between the fugitive and his class, always in the night, and the runaway often visits the adjacent cabins. This is done with all possible precaution, lest some white person detect them. But they never fear a betrayal by one of their own race; nor will the hope of reward or the fear of punishment generally extort any information that might lead to the capture of the fugitive. The cave of the two men was discovered by means of the smoke issuing from its mouth, and they were carried to their owner. Yet even these never resorted to such a life again. One was sold about twenty years afterward, to a neighbor; the other died at a great age, the property of his master’s grandson. Many slave-owners feel such compassion for the runaway, upon the general ground that he has been driven to the step, that they will make no effort to capture him. I knew a gentleman to come suddenly upon one fast asleep in a large wood. He awoke the man, asked him a few questions, and, after advising him to return to his master, with a request from himself not to punish him, he left him.    My earliest recollection of myself is, as a little, black, dirty, uncombed, and unwashed animal, scantily covered with odds and ends of cotton or woolen garments in cool weather, and in the warm season neither having nor desiring any other covering than my own dark skin. And this was universal amongst children, whether male or female, until nine or ten years old. The truth is, the whites in that locality were in a remote situation, at a distance from the frequented roads, and far behind most parts of the state in intelligence and improvement. Raising tobacco was the one sole object in life. They ate tobacco — they breathed tobacco — they talked tobacco — and they worked tobacco, all day long, and often far into the night, from the beginning to the end of the year. A crop, occupying so much time, and requiring so much attention, compelled both whites and blacks to neglect everything else; and, generally, the former were ignorant and exacting, the latter debased and barbarous, with scarcely a want fully satisfied, and with little more intelligence than the beasts that perish. Since the period I speak of, the march of improvement has reached even that secluded neighborhood, and the condition of all classes has greatly improved.

I sat in the ashes, or made dirt-pies in the sand, or hunted for berries or birds’ nests, until old enough to carry a pail of water on my head; and then I was made, by my parents, the carrier of everything not beyond my strength. I have heard of Indians called Flatheads, because of the shape given to their skulls by pressure. But, if pressure can flatten the human head, my race should all be thus deformed; for, in childhood, our heads are the universal vehicles of transportation. It may be that our skulls are mercifully fashioned a little thicker than those of the whites or Indians, in anticipation of this drudgery. A year or two later, I became the carrier of water and food to the hands in the fields; and then was advanced to the post of cow-driver and attendant on the dairy-maid. Now I began to be noticed by my master, and came gradually to be considered in his employment, and began to plow and attend to horses.

My young master, being a bachelor, was much from home; and as soon as I could manage a horse pretty well, I became his attendant — his body-servant, as such were called — on his journeys; he on one horse and I on another, with his portmanteau, as large as myself, strapped behind my saddle. I was now in that privileged station, from which I looked down with contempt, not only on most of my own race, but on all poor white folks, as we called all who had not a fair share of property or intelligence. My position as attendant on a gentleman-bachelor of large property, who traveled a good deal, and was at all times kind to his dependents, was, perhaps, the most pleasant that slavery can exhibit. If my master thought it necessary to reprove me, ’twas always more in kindness than in anger, and to blows he never resorted. In fact, I was too much indulged to fulfill properly my duties as a slave. When at home, I now became the waiter in the house, and a kind of doer of all work about the premises, and, consequently, avoided altogether subjection to the overseer. My master intrusted the management of his lands and field-hands too much, perhaps, to overseers — those dreaded and despised obstacles between slaves and their owners, who commonly have no bowels of compassion for the slave, and little care for the interests of the master. Overseers are fruitful causes

