ourselves never read this work till within
the last month, and then as a matter of mere critical curiosity,
uninfluenced by the past excitement of others, and the favourable
and unfavourable opinions which we heard expressed as to the merits
of the work. If we could have been biassed at all, it would have
been rather against, than in favour of, a writer who had been over
persuaded by her friends to come to this country, for the purpose of
making a sort of public appearance, at the moment that admiration
of her work was at fever height. Nothing could palliate such an
indiscretion on the part of this lady’s advisers, in the eyes of a
fastidious Englishman, but the belief that she was a simple-minded
enthusiastic crusader against American slavery, considering that
the totally unexpected celebrity of her work had afforded her an
opportunity of accelerating a European movement, in a holy cause,
by her personal presence. Criticism, however, ought not to be
influenced by petty disturbing forces like these, nor will ours.
We shall judge _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ by its own intrinsic merits or
demerits–occasionally looking for the light which she has thought
proper to reflect upon it from its companion volume, “THE KEY.”

_Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ is a remarkable book unquestionably; and, upon
the whole, we are not surprised at its prodigious success, even as a
mere literary performance; but whether, after all, it will have any
direct effect upon the dreadful INSTITUTION at which it is aimed, may
be regarded as problematical. Of one thing we are persuaded–that
its author, as she has displayed in this work undoubted genius, in
some respects of a higher order than any American predecessor or
contemporary, is also a woman of unaffected and profound piety, and
an ardent friend of the unhappy black. Every word in her pages issues
glistening and warm from the mint of woman’s love and sympathy,
refined and purified by Christianity. We never saw in any other
work, so many and such sudden irresistible appeals to the reader’s
heart–appeals which, moreover, only a wife and a mother could
make. One’s heart throbs, and one’s eyes are suffused with tears
without a moment’s notice, and without anything like effort or
preparation on the writer’s part. We are, on the contrary, soothed
in our spontaneous emotion by a conviction of the writer’s utter
artlessness; and when once a gifted woman has satisfied her most
captious reader that such is the case, she thenceforth leads him on,
with an air of loving and tender triumph, a willing captive to the
last. There are, indeed, scenes and touches in this book which no
living writer, that we know of, can surpass, and perhaps none even
equal.

No English man or woman, again, could have written it–no one, but
an actual spectator of the scenes described, or one whose life is
spent with those moving among them; scenes scarce appreciable by
FREE English readers–fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, brothers
and sisters. We can hardly _realise_ to ourselves human nature tried
so tremendously as, it seems, is only adumbrated in these pages. An
Englishman’s soul swells at the bare idea of such submission to the
tyrannous will of man over his fellow-man, as the reader of this
volume becomes grievously familiar with; and yet we are assured by
Mrs Stowe that she has given us only occasional glimpses of the
indescribable horrors of slavery. To this part of the subject,
however, we shall return. Let us speak first, and in only general
terms, of the literary characteristics of the author, as displayed in
her work.

Mrs Stowe is unquestionably a woman of GENIUS; and that is a word
which we always use charily: regarding genius as a thing _per
se_–different from talent, in its highest development, altogether,
and in kind. Quickness, shrewdness, energy, intensity, may, and
frequently do accompany, but do not constitute genius. Its divine
spark is the direct and special gift of God: we cannot completely
analyse it, though we may detect its presence, and the nature of many
of its attributes, by its action; and the skill of high criticism is
requisite, in order to distinguish between the feats of genius and
the operations of talent. Now, we imagine that no person of genius
can read _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, and not feel in glowing contact with
genius–generally gentle and tender, but capable of rising, with its
theme, into very high regions of dramatic power. This Mrs Stowe has
done several times in the work before us–exhibiting a passion, an
intensity, a subtle delicacy of perception, a melting tenderness,
which are as far out of the reach of mere talent, however well
trained and experienced, as the prismatic colours are out of the
reach of the born blind. But the genius of Mrs Stowe is of that kind
which instinctively addresses itself to the Affections; and though
most at home with the gentler, it can be yet fearlessly familiar
with the fiercest passions which can agitate and rend the human
breast. With the one she can exhibit an exquisite tenderness and
sympathy; watching the other, however, with stern but calm scrutiny,
and delineating both with a truth and simplicity, in the one case
touching, in the other really _terrible_.

“_Free_ men of the North, and Christians,” says she, in her own
vigorous and earnest way, “cannot know _what slavery is_…. From
this arose a desire,” on the author’s part, “to exhibit it in a
_living dramatic reality_. She has endeavoured to show it fairly in
its best and its worst phases. In its _best_ aspect, she has perhaps
been successful; but oh! who shall say what yet remains untold in
that _valley and shadow of death_ that lies on the other side?…
The writer has only given a faint shadow–a dim picture–of the
anguish and despair that are at this very moment riving thousands of
hearts, shattering thousands of families, and driving a helpless and
sensitive race to frenzy and despair.”

