Discussion of “Race, Segregation, and Slavery”

Discussion of “Race, Segregation, and Slavery”

Discussion of “Race, Segregation, and Slavery”

In this discussion, I would like for you to consider the following as food for thought:Â What do the selections reveal about oppression and obstacles for African-

Americans? Give us your thoughts based on the assigned readings,

Below are the assigned readings: I will attach them to the assignment..

Lesson 6: Race, Segregation, and Slavery – Phillis Wheatley and Harriet Beecher Stowe
CHAPTER XL and XLI Uncle Tom’s Cabin

CHAPTER XL and XLI Uncle Tom’s Cabin

Phillis Wheatley
Harriet Beecher Stowe
Lesson 7: Race, Segregation, and Slavery – Gloria Naylor

Lesson 7: Race, Segregation, and Slavery – Gloria Naylor

Gloria Naylor
Lesson 8 Race, Segregation, and Slavery – Langston Hughes

Lesson 8 Race, Segregation, and Slavery – Langston Hughes

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Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes

• Leader of the Harlem Renaissance movement
• Was the first African-American to support himself as a professional writer
• Born in Joplin, Missouri
• His father studied law but was denied permission to an all-white examining board in Oklahoma; therefore, his father went to live in Mexico.
• Hughes’ mother could not support him by herself, so he was sent to live with his grandmother. After she died, he was brought up by a foster family who

introduced him to black spirituals (this later influenced his poetry).
• Hughes was reunited with his mother, who remarried and moved to Ohio. There, Hughes went to school with European immigrants, whom he found to be much

friendlier than whites. In school, Hughes read avidly and was especially influenced by W.E.B. DuBois.
• In 1920, Hughes went to visit his father in Mexico, but Hughes found his father intolerable, having been greatly affected by others’ racism. Hughes left

Mexico, and it was while he was on the train going over the Mississippi River that he wrote “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” one of his most famous poems. In it, he

references Negroes’ historical connection to rivers throughout the world and throughout time.
• Hughes had many different jobs, but it was while he was working as a busboy that poet Vachel Lindsey, who was staying in the hotel where Hughes worked,

discovered him.
• In addition to poetry, Hughes has written short stories, novels, nonfiction books, and plays.

“I, Too”

• Notice the idea of “singing” – having a “voice”
• He is the darker “brother” – connection with humanity
• Stanza two: How he handles oppression (laughs, eats, grows stronger)
• Stanza three: Predicts the future
• Last line: He IS America (he exists and represents it)

“Theme for English B”

• The speaker is writing of his college experience (may have been somewhat biographical).
• The instructor asks him to write something that is “true” for the speaker, but the speaker questions if, in fact, the instructor would understand him:
“I wonder if it’s that simple?”
• The speaker gives us a sense of the journey he must make to school:
“The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem”
• The speaker warns the instructor not to presume to know who he is and what he likes.
• The speaker distinguishes himself as an individual and a member of his race:
“So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.”
• The differences between the two (student and instructor) are what’s “American.”

“Harlem”

• At the beginning, the speaker asks what happens to those who are not allowed to follow their dreams.
• Then, he gives the possibilities:
1. We “dry up” and have no spirit
2. We “fester” our pain, and it doesn’t heal
3. Our attitude about life begins to “stink”
4. We deny that there’s any pain or disappointment and wear a façade of the feeling that it’s okay
5. It becomes a burden for us
6. It results in violence

Theme for English B

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you–
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me–we two–you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me–who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records–Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white–
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me–
although you’re older–and white–
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

Langston Hughes (1951)

CHAPTER XL
The Martyr
“Deem not the just by Heaven forgot!
Though life its common gifts deny,—
Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart,
And spurned of man, he goes to die!
For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every bitter tear,
And heaven’s long years of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.”
BRYANT.*
* This poem does not appear in the collected works of
William Cullen Bryant, nor in the collected poems of his
brother, John Howard Bryant. It was probably copied from a
newspaper or magazine.
The longest way must have its close,—the gloomiest night will wear on to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying the day of the evil to an

eternal night, and the night of the just to an eternal day. We have walked with our humble friend thus far in the valley of slavery; first through flowery fields of

ease and indulgence, then through heart-breaking separations from all that man holds dear. Again, we have waited with him in a sunny island, where generous hands

concealed his chains with flowers; and, lastly, we have followed him when the last ray of earthly hope went out in night, and seen how, in the blackness of earthly

darkness, the firmament of the unseen has blazed with stars of new and significant lustre.
The morning-star now stands over the tops of the mountains, and gales and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are unclosing.
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 towards his slave began to gather in a deadly and desperate form. Had not this

man braved him,—steadily, powerfully, resistlessly,—ever since he bought him? Was there not a spirit in him which, silent as it was, burned on him like the fires of

perdition?
“I hate him!” said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his bed; “I hate him! And isn’t he MINE? Can’t I do what I like with him? Who’s to hinder, I wonder?” And Legree

clenched his fist, and shook it, as if he had something in his hands that he could rend in pieces.
But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant; and, although Legree hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was still somewhat of a restraint to him.
The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet; to assemble a party, from some neighboring plantations, with dogs and guns; to surround the swamp, and go about

