The Death of Uncle Tom.Adapted by C. R. Bechtel.The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly temper of Legree to the last degree; and his fury, as was to be expected, fell upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedly announced the tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light in Tom’s eye, a sudden upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he did not join the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him to do it, but, having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when commanded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would not, in his hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him.Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of him to pray, and offered up prayers for the escape of the fugitives.When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the long-working hatred of his soul toward his slave began to gather in a deadly and desperate form.“Well, Tom!” said Legree, walking up and seizing him grimly by the collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm of determined rage, “do you know, I’ve made up my mind to kill you?”“It’s very likely, Mas’r,” said Tom, calmly.“I have,” said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, “done—just—that—thing, Tom, unless you’ll tell me what you know about these yer gals!”Tom stood silent.“D’ye hear?” said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an incensed lion. “Speak!”“I han’t got nothing to tell, Mas’r,” said Tom, with a slow, firm, deliberate utterance.“Do ye dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t know?” said Legree.Tom stood silent.“Speak!” thundered Legree, striking him furiously. “Do you know anything?”“I know, Mas’r, but I can’t tell anything. I can die!”Legree drew in a long breath, and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said in a terrible voice, “Hark’e, Tom! ye think, ’cause I’ve let ye off before, I don’t mean what I say; but this time I’ve made up my mind, and counted the cost. You’ve always stood it out agin me; now I’ll conquer ye or kill ye!—one or t’other. I’ll count every drop of blood there is in you, and take ’em, one by one, till ye give up!”Tom looked up at his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d give ye my heart’s blood; and if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, I’d give ’em freely, as the Lord gave His for me. O Mas’r! don’t bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you more than ’twill me! Do the worst you can—my troubles’ll be over soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours won’t never end!”Like a strange snatch of heavenly music heard in the lull of a tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment’s blank pause.Legree stood aghast and looked at Tom, and there was such a silence that the tick of the old clock could be heard measuring, with silent touch, the last moments of mercy and probation to that hardened heart.It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause—one irresolute, relenting thrill—and the spirit of evil cameback with sevenfold vehemence, and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the ground.* * * * *Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up through the avenue of China-trees fronting Legree’s house, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horse’s neck, sprang out and inquired for the owner of the place.It was George Shelby, the son of Tom’s former master.He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legree in the sitting-room.Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality.“I understand,” said the young man, “that you bought, in New Orleans, a boy named Tom. He used to be on my father’s place, and I came to see if I couldn’t buy him back.”Legree’s brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately:“Yes, I did buy such a fellow, and a fine bargain I had of it, too! The most rebellious, saucy, impudent dog! Set up my niggers to run away; got off two gals worth eight hundred or a thousand dollars apiece. He owned to that, and when I bid him tell me where they was, he up and said he knew, but he wouldn’t tell, and stood to it, though I gave him the cussedest flogging I ever gave nigger yet. I b’lieve he’s trying to die, but I don’t know as he’ll make it out.”“Where is he?” said George, impetuously. “Let me see him.”The cheeks of the young man were crimson and his eyes flashed fire, but he prudently said nothing as yet.“He’s in dat ar shed,” said a little fellow, who stood holding George’s horse.Legree kicked the boy and swore at him, but George, without saying another word, turned and strode to the spot.Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night, not suffering,for every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed. He lay, for the most part, in a quiet stupor, for the laws of a powerful and well-knit frame would not at once release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth, there had been there, in the darkness of the night, poor desolated creatures, who stole from their scanty hours’ rest that they might repay to him some of those ministrations of love in which he had always been so abundant. Truly, those poor disciples had little to give—only the cup of cold water—but it was given with full hearts.When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart sick.“Is it possible—is it possible?” said he, kneeling down by him. “Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!”Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He moved his head gently, smiled, and said—“Jesus can make a dying bedFeel soft as downy pillows are.”Tears, which did honor to his manly heart, fell from the young man’s eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.“Oh! dear Uncle Tom! do wake—do speak once more! Look up! Here’s Mas’r George—your own little Mas’r George. Don’t you know me?”“Mas’r George!” said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble voice. “Mas’r George!” He looked bewildered.Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul, and the vacant eye became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks.“Bless the Lord! it is—it is—it’s all I wanted! They haven’t forgot me. It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, oh! my soul!”“You sha’n’t die! you mustn’t die, nor think of it. I’ve come to buy you, and take you home,” said George, with impetuous vehemence.“Oh! Mas’r George, ye’re too late. The Lord’s bought me, and is going to take me home, and I long to go. Heaven is better than Kintuck.”“Oh! don’t die! It’ll kill me!—it’ll break my heart to think what you’ve suffered—and living in this old shed here! Poor, poor fellow!”“Don’t call me poor fellow!” said Tom, solemnly. “I have been poor fellow, but that’s all past and gone now. I’m right in the door, going into glory! Oh! Mas’r George! Heaven has come! I’ve got the victory!—the Lord Jesus has given it to me! Glory to His name!”At this moment the sudden flush of strength which the joy of meeting his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him; he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his face that told the approach of other worlds.He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations, and his broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that of a conqueror.“Who—who—who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness, and, with a smile, he fell asleep.There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our friend. He needs none! His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up, immortal, to appear with Him when He shall appear in His glory.Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity! Not in the riches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God, but in self-denying, suffering love! And blessed are the men whomHe calls to fellowship with Him, bearing their cross after Him with patience. Of such it is written: “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”—Harriet Beecher Stowe.
Adapted by C. R. Bechtel.