Without going further, the beautiful, accomplished, but ruined and
heart-broken slave Cassy–the bought, abhorring, and ultimately
discarded mistress of the miscreant Legree, and whose heart is
full of despair and murder towards him–affords many instances
of both kinds, the tender and the terrible. Her successor in the
_affections_! of the monster, is the lovely young slave Emmeline, of
but fifteen summers! and Cassy obtains a great ascendancy over her,
winning her love by the story of her own indignities and bereavements.

‘“What use will freedom be to me?” says Cassy, when they
are whispering together in their place of concealment,
where they lie like a couple of hunted hares, momentarily
hidden from the hounds–“Can it give me back my children,
or make me what I used to be?”

There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice as
she spoke. Emmeline, in her childlike simplicity, was half
afraid of the dark words of Cassy. She looked perplexed,
but made no answer. She only took her hand with a gentle
caressing movement.

“_Don’t!_” said Cassy, trying to draw it away,–(observe,
she only _tries_!)–“_you’ll get me to loving you! and I
swore never to love anything again!_”

“Poor Cassy!… _I’ll_ be like a daughter to you!… I
shall love you whether you love me or not!”

The gentle childlike spirit conquered. Cassy sate down by
her, put her arm round her neck, stroked her soft brown
hair; and Emmeline then wondered at the beauty of her
magnificent eyes, now soft with tears. “O Emmeline!” said
Cassy, “I’ve hungered for my children, and thirsted for
them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here! here,”
she exclaimed, striking her breast, “it’s all desolate! all
empty!”’

Of the terrible we have a thrilling, indeed a sickening instance,
in Cassy’s frenzied determination to murder the fiend Legree, whose
brandy she has drugged for the purpose–but we anticipate.

Occasionally, also, Mrs Stowe displays a fine perception of external
nature–irradiating her inanimate scenes with the rich hues of
imagination. At these, however, she generally looks through a sort
of solemn religious medium. Here, for instance, is a startlingly
suggestive picture. It is poor Uncle Tom, sitting at midnight,
exhausted and heart-broken, during a moment’s respite from the
wasting and cruel inflictions of slavery, and reading his Bible by
moonlight.

‘… Tom sate alone by the smouldering fire, that flickered
up redly in his face.

The silver fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, and
looked down, calm and silent, as God looks on the scene
of misery and oppression–looked calmly on the lone black
man, as he sate, with his arms folded, and his Bible on
his knee. “Is God here?” inquires he. ‘Ah,’ (proceeds the
author,) ‘how is it possible for the _untaught_ heart to
keep its faith unswerving, in the face of dire misrule,
and palpable unrebuked injustice? In that simple heart
waged a fierce conflict: the crushing sense of wrong,
the foreshadowing of a whole life of future misery, the
_wreck of all past hopes, mournfully tossing in the soul’s
sight, like dead corpses of wife, and child, and friend,
rising from the dark wave, and surging in the face of the
half-drowned mariner_? Ah, was it easy _here_ to believe
and hold fast the great password of Christian faith, that
_God_ IS, _and is the_ REWARDER _of them that diligently
seek him_?’

Here, again, is the lovely smile of early morning flung over the
monster Legree (poor Tom’s brutal master), as he wakes from a foul
debauch:–

‘Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room.
The morning star stood, with its solemn holy eye of light,
looking down on the man of sin, from out the brightening
sky. Oh, with what freshness, with what solemnity and
beauty, is each new day born! as if to say to insensate
man, “Behold! thou hast one more chance! _Strive_ for
immortal glory!” There is _no speech nor language_ where
this voice is not heard; but this bold bad man heard it
not. He awoke with an oath and a curse. What to him were
the gold and the purple, the daily miracle of morning? What
to him the sanctity of that star which the Son of God has
hallowed as his own emblem? Brute-like, _he saw without
perceiving_; and, stumbling forward, poured out a tumbler
of brandy, and drank half of it. “I’ve had a h–ll of a
night!” he said.’

’Twas somewhat different, that same morning, with his poor slave Tom,
waking bruised, wearied, and well-nigh spirit-broken.

‘The solemn light of dawn, the angelic glory of the
morning star, had looked in through the rude window of
the shed where Tom was lying; and, as if descending on
that star-beam, came the solemn words, _I am the root and
offspring of David, and the bright and morning star_….
Without shuddering or trembling, he heard the voice of his
persecutor as he drew near. “Well, my boy,” said Legree,
with a contemptuous kick, “how do you find yourself? Didn’t
I tell yer I could larn yer a thing or two? How do yer like
it, eh? How did yer whaling”–he had been fearfully flogged
over-night–“agree with yer, Tom? An’t quite so crank as
yer was last night? Ye couldn’t treat a poor sinner now to
a bit of a sermon, could yer, eh?”

Tom answered nothing.

“Get up, ye beast!” said Legree, kicking him again. This
was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint; and,
as Tom made efforts to do so, Legree laughed.’

These passages, taken at random, are highly characteristic of the
author of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, in more ways than one, as will by and
by be shown.

Up and down the book are to be found strewn, as it were, carelessly,
striking and grand reflections, evincing the deeply thoughtful
moralist, and profoundly convinced believer.