the hunt systematically. If it succeeded, well and good; if not, he would summon Tom before him, and—his teeth clenched and his blood boiled—then he would break the

fellow down, or—there was a dire inward whisper, to which his soul assented.
Ye say that the interest of the master is a sufficient safeguard for the slave. In the fury of man’s mad will, he will wittingly, and with open eye, sell his own soul

to the devil to gain his ends; and will he be more careful of his neighbor’s body?
“Well,” said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she reconnoitred through the knot-hole, “the hunt’s going to begin again, today!”
Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on the space in front of the house; and one or two leashes of strange dogs were struggling with the negroes who

held them, baying and barking at each other.
The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the vicinity; and others were some of Legree’s associates at the tavern-bar of a neighboring city, who had come

for the interest of the sport. A more hard-favored set, perhaps, could not be imagined. Legree was serving brandy, profusely, round among them, as also among the

negroes, who had been detailed from the various plantations for this service; for it was an object to make every service of this kind, among the negroes, as much of a

holiday as possible.
Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole; and, as the morning air blew directly towards the house, she could overhear a good deal of the conversation. A grave sneer

overcast the dark, severe gravity of her face, as she listened, and heard them divide out the ground, discuss the rival merits of the dogs, give orders about firing,

and the treatment of each, in case of capture.
Cassy drew back; and, clasping her hands, looked upward, and said, “O, great Almighty God! we are all sinners; but what have we done, more than all the rest of the

world, that we should be treated so?”
There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, as she spoke.
“If it wasn’t for you, child,” she said, looking at Emmeline, “I’d go out to them; and I’d thank any one of them that would shoot me down; for what use will freedom be

to me? Can it give me back my children, or make me what I used to be?”
Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of the dark moods 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; “you’ll get me to loving you; and I never mean to love anything, again!”
“Poor Cassy!” said Emmeline, “don’t feel so! If the Lord gives us liberty, perhaps he’ll give you back your daughter; at any rate, I’ll be like a daughter to you. I

know I’ll never see my poor old mother again! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you love me or not!”
The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat 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, Em!” said Cassy, “I’ve hungered for my children, and thirsted for them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here! here!” she said, striking her breast, “it’s

all desolate, all empty! If God would give me back my children, then I could pray.”
“You must trust him, Cassy,” said Emmeline; “he is our Father!”
“His wrath is upon us,” said Cassy; “he has turned away in anger.”
“No, Cassy! He will be good to us! Let us hope in Him,” said Emmeline,—”I always have had hope.”
The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and, with grave, ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on Legree, as, weary and dispirited, he alighted

from his horse.
“Now, Quimbo,” said Legree, as he stretched himself down in the sitting-room, “you jest go and walk that Tom up here, right away! The old cuss is at the bottom of this

yer whole matter; and I’ll have it out of his old black hide, or I’ll know the reason why!”
Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were joined in one mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree had told them, at first, that he had bought him

for a general overseer, in his absence; and this had begun an ill will, on their part, which had increased, in their debased and servile natures, as they saw him

becoming obnoxious to their master’s displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed, with a will, to execute his orders.
Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knew all the plan of the fugitives’ escape, and the place of their present concealment;—he knew the deadly

character of the man he had to deal with, and his despotic power. But he felt strong in God to meet death, rather than betray the helpless.
He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, “Into thy hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, oh Lord God of truth!” and then quietly yielded

himself to the rough, brutal grasp with which Quimbo seized him.
“Ay, ay!” said the giant, as he dragged him along; “ye’ll cotch it, now! I’ll boun’ Mas’r’s back ‘s up high! No sneaking out, now! Tell ye, ye’ll get it, and no

mistake! See how ye’ll look, now, helpin’ Mas’r’s niggers to run away! See what ye’ll get!”
The savage words none of them reached that ear!—a higher voice there was saying, “Fear not them that kill the body, and, after that, have no more that they can do.”

Nerve and bone of that poor man’s body vibrated to those words, as if touched by the finger of God; and he felt the strength of a thousand souls in one. As he passed

along, the trees and bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene of his degradation, seemed to whirl by him as the landscape by the rushing ear. His soul

throbbed,—his home was in sight,—and the hour of release seemed at hand.
“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 a 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 you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t know?” said Legree.
Tom was 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 you 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 again’ 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 to 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 ‘t will 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 came back, with seven-fold vehemence; and Legree, foaming

with rage, smote his victim to the ground.
Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear. What brother-man and brother-Christian must suffer,

cannot be told us, even in our secret chamber, it so harrows the soul! And yet, oh my country! these things are done under the shadow of thy laws! O, Christ! thy

church sees them, almost in silence!
But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an instrument of torture, degradation and shame, into a symbol of glory, honor, and immortal life; and, where His

spirit is, neither degrading stripes, nor blood, nor insults, can make the Christian’s last struggle less than glorious.
Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was bearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes?
Nay! There stood by him ONE,—seen by him alone,—”like unto the Son of God.”
The tempter stood by him, too,—blinded by furious, despotic will,—every moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the innocent. But the brave, true