The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surly temper of Legree to the last degree; and his fury, as was to be expected, fell upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedly announced the tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light in Tom’s eye, a sudden upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he did not join the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing him to do it, but, having had, of old, experience of his inflexibility when commanded to take part in any deed of inhumanity, he would not, in his hurry, stop to enter into any conflict with him.
Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learned of him to pray, and offered up prayers for the escape of the fugitives.
When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the long-working hatred of his soul toward his slave began to gather in a deadly and desperate form.
“Well, Tom!” said Legree, walking up and seizing him grimly by the collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in a paroxysm of determined rage, “do you know, I’ve made up my mind to kill you?”
“It’s very likely, Mas’r,” said Tom, calmly.
“I have,” said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, “done—just—that—thing, Tom, unless you’ll tell me what you know about these yer gals!”
Tom stood silent.
“D’ye hear?” said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an incensed lion. “Speak!”
“I han’t got nothing to tell, Mas’r,” said Tom, with a slow, firm, deliberate utterance.
“Do ye dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t know?” said Legree.
Tom stood silent.
“Speak!” thundered Legree, striking him furiously. “Do you know anything?”
“I know, Mas’r, but I can’t tell anything. I can die!”
Legree drew in a long breath, and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said in a terrible voice, “Hark’e, Tom! ye think, ’cause I’ve let ye off before, I don’t mean what I say; but this time I’ve made up my mind, and counted the cost. You’ve always stood it out agin me; now I’ll conquer ye or kill ye!—one or t’other. I’ll count every drop of blood there is in you, and take ’em, one by one, till ye give up!”
Tom looked up at his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d give ye my heart’s blood; and if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, I’d give ’em freely, as the Lord gave His for me. O Mas’r! don’t bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you more than ’twill me! Do the worst you can—my troubles’ll be over soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours won’t never end!”
Like a strange snatch of heavenly music heard in the lull of a tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment’s blank pause.
Legree stood aghast and looked at Tom, and there was such a silence that the tick of the old clock could be heard measuring, with silent touch, the last moments of mercy and probation to that hardened heart.
It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause—one irresolute, relenting thrill—and the spirit of evil cameback with sevenfold vehemence, and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the ground.
* * * * *
Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up through the avenue of China-trees fronting Legree’s house, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horse’s neck, sprang out and inquired for the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby, the son of Tom’s former master.
He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legree in the sitting-room.
Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality.
“I understand,” said the young man, “that you bought, in New Orleans, a boy named Tom. He used to be on my father’s place, and I came to see if I couldn’t buy him back.”
Legree’s brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately:
“Yes, I did buy such a fellow, and a fine bargain I had of it, too! The most rebellious, saucy, impudent dog! Set up my niggers to run away; got off two gals worth eight hundred or a thousand dollars apiece. He owned to that, and when I bid him tell me where they was, he up and said he knew, but he wouldn’t tell, and stood to it, though I gave him the cussedest flogging I ever gave nigger yet. I b’lieve he’s trying to die, but I don’t know as he’ll make it out.”
“Where is he?” said George, impetuously. “Let me see him.”
The cheeks of the young man were crimson and his eyes flashed fire, but he prudently said nothing as yet.
“He’s in dat ar shed,” said a little fellow, who stood holding George’s horse.
Legree kicked the boy and swore at him, but George, without saying another word, turned and strode to the spot.
Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night, not suffering,for every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed. He lay, for the most part, in a quiet stupor, for the laws of a powerful and well-knit frame would not at once release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth, there had been there, in the darkness of the night, poor desolated creatures, who stole from their scanty hours’ rest that they might repay to him some of those ministrations of love in which he had always been so abundant. Truly, those poor disciples had little to give—only the cup of cold water—but it was given with full hearts.
When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart sick.
“Is it possible—is it possible?” said he, kneeling down by him. “Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!”
Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He moved his head gently, smiled, and said—
“Jesus can make a dying bedFeel soft as downy pillows are.”
“Jesus can make a dying bedFeel soft as downy pillows are.”
“Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are.”
Tears, which did honor to his manly heart, fell from the young man’s eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.
“Oh! dear Uncle Tom! do wake—do speak once more! Look up! Here’s Mas’r George—your own little Mas’r George. Don’t you know me?”
“Mas’r George!” said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble voice. “Mas’r George!” He looked bewildered.
Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul, and the vacant eye became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks.
“Bless the Lord! it is—it is—it’s all I wanted! They haven’t forgot me. It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, oh! my soul!”
“You sha’n’t die! you mustn’t die, nor think of it. I’ve come to buy you, and take you home,” said George, with impetuous vehemence.
“Oh! Mas’r George, ye’re too late. The Lord’s bought me, and is going to take me home, and I long to go. Heaven is better than Kintuck.”
“Oh! don’t die! It’ll kill me!—it’ll break my heart to think what you’ve suffered—and living in this old shed here! Poor, poor fellow!”
“Don’t call me poor fellow!” said Tom, solemnly. “I have been poor fellow, but that’s all past and gone now. I’m right in the door, going into glory! Oh! Mas’r George! Heaven has come! I’ve got the victory!—the Lord Jesus has given it to me! Glory to His name!”
At this moment the sudden flush of strength which the joy of meeting his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him; he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his face that told the approach of other worlds.
He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations, and his broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that of a conqueror.
“Who—who—who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness, and, with a smile, he fell asleep.
There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our friend. He needs none! His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up, immortal, to appear with Him when He shall appear in His glory.
Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity! Not in the riches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God, but in self-denying, suffering love! And blessed are the men whomHe calls to fellowship with Him, bearing their cross after Him with patience. Of such it is written: “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
—Harriet Beecher Stowe.