of disturbance and resistance. Most slaves submit at once to the most unjust treatment from the master, but shrink with horror from the overseer’s hands. They think correction belongs of right to the master, the they know the overseer cares nothing for them; nor do they ever expect his justice to be tempered with mercy. It is true, the severity of the overseer’s rule is usually in the ratio of the master’s requirement; so that, if the latter be considerate, not in haste to be rich, he overrules the overseer and protects his negroes pretty well. This was remarkably the case with my master.    A material circumstance in my life now occurred. My master’s father had emancipated an elderly negro, named Joe, before such acts were prohibited, and had conveyed to him about sixty acres of land, part of my present master’s estate. This old man and his wife now brought from Williamsburg a young female relation named Sally, with her husband and one or two children, who were all free. Sally was one of the most beautiful of women. I have never seen one of her color I thought comparable to her. I soon became madly in love. I knew that what is called the marriage tie is usually of little obligation amongst slaves; and that free negroes, being no better taught, if as well, were probably not more virtuous. And how can the slave be expected to observe the marriage vows? In most cases they make none — plight no troth — have a sort of understanding that their agreement shall continue until one or both choose to form some other tie. And even if wishing to continue faithful unto death, they know their master deems their vows null and void, if he choose to separate them; and he often does thus without scruple, by selling one or both. When their superiors disregard their slaves’ obligations, the slaves will think lightly of them, too; and this utter contempt of the whites for the sacredness of marriage amongst

slaves, has done more to demoralize and brutalize the slave than all the other personal wrongs he suffers. This brings them all, the good and the bad, to a common level. A common lot befalls them all. The sentiment that should exist in marriage, is excluded or crushed by the necessity of their condition; and the tie becomes a mere liaison, founded upon the instinct of the brute. But to proceed: I determined, if possible, to get Sally from her husband, and make her my wife; and, after much delay, and more that cannot be told, I found she was not superior to her race or her condition. For a good while, she might be said to have two husbands; but finally her first husband went back, with his own children, to Williamsburg, in company with old Joe, who had sold his land, and Sally became my acknowledged wife. My master strongly disapproved my conduct; but, always kind to the unthankful and the evil, her permitted me, as he did his other men, to build a cabin on the margin of the forest, and thither I carried Sally. And now, after the lapse of more than thirty years, and I am tottering on the brink of the grave, I cannot say that I feel any great compunction for having taken another man’s wife to be my wife. So common has destiny or necessity made it, that we think it sanctioned by custom, and that our masters are responsible for whatever of wrong there be in it.    Sally bore me several children, and in a few years I had a large family to maintain. My wife and children were free, and my master, after giving them a house and patch of ground, fuel, and a supply of meal weekly, and having more than enough of his own slaves to provide for, could not be expected to give them more. Sally, I regret to say, was too much given to sloth and improvidence — those plague-spots inherited from our ancestors, and fostered by our condition here. Most of my time, during the day, being given to my master’s interests, necessity compelled me to resort to expedients, to which my own depraved nature and the example of other slaves already tempted me. There were, in our vicinity, plenty of poor white folks, as we contemptuously called them, whom we cordially despised, but with whom we carried on a regular traffic at our master’s expense.

I became a constant dealer in grain and tobacco with certain white men, who purchased grain at a few cents or a pint of whisky per bushel, and tobacco at about the same rate. My master, I now believe, suspected that he was unmercifully robbed; but with a Christian forbearance, as rare as it is injudicious, preferred suffering wrong to punishing the wrong-doer. The overseer had tact enough to know that he should not be more vigilant than his employer required; and thus we could carry on our operations by night, almost without fear of detection. Most of my master’s men cultivated a few square yards in corn and tobacco, merely as a pretext for reaping a large crop, and I followed the example. Tobacco was our favorite crop. Its value, compared with its weight, was much greater than that of grain, and a man’s shoulders could bear off, in one night, what would bring a sum sufficient for a week or two. Sometimes a daring theft would provoke a general search throughout the neighborhood, and those so unlucky as to be detected, were severely punished. On one occasion only this was my misfortune. A neighbor discovered some stolen tobacco in possession of one of his men. To this man I had intrusted some, to be carried with his to Richmond. This we had permission to do. But the man had, at least, received some stolen tobacco, and ’tis probable I had added to my store in the same way, though, at this distance of time, I cannot be sure. We were both carried before a magistrate, and punished with forty stripes, save one, most vigorously applied.