heart was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save; nor could utmost extremity wring from him words, save

of prayers and holy trust.
“He’s most gone, Mas’r,” said Sambo, touched, in spite of himself, by the patience of his victim.
“Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him!—give it to him!” shouted Legree. “I’ll take every drop of blood he has, unless he confesses!”
Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. “Ye poor miserable critter!” he said, “there ain’t no more ye can do! I forgive ye, with all my soul!” and he fainted

entirely away.
“I b’lieve, my soul, he’s done for, finally,” said Legree, stepping forward, to look at him. “Yes, he is! Well, his mouth’s shut up, at last,—that’s one comfort!”
Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul? that soul, past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire that never shall be quenched is already

burning!
Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers had struck upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks, who had been the instruments of cruelty upon him;

and, the instant Legree withdrew, they took him down, and, in their ignorance, sought to call him back to life,—as if that were any favor to him.
“Sartin, we ‘s been doin’ a drefful wicked thing!” said Sambo; “hopes Mas’r’ll have to ‘count for it, and not we.”
They washed his wounds,—they provided a rude bed, of some refuse cotton, for him to lie down on; and one of them, stealing up to the house, begged a drink of brandy of

Legree, pretending that he was tired, and wanted it for himself. He brought it back, and poured it down Tom’s throat.
“O, Tom!” said Quimbo, “we’s been awful wicked to ye!”
“I forgive ye, with all my heart!” said Tom, faintly.
“O, Tom! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow?” said Sambo;—”Jesus, that’s been a standin’ by you so, all this night!—Who is he?”
The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a few energetic sentences of that wondrous One,—his life, his death, his everlasting presence, and power

to save.
They wept,—both the two savage men.
“Why didn’t I never hear this before?” said Sambo; “but I do believe!—I can’t help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us!”
“Poor critters!” said Tom, “I’d be willing to bar all I have, if it’ll only bring ye to Christ! O, Lord! give me these two more souls, I pray!”
That prayer was answered!

CHAPTER XLI
The Young Master
Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up through the avenue of China trees, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horse’s neck, sprang out and inquired for

the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby; and, to show how he came to be there, we must go back in our story.
The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by some unfortunate accident, been detained, for a month or two, at some remote post-office, before it reached its

destination; and, of course, before it was received, Tom was already lost to view among the distant swamps of the Red River.
Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest concern; but any immediate action upon it was an impossibility. She was then in attendance on the sick-bed of her

husband, who lay delirious in the crisis of a fever. Master George Shelby, who, in the interval, had changed from a boy to a tall young man, was her constant and

faithful assistant, and her only reliance in superintending his father’s affairs. Miss Ophelia had taken the precaution to send them the name of the lawyer who did

business for the St. Clares; and the most that, in the emergency, could be done, was to address a letter of inquiry to him. The sudden death of Mr. Shelby, a few days

after, brought, of course, an absorbing pressure of other interests, for a season.
Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife’s ability, by appointing her sole executrix upon his estates; and thus immediately a large and complicated amount of

business was brought upon her hands.
Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself to the work of straightening the entangled web of affairs; and she and George were for some time occupied with

collecting and examining accounts, selling property and settling debts; for Mrs. Shelby was determined that everything should be brought into tangible and recognizable

shape, let the consequences to her prove what they might. In the mean time, they received a letter from the lawyer to whom Miss Ophelia had referred them, saying that

he knew nothing of the matter; that the man was sold at a public auction, and that, beyond receiving the money, he knew nothing of the affair.
Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result; and, accordingly, some six months after, the latter, having business for his mother, down the river,

resolved to visit New Orleans, in person, and push his inquiries, in hopes of discovering Tom’s whereabouts, and restoring him.
After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest accident, George fell in with a man, in New Orleans, who happened to be possessed of the desired information;

and with his money in his pocket, our hero took steamboat for Red River, resolving to find out and re-purchase his old friend.
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 h—l of a 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 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.
Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face,—tears of late repentance in the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dying love and patience had awakened to repentance,

and bitter prayers, breathed over him to a late-found Saviour, of whom they scarce knew more than the name, but whom the yearning ignorant heart of man never implores

in vain.
Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and, by overhearing, learned the sacrifice that had been made for her and Emmeline, had been there, the night

before, defying the danger of detection; and, moved by the last few words which the affectionate soul had yet strength to breathe, the long winter of despair, the ice

of years, had given way, and the dark, despairing woman had wept and prayed.
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-bed
Feel soft as down pillows are.”
Tears which did honor to his manly heart fell from the young man’s eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.
“O, 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 heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, on my

soul!”
“You shan’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.
“O, 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.”
“O, don’t die! It’ll kill me!—it’ll break my heart to think what you’ve suffered,—and lying 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! O, Mas’r George!