‘True–there was _another life_–a life which, once
believed in, _stands as a solemn significant figure before
the otherwise unmeaning ciphers of time, changing them to
orders of mysterious unknown value_.’

We have not met with this idea before; and it is very striking.
Again–

‘The gift to appreciate, and the sense to feel the finer
shades and relations of moral things, often seems an
attribute of those whose whole life shows a careless
disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, often
speak words more wisely descriptive of the true religious
sentiment, than another man whose whole life is governed by
it. In such minds, disregard of religion is a more fearful
treason–a more deadly sin.’

Again–

‘Oh! how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of
sleep!–that land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near
to the mystic scene of retribution!…

Legree felt a secret dislike to Tom–the native antipathy
of good to bad. He saw plainly that when (as was often the
case) his violence and brutality fell on the helpless, Tom
took notice of it; for _so subtle is the atmosphere of
opinion, that it will make itself_ FELT _without words; and
the opinion, even of a slave, may annoy a master_….

What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment!… A
righting of all the wrongs of ages!–a solving of all moral
problems, by an unanswerable wisdom.’

One of these problems–perhaps the greatest at present insoluble by
man–torments poor Tom.

‘It was strange that the religious peace and trust which
had upborne him hitherto should give way to tossings of
soul and despondent darkness. The gloomiest problem of this
mysterious life was constantly before his eyes: _souls
crushed and ruined, evil triumphant, and God silent!_ It
was weeks and months that Tom wrestled, in his own soul, in
darkness and sorrow.’

Which of _us_ cannot here sympathise with the poor, bruised, and
bleeding black?

Yet once more.

‘Is not this truly _feeling after God, and finding him_?
And may we not hope that the yearning, troubled, helpless
heart of man, pressed by the insufferable anguish of this
short life, or wearied by its utter vanity, never extends
its ignorant pleading to God in vain? Is not the veil which
divides us from an almighty and most merciful Father, much
thinner than we, in the pride of our philosophy, are apt
to imagine? And is it not the most worthy conception of
Him, to suppose that the more utterly helpless and ignorant
the human being is that seeks His aid, the more tender and
condescending will be His communication with that soul?’

Character is often drawn by our author with delicate discrimination;
and, at the same time, she almost as often exhibits a poverty and
crudeness in dealing with such subjects, which would be surprising,
but that it is evidently referrible to haste and inattention. Her
mind, too, is so intent upon the great, noble, and holy purpose of
her book, that she often does not give herself time to develop or
mature her own happiest conceptions. The momentary exigencies of her
story require the introduction of an additional figure; on which,
having paused for a moment to call up the image of one before her
mind’s eye, she forthwith gives a few strokes, possibly intending,
at a future time, to complete and retouch them; but that future time
never comes, for she has got into new scenes, and moves on, crowded
with new characters and associations. In this respect her book may
be compared to the _studio_ of a great painter, where the visitor
sees some pictures in all the splendour of their completeness, and
others in various stages of incompleteness–some exhibiting the
master’s hand, and others that of a hasty and unskilled workman; all
which may, perhaps, be visibly accounted for by the painter’s being
absorbed by some masterpiece, itself, however, only approaching
completeness. We feel bound, nevertheless, to express our opinion
that an additional solution of the matter is to be found in her
probably limited range of observation of actual life, at all events
of such life as Europeans can appreciate. In delineating the
character of slaves and the “slave-trader, kidnapper, negro-catcher,
negro-whipper,” as she herself groups them, she handles her pencil
with the confident ease of a master. “The writer,” says she herself,
at the close of her work, “has lived for many years on the frontier
line of slave states, and has had great opportunities of observation
among those who formerly were slaves.” To her sadly-familiar eye
“there are some things about these slaves which cannot lie: those
deep lines of patient sorrow upon the face–that attitude of
crouching and humble subjection–that sad habitual expression of
hope deferred in the eye–would tell their story, if the slave never
spoke.” We shall, however, presently have ample opportunities of
showing Mrs Stowe’s profound appreciation of the negro character;
one of a far more composite construction than any but a philosopher
might suppose, and also of great interest to those who are
contemplating _the future of the negro race_, as a large, though many
may unhappily deem it an unsightly element, in ascertaining the fates
of the human family. “This is an age of the world, truly,” says our
author, “when nations are trembling and convulsed. A mighty influence
is abroad, surging and heaving the world as with an earthquake. And,”
she asks, “is America safe? Every nation that carries in its bosom
great and unredressed Injustice, has in it the elements of this great
convulsion.”

While the pathos of Mrs Stowe is deep and pure, her _humour and
satire_ are genuine and racy, but quiet. Gloomy as is the prevalent
tone of her work, her reader’s feelings are discreetly relieved
by many little touches of quaint dry drollery. Master Shelby, for
instance, is a sharp youth of thirteen, the eldest son of Uncle Tom’s
first and kind-hearted master; and he has taken it in hand to teach
Tom (old enough to be almost his grandfather) his letters. Chloe is
Uncle Tom’s wife, and the cook of Mr Shelby; and it seems that she
is a capital cook, to boot, as Master Shelby has found out. He often
visits Uncle Tom’s cabin, to teach old Tom his letters–and also
partake of certain good things which Aunt Chloe used to prepare for
her favourite; who displays no little art in inflaming her ambition
by faintly undervaluing the culinary skill of one of her rivals,
a cook at a neighbouring plantation. The whole scene is admirably
sketched, and forms one of the earliest in the work. Excited to the
utmost, she prepares a delicious supper for Master George, who, it
will be seen, does it full justice.