Heaven has come! I’ve got the victory!—the Lord Jesus has given it to me! Glory be to His name!”
George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power, with which these broken sentences were uttered. He sat gazing in silence.
Tom grasped his hand, and continued,—”Ye mustn’t, now, tell Chloe, poor soul! how ye found me;—’t would be so drefful to her. Only tell her ye found me going into

glory; and that I couldn’t stay for no one. And tell her the Lord’s stood by me everywhere and al’ays, and made everything light and easy. And oh, the poor chil’en,

and the baby;—my old heart’s been most broke for ’em, time and agin! Tell ’em all to follow me—follow me! Give my love to Mas’r, and dear good Missis, and everybody in

the place! Ye don’t know! ‘Pears like I loves ’em all! I loves every creature everywhar!—it’s nothing but love! O, Mas’r George! what a thing ‘t is to be a Christian!”
At this moment, Legree sauntered up to the door of the shed, looked in, with a dogged air of affected carelessness, and turned away.
“The old Satan!” said George, in his indignation. “It’s a comfort to think the devil will pay him for this, some of these days!”
“O, don’t!—oh, ye mustn’t!” said Tom, grasping his hand; “he’s a poor mis’able critter! it’s awful to think on ‘t! Oh, if he only could repent, the Lord would forgive

him now; but I’m ‘feared he never will!”
“I hope he won’t!” said George; “I never want to see him in heaven!”
“Hush, Mas’r George!—it worries me! Don’t feel so! He an’t done me no real harm,—only opened the gate of the kingdom for me; that’s all!”
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.
George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that the place was holy; and, as he closed the lifeless eyes, and rose up from the dead, only one thought possessed

him,—that expressed by his simple old friend,—”What a thing it is to be a Christian!”
He turned: Legree was standing, sullenly, behind him.
Something in that dying scene had checked the natural fierceness of youthful passion. The presence of the man was simply loathsome to George; and he felt only an

impulse to get away from him, with as few words as possible.
Fixing his keen dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, pointing to the dead, “You have got all you ever can of him. What shall I pay you for the body? I will take it

away, and bury it decently.”
“I don’t sell dead niggers,” said Legree, doggedly. “You are welcome to bury him where and when you like.”
“Boys,” said George, in an authoritative tone, to two or three negroes, who were looking at the body, “help me lift him up, and carry him to my wagon; and get me a

spade.”
One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted George to carry the body to the wagon.
George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did not countermand his orders, but stood, whistling, with an air of forced unconcern. He sulkily followed them to

where the wagon stood at the door.
George spread his cloak in the wagon, and had the body carefully disposed of in it,—moving the seat, so as to give it room. Then he turned, fixed his eyes on Legree,

and said, with forced composure,
“I have not, as yet, said to you what I think of this most atrocious affair;—this is not the time and place. But, sir, this innocent blood shall have justice. I will

proclaim this murder. I will go to the very first magistrate, and expose you.”
“Do!” said Legree, snapping his fingers, scornfully. “I’d like to see you doing it. Where you going to get witnesses?—how you going to prove it?—Come, now!”
George saw, at once, the force of this defiance. There was not a white person on the place; and, in all southern courts, the testimony of colored blood is nothing. He

felt, at that moment, as if he could have rent the heavens with his heart’s indignant cry for justice; but in vain.
“After all, what a fuss, for a dead nigger!” said Legree.
The word was as a spark to a powder magazine. Prudence was never a cardinal virtue of the Kentucky boy. George turned, and, with one indignant blow, knocked Legree

flat upon his face; and, as he stood over him, blazing with wrath and defiance, he would have formed no bad personification of his great namesake triumphing over the

dragon.
Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being knocked down. If a man lays them fairly flat in the dust, they seem immediately to conceive a respect for him; and

Legree was one of this sort. As he rose, therefore, and brushed the dust from his clothes, he eyed the slowly-retreating wagon with some evident consideration; nor did

he open his mouth till it was out of sight.
Beyond the boundaries of the plantation, George had noticed a dry, sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees; there they made the grave.
“Shall we take off the cloak, Mas’r?” said the negroes, when the grave was ready.
“No, no,—bury it with him! It’s all I can give you, now, poor Tom, and you shall have it.”
They laid him in; and the men shovelled away, silently. They banked it up, and laid green turf over it.
“You may go, boys,” said George, slipping a quarter into the hand of each. They lingered about, however.
“If young Mas’r would please buy us—” said one.
“We’d serve him so faithful!” said the other.
“Hard times here, Mas’r!” said the first. “Do, Mas’r, buy us, please!”
“I can’t!—I can’t!” said George, with difficulty, motioning them off; “it’s impossible!”
The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence.
“Witness, eternal God!” said George, kneeling on the grave of his poor friend; “oh, witness, that, from this hour, I will do what one man can to drive out this curse

of slavery from my land!”
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 whom he 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.”

CHAPTER XL
The Martyr
“Deem not the just by Heaven forgot!
Though life its common gifts deny,—
Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart,
And spurned of man, he goes to die!
For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every bitter tear,
And heaven’s long years of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.”
BRYANT.*
* This poem does not appear in the collected works of
William Cullen Bryant, nor in the collected poems of his
brother, John Howard Bryant. It was probably copied from a
newspaper or magazine.
The longest way must have its close,—the gloomiest night will wear on to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying the day of the evil to an

eternal night, and the night of the just to an eternal day. We have walked with our humble friend thus far in the valley of slavery; first through flowery fields of

ease and indulgence, then through heart-breaking separations from all that man holds dear. Again, we have waited with him in a sunny island, where generous hands

concealed his chains with flowers; and, lastly, we have followed him when the last ray of earthly hope went out in night, and seen how, in the blackness of earthly

darkness, the firmament of the unseen has blazed with stars of new and significant lustre.
The morning-star now stands over the tops of the mountains, and gales and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of day are unclosing.
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 towards his slave began to gather in a deadly and desperate form. Had not this

man braved him,—steadily, powerfully, resistlessly,—ever since he bought him? Was there not a spirit in him which, silent as it was, burned on him like the fires of

perdition?
“I hate him!” said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his bed; “I hate him! And isn’t he MINE? Can’t I do what I like with him? Who’s to hinder, I wonder?” And Legree

clenched his fist, and shook it, as if he had something in his hands that he could rend in pieces.
But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant; and, although Legree hated him the more for that, yet the consideration was still somewhat of a restraint to him.
The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet; to assemble a party, from some neighboring plantations, with dogs and guns; to surround the swamp, and go about

the hunt systematically. If it succeeded, well and good; if not, he would summon Tom before him, and—his teeth clenched and his blood boiled—then he would break the

fellow down, or—there was a dire inward whisper, to which his soul assented.
Ye say that the interest of the master is a sufficient safeguard for the slave. In the fury of man’s mad will, he will wittingly, and with open eye, sell his own soul

to the devil to gain his ends; and will he be more careful of his neighbor’s body?
“Well,” said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she reconnoitred through the knot-hole, “the hunt’s going to begin again, today!”
Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on the space in front of the house; and one or two leashes of strange dogs were struggling with the negroes who

held them, baying and barking at each other.
The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the vicinity; and others were some of Legree’s associates at the tavern-bar of a neighboring city, who had come

for the interest of the sport. A more hard-favored set, perhaps, could not be imagined. Legree was serving brandy, profusely, round among them, as also among the

negroes, who had been detailed from the various plantations for this service; for it was an object to make every service of this kind, among the negroes, as much of a

holiday as possible.
Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole; and, as the morning air blew directly towards the house, she could overhear a good deal of the conversation. A grave sneer

overcast the dark, severe gravity of her face, as she listened, and heard them divide out the ground, discuss the rival merits of the dogs, give orders about firing,

and the treatment of each, in case of capture.
Cassy drew back; and, clasping her hands, looked upward, and said, “O, great Almighty God! we are all sinners; but what have we done, more than all the rest of the

world, that we should be treated so?”
There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, as she spoke.
“If it wasn’t for you, child,” she said, looking at Emmeline, “I’d go out to them; and I’d thank any one of them that would shoot me down; for what use will freedom be

to me? Can it give me back my children, or make me what I used to be?”
Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of the dark moods 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; “you’ll get me to loving you; and I never mean to love anything, again!”
“Poor Cassy!” said Emmeline, “don’t feel so! If the Lord gives us liberty, perhaps he’ll give you back your daughter; at any rate, I’ll be like a daughter to you. I

know I’ll never see my poor old mother again! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you love me or not!”
The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat 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, Em!” said Cassy, “I’ve hungered for my children, and thirsted for them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here! here!” she said, striking her breast, “it’s

all desolate, all empty! If God would give me back my children, then I could pray.”
“You must trust him, Cassy,” said Emmeline; “he is our Father!”
“His wrath is upon us,” said Cassy; “he has turned away in anger.”
“No, Cassy! He will be good to us! Let us hope in Him,” said Emmeline,—”I always have had hope.”
The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and, with grave, ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on Legree, as, weary and dispirited, he alighted

from his horse.
“Now, Quimbo,” said Legree, as he stretched himself down in the sitting-room, “you jest go and walk that Tom up here, right away! The old cuss is at the bottom of this

yer whole matter; and I’ll have it out of his old black hide, or I’ll know the reason why!”
Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were joined in one mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree had told them, at first, that he had bought him

for a general overseer, in his absence; and this had begun an ill will, on their part, which had increased, in their debased and servile natures, as they saw him

becoming obnoxious to their master’s displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed, with a will, to execute his orders.
Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knew all the plan of the fugitives’ escape, and the place of their present concealment;—he knew the deadly

character of the man he had to deal with, and his despotic power. But he felt strong in God to meet death, rather than betray the helpless.
He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, “Into thy hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, oh Lord God of truth!” and then quietly yielded

himself to the rough, brutal grasp with which Quimbo seized him.
“Ay, ay!” said the giant, as he dragged him along; “ye’ll cotch it, now! I’ll boun’ Mas’r’s back ‘s up high! No sneaking out, now! Tell ye, ye’ll get it, and no

mistake! See how ye’ll look, now, helpin’ Mas’r’s niggers to run away! See what ye’ll get!”
The savage words none of them reached that ear!—a higher voice there was saying, “Fear not them that kill the body, and, after that, have no more that they can do.”