‘By this time Master George had arrived at that
pass to which even a boy can come (under uncommon
circumstances)–_i. e._, when he could not eat another
morsel; and, therefore, he was at leisure to notice _the
pile of woolly heads and glistening eyes which were
regarding their operations hungrily from the opposite
corner_. [Who does not see the turgid youngster?–But one
does not dislike him; for] “Here!–you, Mose! Peto!” [said
he, addressing the young sables–the children of Uncle Tom
and Aunt Chloe]–breaking off liberal bits, and throwing
them at them–“You want some, don’t you?”’

One Black Sam, a friendly fellow-slave of Uncle Tom’s, is
unconsciously caught in the attitude of deeply considering the
interests of _number One_, as soon as he hears of the departure of
poor Uncle Tom, who has been suddenly sold to another master, leaving
a vacancy in his somewhat confidential office, which _some one_ must
supply. “One touch of” _selfishness_ “makes the whole world kin”–and
here is how it strikes our black brother.

‘Never did fall of any prime minister at court occasion
wider surges of sensation than the report of Tom’s fate
among his compeers on the place. It was the topic in every
mouth, everywhere; and nothing was done in the house or in
the field, but to discuss its probable results.

Black Sam, as he was called, from his being about three
shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place,
was revolving the matter profoundly in all its phases and
bearings, with a comprehensiveness of vision, and a strict
look-out to his own personal well-being, that would have
done credit (says good, sly Mrs Stowe) to any white patriot
at Washington.

“It’s an ill wind dat blows _nowhar_–dat ar a fact,”
said Sam, sententiously, giving an additional hoist to
his pantaloons, and adroitly substituting a long nail in
place of a missing suspender-button. “Yes, it’s an ill wind
blows nowhar,” he repeated. “Now, dar, _Tom’s_ down–wal,
’course der’s room for some nigger to be _up_; and why
not _dis_ nigger?–dat’s de idee! Tom, a-ridin’ round de
country–boots blacked–pass in his pocket–all grand as
Cuffee; who but he? Now, why shouldn’t Sam?–_dat’s_ what
_I_ want to know!”’

There are, however, many indications throughout the work of the
writer’s humorous powers being checked and restrained, either
purposely or unconsciously, as if from a severe sense of the purpose
with which she writes–as though before her mind’s eye was ever the
bleeding heart of the negro. We have an indistinct recollection of
more than one disposition, or rather juxta-position, of persons and
incidents most suggestive of _fun_: but they are suddenly discarded,
the reader breathlessly following the grave and ardent writer, over
whose pale countenance the smile had but furtively flickered for an
instant, like a glance of moonlight on a gloomy sea. Here is one
of the passages to which we allude. Mr St Clare and his heartless
lackadaisical wife are conversing about his newly-acquired slave,
Uncle Tom, for whom he feels no little regard; but she is speaking of
him in a disparaging, contemptuous tone.

‘“Tom isn’t a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I’ll
dare swear,” said St Clare. “He has a natural genius for
religion. I wanted the horses out early this morning, and
stole up to Tom’s _cubiculum_[3] there, over the stables,
and there I heard him holding a meeting by himself; and, in
fact, I haven’t heard anything quite _so savoury_ as Tom’s
prayer this some time. He put in for me with a zeal that
was quite apostolic.”

“Perhaps he guessed you were listening! I’ve heard of
_that_ trick before!”

“If he did he wasn’t very polite; for _he gave the Lord his
opinion of me pretty freely_! Tom seemed to think there
was decidedly room for improvement in me, and seemed very
earnest that I should be converted.”

“I hope you’ll lay it to heart,” said Miss Ophelia, (who is
the pious, simple-minded, conscientious, elderly spinster,
and cousin of Mr St Clare.)’

How much of the pious disinterested character of the poor slave, the
heartless distrust of his mistress, the humorous, good-natured levity
of his master, and the earnest goodness of Ophelia, does this quiet
touch reveal to us!

On another occasion, Mrs St Clare, who has no more intellect or
feeling than her thimble, or thread paper, is conversing with her
lovely little daughter, Eva, who is pleading with her mamma on behalf
of the poor little negress, Topsy (of whom more anon), and meekly
suggesting the possibility of Topsy’s being human! and consequently
capable of improvement.

‘“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 Mrs St Clare, 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 hasn’t been
talked to”–(not by the silly speaker, let our readers
understand, but by good Miss Ophelia aforesaid, for whom
poor Topsy has been _bought!_ good-humouredly by Mr St
Clare, simply to try whether moral and religious training
can make anything of the little sooty gnome)[4]–“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 has been, all the
time, till she came here!”