Nerve and bone of that poor man’s body vibrated to those words, as if touched by the finger of God; and he felt the strength of a thousand souls in one. As he passed

along, the trees and bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene of his degradation, seemed to whirl by him as the landscape by the rushing ear. His soul

throbbed,—his home was in sight,—and the hour of release seemed at hand.
“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 a 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 you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t know?” said Legree.
Tom was 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 you 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 again’ 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 to 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 ‘t will 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 came back, with seven-fold vehemence; and Legree, foaming

with rage, smote his victim to the ground.
Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear. What brother-man and brother-Christian must suffer,

cannot be told us, even in our secret chamber, it so harrows the soul! And yet, oh my country! these things are done under the shadow of thy laws! O, Christ! thy

church sees them, almost in silence!
But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an instrument of torture, degradation and shame, into a symbol of glory, honor, and immortal life; and, where His

spirit is, neither degrading stripes, nor blood, nor insults, can make the Christian’s last struggle less than glorious.
Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was bearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes?
Nay! There stood by him ONE,—seen by him alone,—”like unto the Son of God.”
The tempter stood by him, too,—blinded by furious, despotic will,—every moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the innocent. But the brave, true

heart was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save; nor could utmost extremity wring from him words, save

of prayers and holy trust.
“He’s most gone, Mas’r,” said Sambo, touched, in spite of himself, by the patience of his victim.
“Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him!—give it to him!” shouted Legree. “I’ll take every drop of blood he has, unless he confesses!”
Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. “Ye poor miserable critter!” he said, “there ain’t no more ye can do! I forgive ye, with all my soul!” and he fainted

entirely away.
“I b’lieve, my soul, he’s done for, finally,” said Legree, stepping forward, to look at him. “Yes, he is! Well, his mouth’s shut up, at last,—that’s one comfort!”
Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul? that soul, past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom the fire that never shall be quenched is already

burning!
Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and pious prayers had struck upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks, who had been the instruments of cruelty upon him;

and, the instant Legree withdrew, they took him down, and, in their ignorance, sought to call him back to life,—as if that were any favor to him.
“Sartin, we ‘s been doin’ a drefful wicked thing!” said Sambo; “hopes Mas’r’ll have to ‘count for it, and not we.”
They washed his wounds,—they provided a rude bed, of some refuse cotton, for him to lie down on; and one of them, stealing up to the house, begged a drink of brandy of

Legree, pretending that he was tired, and wanted it for himself. He brought it back, and poured it down Tom’s throat.
“O, Tom!” said Quimbo, “we’s been awful wicked to ye!”
“I forgive ye, with all my heart!” said Tom, faintly.
“O, Tom! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow?” said Sambo;—”Jesus, that’s been a standin’ by you so, all this night!—Who is he?”
The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured forth a few energetic sentences of that wondrous One,—his life, his death, his everlasting presence, and power

to save.
They wept,—both the two savage men.
“Why didn’t I never hear this before?” said Sambo; “but I do believe!—I can’t help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us!”
“Poor critters!” said Tom, “I’d be willing to bar all I have, if it’ll only bring ye to Christ! O, Lord! give me these two more souls, I pray!”
That prayer was answered!

CHAPTER XLI
The Young Master
Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up through the avenue of China trees, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horse’s neck, sprang out and inquired for

the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby; and, to show how he came to be there, we must go back in our story.
The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by some unfortunate accident, been detained, for a month or two, at some remote post-office, before it reached its

destination; and, of course, before it was received, Tom was already lost to view among the distant swamps of the Red River.
Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest concern; but any immediate action upon it was an impossibility. She was then in attendance on the sick-bed of her

husband, who lay delirious in the crisis of a fever. Master George Shelby, who, in the interval, had changed from a boy to a tall young man, was her constant and

faithful assistant, and her only reliance in superintending his father’s affairs. Miss Ophelia had taken the precaution to send them the name of the lawyer who did

business for the St. Clares; and the most that, in the emergency, could be done, was to address a letter of inquiry to him. The sudden death of Mr. Shelby, a few days

after, brought, of course, an absorbing pressure of other interests, for a season.
Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife’s ability, by appointing her sole executrix upon his estates; and thus immediately a large and complicated amount of

business was brought upon her hands.
Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself to the work of straightening the entangled web of affairs; and she and George were for some time occupied with

collecting and examining accounts, selling property and settling debts; for Mrs. Shelby was determined that everything should be brought into tangible and recognizable

shape, let the consequences to her prove what they might. In the mean time, they received a letter from the lawyer to whom Miss Ophelia had referred them, saying that

he knew nothing of the matter; that the man was sold at a public auction, and that, beyond receiving the money, he knew nothing of the affair.
Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result; and, accordingly, some six months after, the latter, having business for his mother, down the river,

resolved to visit New Orleans, in person, and push his inquiries, in hopes of discovering Tom’s whereabouts, and restoring him.
After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest accident, George fell in with a man, in New Orleans, who happened to be possessed of the desired information;

and with his money in his pocket, our hero took steamboat for Red River, resolving to find out and re-purchase his old friend.
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 h—l of a 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 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.
Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face,—tears of late repentance in the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dying love and patience had awakened to repentance,

and bitter prayers, breathed over him to a late-found Saviour, of whom they scarce knew more than the name, but whom the yearning ignorant heart of man never implores

in vain.
Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and, by overhearing, learned the sacrifice that had been made for her and Emmeline, had been there, the night

before, defying the danger of detection; and, moved by the last few words which the affectionate soul had yet strength to breathe, the long winter of despair, the ice

of years, had given way, and the dark, despairing woman had wept and prayed.
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-bed
Feel soft as down pillows are.”
Tears which did honor to his manly heart fell from the young man’s eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.
“O, 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 heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, on my

soul!”
“You shan’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.
“O, 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.”
“O, don’t die! It’ll kill me!—it’ll break my heart to think what you’ve suffered,—and lying 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! O, Mas’r George!

Heaven has come! I’ve got the victory!—the Lord Jesus has given it to me! Glory be to His name!”
George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power, with which these broken sentences were uttered. He sat gazing in silence.
Tom grasped his hand, and continued,—”Ye mustn’t, now, tell Chloe, poor soul! how ye found me;—’t would be so drefful to her. Only tell her ye found me going into

glory; and that I couldn’t stay for no one. And tell her the Lord’s stood by me everywhere and al’ays, and made everything light and easy. And oh, the poor chil’en,

and the baby;—my old heart’s been most broke for ’em, time and agin! Tell ’em all to follow me—follow me! Give my love to Mas’r, and dear good Missis, and everybody in

the place! Ye don’t know! ‘Pears like I loves ’em all! I loves every creature everywhar!—it’s nothing but love! O, Mas’r George! what a thing ‘t is to be a Christian!”
At this moment, Legree sauntered up to the door of the shed, looked in, with a dogged air of affected carelessness, and turned away.
“The old Satan!” said George, in his indignation. “It’s a comfort to think the devil will pay him for this, some of these days!”
“O, don’t!—oh, ye mustn’t!” said Tom, grasping his hand; “he’s a poor mis’able critter! it’s awful to think on ‘t! Oh, if he only could repent, the Lord would forgive

him now; but I’m ‘feared he never will!”
“I hope he won’t!” said George; “I never want to see him in heaven!”
“Hush, Mas’r George!—it worries me! Don’t feel so! He an’t done me no real harm,—only opened the gate of the kingdom for me; that’s all!”
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.
George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that the place was holy; and, as he closed the lifeless eyes, and rose up from the dead, only one thought possessed

him,—that expressed by his simple old friend,—”What a thing it is to be a Christian!”
He turned: Legree was standing, sullenly, behind him.
Something in that dying scene had checked the natural fierceness of youthful passion. The presence of the man was simply loathsome to George; and he felt only an

impulse to get away from him, with as few words as possible.
Fixing his keen dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, pointing to the dead, “You have got all you ever can of him. What shall I pay you for the body? I will take it

away, and bury it decently.”
“I don’t sell dead niggers,” said Legree, doggedly. “You are welcome to bury him where and when you like.”
“Boys,” said George, in an authoritative tone, to two or three negroes, who were looking at the body, “help me lift him up, and carry him to my wagon; and get me a

spade.”
One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted George to carry the body to the wagon.
George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did not countermand his orders, but stood, whistling, with an air of forced unconcern. He sulkily followed them to

where the wagon stood at the door.
George spread his cloak in the wagon, and had the body carefully disposed of in it,—moving the seat, so as to give it room. Then he turned, fixed his eyes on Legree,

and said, with forced composure,
“I have not, as yet, said to you what I think of this most atrocious affair;—this is not the time and place. But, sir, this innocent blood shall have justice. I will

proclaim this murder. I will go to the very first magistrate, and expose you.”
“Do!” said Legree, snapping his fingers, scornfully. “I’d like to see you doing it. Where you going to get witnesses?—how you going to prove it?—Come, now!”
George saw, at once, the force of this defiance. There was not a white person on the place; and, in all southern courts, the testimony of colored blood is nothing. He

felt, at that moment, as if he could have rent the heavens with his heart’s indignant cry for justice; but in vain.
“After all, what a fuss, for a dead nigger!” said Legree.
The word was as a spark to a powder magazine. Prudence was never a cardinal virtue of the Kentucky boy. George turned, and, with one indignant blow, knocked Legree

flat upon his face; and, as he stood over him, blazing with wrath and defiance, he would have formed no bad personification of his great namesake triumphing over the

dragon.
Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being knocked down. If a man lays them fairly flat in the dust, they seem immediately to conceive a respect for him; and

Legree was one of this sort. As he rose, therefore, and brushed the dust from his clothes, he eyed the slowly-retreating wagon with some evident consideration; nor did

he open his mouth till it was out of sight.
Beyond the boundaries of the plantation, George had noticed a dry, sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees; there they made the grave.
“Shall we take off the cloak, Mas’r?” said the negroes, when the grave was ready.
“No, no,—bury it with him! It’s all I can give you, now, poor Tom, and you shall have it.”
They laid him in; and the men shovelled away, silently. They banked it up, and laid green turf over it.
“You may go, boys,” said George, slipping a quarter into the hand of each. They lingered about, however.
“If young Mas’r would please buy us—” said one.
“We’d serve him so faithful!” said the other.
“Hard times here, Mas’r!” said the first. “Do, Mas’r, buy us, please!”
“I can’t!—I can’t!” said George, with difficulty, motioning them off; “it’s impossible!”
The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence.
“Witness, eternal God!” said George, kneeling on the grave of his poor friend; “oh, witness, that, from this hour, I will do what one man can to drive out this curse

of slavery from my land!”
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 whom he 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.”