“Most likely,” said Mrs St Clare, 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, isn’t God her father, as much as ours? Isn’t
Jesus her Saviour?”

“Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody.–Where’s
my smelling-bottle?”’

This is very masterly. It has a sort of rich stillness of satire,
and, at the same time, a truthfulness and suggestiveness which make
the reader first admire the writer’s acute perception of character
and power of felicitous dialogue, and then pause and ponder the
state of mind and feeling revealed–that of frivolous, ignorant,
indifferent _acquiescence_!

The above extract incidentally indicates another excellence of Mrs
Stowe. Her dialogue is almost always admirable; brief, lively,
pointed, and characteristic–that is, when she does not, so to speak,
crowd too much sail upon it, in her intense anxiety to be didactic
and hortatory on the great subject on which her eyes are ever fixed.
When she yields to the promptings of her own power over character and
expression, she exhibits high dramatic capabilities. She perceives
a fine _situation_ with the unerring intuition of genius, and
inspires her characters with fitting sentiments, conferring upon
them appropriate eloquence. Akin to this is the easy strength of
her narrative. She hurries her reader along with her, breathless.
The flight and pursuit of poor Eliza and her child–the incidents
selected to heighten the interest in their fate–the introduction of
Marks and Tom Loker, and their interview with Haley–their encounter
at the rocky pass with George and his wife and child, are, in parts,
worthy of the pencil of Sir Walter Scott: but, it must be added,
that that consummate master of his art would never have drawn up
suddenly in his exciting course, to interpolate drivelling allusions
to Austria and the Hungarians, Poland, Ireland, and England–or tame
and even irritating moralisings at the very crisis of the adventure,
as is but too often the case with Mrs Stowe. But this very fault,
and a serious one to a reader of fiction it is, must be referred to
a cause infinitely and eternally honourable to the author–her pure
and noble purpose in writing the book. With our eye fixed on that
purpose, we will forgive her five times as many faults of style and
arrangement as she is fairly chargeable with.

“In every work regard the writer’s _end_.”

And in the application of this obviously just critical canon, we
are disposed to look, in the present case, with peculiar benignity
on miscarriages as to _means_. One or two of them, however, we must
lightly indicate (for we are in our critical chair) in addition to
those at which we have already glanced.

We shall begin with a small matter. It is evident that the writings
of one English author at least of the present day have made a deep
impression on Mrs Stowe. This is Mr Dickens, with whom, indeed, she
has much in common; but he must not attribute it to mere gallantry,
if we express our opinion that there are parts of _Uncle Tom’s
Cabin_ which he never can surpass, which he never has surpassed.
She probes human nature every whit as tenderly and truly as he; her
sympathies are as keen and subtle, her spirit is as generous, as his;
her perception of the humorous as quick and vivid as his own. She
shows also his–so to speak–structural faults; which, in a general
way, we may indicate by saying, that condensation and directness
of course would greatly improve the compositions of both. A lively
reader hates to be detained on his way, in order to have traced out
for him the source and operation of the _motives_ by which characters
are actuated. He likes to be given credit for a capacity to do that
for himself. It occurs to us, that had Mr Dickens passed his life
among the same scenes as Mrs Stowe, making allowance for certain
special circumstances affecting the latter, he would have produced
a work very similar, in both its faults and excellencies, to _Uncle
Tom’s Cabin_. That she is a reader, and doubtless an admirer of his,
is abundantly evident; for she has closely copied his manner, and
that not in its most favourable manifestations, but rather the more
obvious mannerisms. Mr Dickens might have written this passage for
her.

‘_Carriage sticks fast_, while Cudjoe on the outside is
heard making a great muster among the horses. After various
ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as Senator is
losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself
with a bounce, two front wheels go down into another abyss,
and Senator, woman, and child, all tumble promiscuously on
to the front seat; Senator’s hat is jammed over his eyes
and nose quite unceremoniously, and he considers himself
fairly extinguished; child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside
delivers animated 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 to the
back seat, his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both
her feet being jammed into his hat, which flies off in the
concussion. After a few moments the “slough” is passed, and
the horses stop, panting; the Senator finds his hat, the
woman straightens her bonnet, and hushes her child, and
they brace themselves firmly for what is yet to come.’

Here again–

‘If any want to get up an inspiration, under this head,
“the beauty of old women,” we refer them to our good
friend Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in her
little rocking chair. _It had a turn for quaking and
squeaking–that chair had–either from having taken cold in
early life, or from some asthmatic affection, or perhaps
from nervous derangement._ But as she gently swung backward
and forward, the chair kept up a kind of “creechy-crawchy”
that would have been intolerable in any other chair. But
old Simon Halliday often declared it was as good as any
music to him, and the children all avowed _that they
wouldn’t_ miss of hearing mother’s chair for anything in
the world.’

Another little mannerism acquired from the same quarter is the use,
in grave composition, of the colloquial, “can’t,” “won’t,” “didn’t,”
“couldn’t,” &c. &c. These are little bits of vulgar slip-slop which
are sad eyesores to readers of taste; and we cannot for the life of
us see what end is gained by introducing them into black and white,
except, perhaps, in fitting dialogue.

We have already intimated a considerable want of tact in Mrs Stowe,
in twitching aside, as it were, her reader, when in full course of
following her breathless, to listen to some very self-obvious and
commonplace moralising. Here is one most provoking instance. Poor
beautiful Eliza Harris, supported by almost supernatural energy, is
flying from misery and infamy–her little son close-clasped in her
arms–with but a little time to improve her precarious chances of
escape to Canada; knowing that her little one is _sold_, and that the
blood-hounds may almost then, even, be snuffing on her track! ’Tis
early–very early–in a frosty February morning; the sparkling stars
are looking down, as it were, out of the cold silent heavens with
pitying looks on the poor fugitive. She hastily hushes her child into
silence, as “with vague terror he clings round her neck.” He could
have walked;–but let good Mrs Stowe’s own fleet pencil tell of her
heroine’s feathery movements:–

‘Her boy was old enough to have walked by her side, and
in an indifferent case she would only have led him by the
hand; but now the bare thought of putting him out of her
arms made her shudder; and she strained him to her bosom
with a convulsive grasp as she went rapidly forward. The
frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembled
at the sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow
sent the blood backward to her heart, and quickened her
footsteps. She wondered within herself at the strength that
seemed to be come upon her–for she felt the weight of
her boy as if it had been a feather, and every flutter of
fear seemed to increase the supernatural power that bore
her on; while from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent
ejaculations, the prayer to a Friend above–“Lord, help!
Lord, save me!”’

While the reader–perhaps herself a palpitating mother, almost
blinded with her tears–is flying along with the dear fugitive and
her child, bah! she is arrested, to listen to twaddle–we must say
it–as follows:–

‘If it were _your_ Harry, mother, or _your_ Willy, that
were going to be torn from you by a brutal trader to-morrow
morning–if you had seen the man, and heard that the
papers were signed and delivered, and you had only from
twelve o’clock till morning to make good your escape–how
fast could _you_ walk? How many miles could you make in
those few brief hours, with the darling at your bosom–the
little sleepy head on your shoulder–the small soft arms
trustingly holding on to your neck?’

Forgive us, dear Mrs Stowe, if we gently reproach you for thus
marring your own beautiful narrative, and also giving English
mothers credit for being so obtuse and phlegmatic as to be unable to
realise all these thoughts and feelings as they are hasting along
with you!

And there are very many such instances of defective workmanship.
A considerable portion of these consists of preaching–always,
doubtless, perfectly orthodox and evangelical, but smacking too
strongly–will she forgive us?–of the _conventicle_ twang.
After all, however, Mrs Stowe must be tried by the canon already
cited–“regard the writer’s _end_;” and doubtless she knows that
portion of the American public for which she chiefly writes, and what
kind and amount of _hard-hitting_, so to speak, is necessary to make
an impression on sensibilities enclosed in rhinoceros hide. We do not
say that it is so; but we suppose that Mrs Stowe has classes of hard
people in view, and knew the rough force requisite to hit home.

All these, however, and other similar little matters which might
be mentioned, are mere motes in sunbeams, when regarded by the
eye of a just and generous criticism; which only regrets, every
now and then, that the gifted authoress had not had the advantage
of submitting her MS., or her printed sheets, to the eye of some
competent censor, capable of seizing the scope of her noble purpose,
and solicitous to remove every obstacle in the way of her attaining
it. But she evidently did not write for us in England–in Europe;
nor did this pious daughter of genius dream of the world-wide fame
which she was destined to acquire. She has assured us, in print,
that, “when writing _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_,” she was “entirely unaware
and unexpectant of the importance which would be attached to its
statements and opinions.” We implicitly believe her; and our heart
gives her its entire confidence, as to a simple-minded and gifted
Christian woman, writing out of the fulness of her heart, in order
to open before the eyes of free shuddering Christendom a hideous
and blood-smeared page of living humanity. She has repeatedly and
solemnly asseverated that she has taken the greatest possible pains
not to mis-state or exaggerate the case against slavery; that she
speaks from long personal observation; and, in short, “that this
work, more than any other work of fiction that ever was written,
has been a collection and arrangement of real incidents, of actions
really performed, of words and expressions really uttered, grouped
together with reference to a general result, in the same manner
that the mosaic artist groups his fragments of various stones into
one general picture. His is a mosaic of gems–this is a mosaic of
facts…. The book had a purpose entirely transcending artistic
purpose, and accordingly encounters, at the hands of the public,
demands not usually made on fictitious works. It is treated as a
reality–sifted, tried, and tested as a reality; and, therefore, as a
reality it may be proper that it should be defended…. It is a very
inadequate representation of slavery, and necessarily so, for this
reason–that slavery, in some of its workings, is too dreadful for
the purpose of art. A work which should represent it strictly as it
is, would be a work which could not be read.” “The writer,” she adds,
in the preface to her _Key_, “has aimed, as far as was possible,
to say what is true…. She has used the most honest and earnest
endeavours to learn the truth.” … “And the book is commended to the
candid attention and earnest prayers of all Christians throughout
the world.” These are grave statements, especially when falling from
the pen of one who had already secured a world-wide hearing; and by
the light of such statements _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ ought to be read,
unless Mrs Stowe’s means of knowledge, or her truthfulness, can be
seriously impeached. Looked at in this light, the writer is regarded
as actuated by a magnificent spirit: one which cannot stoop to regard
petty carping and cavilling, and need concern itself with nothing
but grave and temperate objections based upon facts. It will not do
for her American critics to aver, that, “without being actuated by
wrong motives in the preparation of this work, she has done a wrong
which no ignorance can excuse, and no penance can expiate”[5]–unless
such an allegation can be sustained by unequivocal evidence of
exaggeration, misrepresentation, and falsehood. All we shall say at
present is, that if Mrs Stowe is to be believed by her reader, he
will lay down her book, on having deliberately read it, with feelings
and thoughts too painful and deep for utterance, and which _ought_ to
lead to action.