Gloria Naylor

Biographical information:

• Born in New York, graduate of Brooklyn College and Yale University
• Greatly influenced by the writings of Toni Morrison
• Failed marriage – it lasted only ten days
• Travelled abroad
• won American Book Award for the novel

“Lucielia Louise Turner” from The Women of Brewster Place

• the novel is the story of seven African-American women and their struggles in facing life’s harsh realities while living in Brewster Place, which is a dead-end

street
• this chapter reveals the tragedies that occur within the life of an African-American woman living in the twentieth century

Major themes of the novel:

• plight of the American black woman
• an African-American’s struggles to maintain identity in a world dominated by whites
• abuse
• tragedies
• the “wall” at the end of the street is used as a symbol

Quotes to consider:

“It was all there: the frustration of being left alone, sick, with a month-old baby; her humiliation reflected in the caseworker’s blue eyes for the

unanswerable ‘you can find him to have it, but you can’t find him to take care of it’ smile; the raw urges that crept, uninvited, between her thighs on countless

nights; the external whys all meshed with the explainable hate and unexplainable love.”

“Propelled by the sound, Mattie rocked her out of that bed, out of that room, into a blue vastness just underneath the sun and above time. She rocked her over

Aegean seas so clean they shone like crystal, so clear the fresh blood of sacrificed babies torn from their mother’s arms and given to Neptune could be seen like pink

froth on the water. She rocked her on and on, past Dachau, where soul-gutted Jewish mothers swept up their children’s entrails off laboratory floors. They flew past

the spilled brains of Senegalese infants whose mothers had dashed them on the wooden sides of slave ships . . . ”

Phillis Wheatley

Biographical Information:

• brought here from Africa at age 7
• taken care of by the Wheatleys
• wrote verse at a young age, educated
• The first African-American to publish a book of imaginative writing
• Started the African-American literary tradition
• Started the African-American women’s literary tradition
• Use of meter and rhyme is precise and correct
• Combined influences of religion and neoclassicism in poetry
• Articulates the theme of freedom
• Wrote numerous elegies suggesting a conscious poetic escape from slavery

Themes/Issues to consider:

• idea that all of us are the same in God’s eyes, we can all be saved and are all children of God
• notice the images of dark (“benighted,” for example) and light (black and white)
• darkness of the color of skin associated with Cain (mark) may be an indication of how others viewed Wheatley and her race

Harriet Beecher Stowe

• Uncle Tom’s Cabin is considered to be one of the great sentimental novels of the 19th century.
• The novel was written in 1851-52, and she insisted that the Lord himself wrote it
• Stowe went beyond what 19th century women writers normally wrote, by using dialect, for example
• She was the daughter of a clergyman, Lyman Beecher, who was a “fire and brimstone” preacher
• She married a clergyman and wrote stories to make money to help feed their family

Uncle Tom’s Cabin

• Tom is the strongest character; like the Biblical Sampson, destroys the destroyer; exhibits Christ-like characteristics
• Legree (the opposite of Tom’s Christ-like character) is surprised by Tom’s willingness to forgive him; Tom “saves” two other slaves; he is an example of true

Christianity for slaves and exhibits the tenet of the Ten Commandment: “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”

• Themes:

1. Evils of slavery – destroys the family; destroys the soul and
belief in God

2. Motherhood – teaches women to care about others as well as
their own family (Eliza and Mrs. Shelby, for example)

3. Nature of Christianity -love and forgiveness for all people;
self-sacrifice for Tom (willing to die for others); contrasted in novel

4. Importance of Home – a place where people learn to love
each other and God; Home = Heaven
Uncle Tom’s Cabin – symbol for heaven, an altar of the religion of love

5. Individual vs. Society – How can you live morally if your society is corrupt? Can one man change society? Some help fugitive slaves, but they cannot find an

answer to abolish the situation.

• It is considered to be a sentimental although realistic novel:

1. Instability of the black man/woman’s home
2. Did not allow readers to escape reality of the evil of slavery
3. Influence of mothers; mother’s love can make a difference
4. Only white men who can feel a mother’s feelings can abolish slavery
5. Addresses audience directly with piercing questions: How fast would you run if your child had been sold?

Consider this: What does the opening scene reveal about slave traders and slaveowners? Do you think a slaveowner such as Shelby would be common, or could there have

been more like Simon Legree? Do Tom and the Shelby slaves have a good life? Would it be a better life if they were freed? How do you feel about Tom’s “forgiving”

nature? And, finally, could a man like Little George Shelby at the end do “what one man can” to abolish slavery?

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