The title of Mrs Stowe’s book–“_Uncle Tom’s Cabin_”–is far from
commensurate with the scope of the fiction, or rather series of
“pictures,” of which it consists. The cabin is not the scene of any
events of importance to the story. It is not impossible that her
intention originally was to confine her pencil to the delineation of
Tom, his residence, family, relations, and the incidents which befell
item _personally_ through the operation of slavery. Uncle Tom and
his fortunes might have constituted a work by itself, and those of
George and Eliza Harris, a second. The former might have been called
_Uncle Tom_, and the latter _George and Eliza_; or _The Cabin_,
and _The Flight_; for there are two classes of adventures quite
separate from each other–the experiences of the submissive, and the
adventures of the recalcitrant, slave. It is true that the authoress
seeks to link them together, at starting, by making Uncle Tom and
Eliza Harris fellow-slaves of the same master and mistress, and Uncle
Tom and Eliza’s child, Harry, the subjects of a joint sale to the
slave-trader; but beyond this slight connection there is none other.
Eliza, with her sold child, pays only one hasty affrighted midnight
visit to the cabin of Uncle Tom; but her husband is never shown near
it. At the very end of the story, however, Mrs Stowe seems to have
had suggested to her the propriety of coupling the fates of her
characters together in some way or other–so that, in a manner which
may provoke the smile of a veteran novelist, she contrives to make a
female slave, Cassy, whom Tom encounters at the close of his career,
prove to be the mother of Eliza Harris; and a lady passenger, who
happens, by the merest accident on earth, to be in the steamboat in
which the aforesaid slave is escaping, turns out to be the sister of
George Harris! Rather a fortunate coincidence this, it must be owned.
Thus it is, that, under the title “_Uncle Tom’s Cabin–a Picture of
Slave Life in America_,” there are two distinct threads of story,
only nominally and arbitrarily connected together; while on each
is strung a series of interesting, affecting, and even horrifying
incidents, developing character, and the working of institutions upon
it.

Let us now give some account of the style in which she has executed
her work.

The tale opens with a very skilfully contrived scene, the object
being to arrest attention, without plunging into horrors which might
at first shock a reader, and render him incredulous; and yet it is
very startling to a European not familiar with slavery. It is a
_tête-à-tête_ between a respectable Kentuckian planter, involved
by over-speculation, and the slave-dealer Haley, an impudent,
swaggering, hard-hearted, gaudily-dressed brute, who bargains over
his brandy-and-water for flesh and blood, just as he would do in
respect of a bale of cotton. Mrs Stowe opens the wretch’s character,
as it were an oyster, with a firm and practised hand. It is quickly
seen that the subject of chaffering is the sale of poor Tom, with
whom Mr Shelby is reluctantly compelled to part, as some of his
heaviest “paper” had found its way into the hands of Mr Haley. In
this introductory dialogue we meet with new and fearful phraseology,
as applied to human beings. Mrs Stowe, with much tact, contrives,
by a word or two, to excite the reader’s interest in Tom long
before he comes on the scene. In enumerating his good qualities,
Mr Shelby speaks of poor Tom’s religious character as a guarantee
of his fidelity. This is how it strikes the slave-dealer. “Some
folks don’t believe there’s pious niggers, Shelby; but I _do_. I
had a feller, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans–’twas
as good as a meetin’ now, really, to hear that critter pray!…
He fetched me a good sum, too; for I bought him cheap of a man
that was ’bliged to sell out” (a tasteful allusion to the exact
quandary of his companion!) “so I realised six hundred on him.
Yes.–I consider religion a valeyable thing in a nigger, when it’s
the genuine article, and no mistake!” By and by, in bursts little
Harry, romping about the room, trotted out by Mr Shelby, to amuse
his hateful companion by his quaint antics; who had first asked, as
the child entered–while the two gentlemen! were haggling about the
price of Tom–“Well; haven’t you a boy or a gal that you could throw
in with Tom?”… After a while, Mr Haley adds–“I’ve got a friend
that’s going into this yer branch of the business–and wants to buy
up handsome boys to raise for the market–fancy articles entirely!”
Mr Shelby having hinted his reluctance to separate the child from
his beautiful mother, who had just withdrawn him from the room,
Mr Haley favours his companion with the result of his experiences
in such matters; deprecating doing anything rashly (“though these
critters arn’t like white folks, you know”), lest–lest–it should
injure the mother’s health, and lower _her_ price in the market!
And he mentions a grievous blunder made by a friend of his, who too
suddenly sold away a mother’s baby, on which she “jist went ravin’
mad, and died in a week–_clear waste, sir, of a thousand dollars_,
jist for want of management–there’s where’t is. It’s always best
to do the humane thing, sir; that’s been _my_ experience.” (By this
time, our gentleman reader is disposed to fling friend Haley through
the window; and our lady reader–but, oh! as for her, we have much
more serious matter in store). Mr Shelby, it is intimated, was
desirous to help Mr Haley down stairs with a kick, but he was Mr
Shelby’s _creditor_! On the former’s return, his debtor’s scruples
have been overcome; and poor good old Tom, and little Harry, have
become the property of Mr Haley, who is to take them away the next
morning! The whole of this introductory scene is highly creditable
to Mrs Stowe’s powers: it is graphic and dramatic, character and
incident being hit off with a quiet strength, auguring well for
the rest of her performance. She has not overdrawn Haley. She has
given us quite enough to startle and disgust us with–the _system_,
more than the individual, and has at the same time relieved the
reader’s mind by a just perceptible strain of drollery and piquant
satire. But how distinctly you see, all the while, the dismayed and
ungratefully-treated patriarch, old Tom, and the beautiful mother,
with bleeding heart soon to come before us–the one, his big heart
heaving with grief and astonishment; the mother’s, bleeding and
broken! The first few chapters of this work will satisfy the most
fastidious reader that he is sitting down before the production of
a great artist. The scene enacting in Uncle Tom’s cabin, during
the time that his master is selling him to Haley, and consigning
him to those of unknown suffering and death, is first-rate, and
peculiarly racy to European readers; who, though strangers to such
scenes, _feel_ that _this_ must be painted to the very life. From
the first to the end of the eighth chapter, including also the
tenth, we are conducted, indeed, “from gay to grave, from lively to
severe;” the lights and shadows of negro life are brought before
us with equal vividness and distinctness, by scenes most happily
contrived, without a tinge of exaggeration, or a disfiguring touch
of coarseness. Mr and Mrs Shelby are just what they ought to be,
without any marked characteristics; the reader’s attention being thus
fixed undisturbedly on the new figures of Haley, Uncle Tom and Aunt
Chloe, George and Eliza Harris, Marks, and Tom Loker, as well as
the skittish, frolicsome, mischievous, and selfish negro servants.
The story, too, is advancing; Tom is on his journey, manacled and
fettered, in the slave-waggon with Haley, whose pursuit after Eliza
and her child has been hitherto in vain, in spite of his grim
auxiliaries; and George also has started safe on the desperate race
for freedom: the little we have seen of him induces us heartily to
say–God speed you! brave soul, you are worthy of the prize–may you
win it!

The ninth chapter introduces us to quite a different scene–Senator
Bird, and his bustling little soft-hearted wife, who became the host
and hostess of fugitive Eliza–the pallid, the breathless–with
tottering knees and bleeding feet–who has been led by the
Kentuckian, who had helped her up the bank of the river, to the
house of the senator and his wife, just as they are discussing–the
abolition question. They, their children, and their quiet home-scene,
are beautifully sketched–as are the means by which Eliza and her
child are conducted to a place of temporary succour and safety.

The eleventh chapter introduces us to a different time and
locality–an evening in a remote Kentucky hotel. The wild Kentuckian
guests squat about and straddle their legs, and chew, and spit,
before us. What a gathering of _hats_ of all shapes and sizes–“quite
a Shakspearian study!”–is before us! We see them all, and can
conjecture the stranger aspect of those who wear them! It is here
that our disguised friend George turns up, in the way we have
mentioned. ’Tis here that he says, with erect form and flashing eye,
to his former kind master, Mr Wilson, “I’ve said _Mas’r_ for the last
time to any man! I’m free!”

“Take care. You may be taken,” replies good Mr Wilson, apprehensively.

“All men are free and equal _in the grave_, if it comes to that, Mr
Wilson,” says lion-hearted George, who is armed to the teeth….
“Good-by, sir; if you hear that I’m taken, you may know that I’m
dead!” He stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of
a prince. Well done, Mrs Stowe! And how tenderly she presently smites
the rock of his resolution, till the pent-up waters of a husband and
a father gush forth! So do those of Mr Wilson, as he accepts poor
George’s little commission, to give to his wife the pin which she had
formerly given to him as a Christmas present, and beseech her to get
to Canada if ever she have the means, “and,” he adds, “tell her to
bring up our boy A FREE MAN!”