But these little mischances never long interrupted our operations. We thought — and slaves will always think — they have a right — of the kind which the whites call a moral right — to a fair proportion of the proceeds of their labor, and that any means are excusable towards securing that portion. Hence, theft from the master is generally deemed a light offense, if not strictly justifiable. They think the master defrauds them publicly, and they will steal from him privately, and that the secret act is no worse than the open injury. In fact, slavery not only renders the slave dishonest, but it makes the poorest whites dishonest, too. The facility with which they can make enormous profits by their trade with slaves, and the impunity afforded by their legal privileges, tempt them beyond what their feeble

moral sense can bear, and they become the most vicious and despicable creatures upon earth, whether black or white.    My children, as they became large enough to be useful, were placed in the surrounding families, or I should have found it impossible to support them, by fair means or foul; and after all, my family lived poorly enough. After some years the neighboring whites began to demand the removal of this family of free blacks, either because they suspected it to be the centre of the nocturnal traffic, or because their presence might render the slaves dissatisfied. This demand soon became general and loud; and my master, thinking it best to yield to the increasing discontent, advised Sally to move elsewhere. She was about to set off to Williamsburg, when she was taken sick, it was never known of what disease — some thought it brought on by grief — and after a few weeks she was snatched from me by a greater, but not more inexorable, power than the white neighbors. I was then more than forty years old, and had some of our younger children with me. They were placed with my mother and other women on the plantation, and I found myself a lonely and discontented man. I believed myself to have been cruelly wronged in some way. I could not clearly decide whether by the neighbors, or by the world, or by the laws of the land, and I became morose, quarrelsome, and vengeful. Like Cain, my hand was against every man, and every man’s hand against me. I avoided much communication, for several years, with my fellow-slaves, and became careless and reckless. I could not then perceive, in my wife’s death, a just retribution and requital of her first husband’s wrongs. I could not perceive that justice was meted to me as I had measured it to him. But now I hope I can say, that whatever may have been my actual guilt in winning her, I deserved to lose her.

Now, sole occupant of my cabin, I was too much engaged out of doors to render it comfortable, nor did I care how dirty or untidy it was. I disregarded the little luxuries coveted by some slaves. A stool or a broken chair sufficed for a seat; a rude bedstead of undressed boards, with some old clothes or blankets, ministered adequately to my rest; and a gridiron, a skillet, and old hoe, a small pot, and one or two plates, supplied an abundant kitchen apparatus. In cold weather, the numerous crevices between the logs, which I was too careless to fill with clay, admitted such draughts of air that the only comfortable spot was the corner in the ample fireplace, and there, on my rough stool, with my shins almost in the fire, I passed the night — when not on some secret expedition. I raised a few fowls and a pig, annually; but the permission to have the latter is not often granted.

My master had an only child, a daughter, who was now about to be married; but, a few weeks before that event, he died, after a painful and lingering illness. He had all his life been embarrassed by his father’s debts, and had sold, from time to time, at least five-sixths of his land, and many slaves. The remaining slaves felt a painful interest in their master’s death, and the marriage of their young mistress. They were about to fall into the hands of a man of whom they knew little, and who, they thought, could not be as kind and forbearing as their old master. None were sold to pay debts, and we all came, almost imperceptibly, into the possession of the young mistress’s husband, and soon found it necessary to be more regular in our duties. I had so long done much as I pleased, that I was still headstrong and heedless; but not many months after my new master assumed authority, I paid so little regard to some directions, that he instructed the overseer to chastise me. This astonished, but subdued me. I had not had stripes inflicted since the affair of the tobacco; but, somehow or other, I felt that I deserved correction, and I believe the significant hint had a salutary effect on all the slaves. Our master was neither exacting nor unkind — indulgent as far as he thought reasonable — but requiring a fair performance of the various duties and labors of the farm. I now became more regular at my work and in my habits, and in a year or two took another wife, a slave, on a plantation five or six miles distant. I say I took a wife, for we literally took each other, the taking constituting the marriage. This time, also, I took another man’s wife, but he had been dead a year or more. I had the usual permission to go to my wife’s house every Saturday afternoon, and return on Monday morning.

I still had my cabin at home; but it became, if possible, more uncomfortable and more neglected than ever, because I was content to make any shift for five nights in the week, relying upon the rest and repose of the other two to relieve the strain on my faculties.    A few years after I got my second wife, and when I was about fifty-five years old, my master removed to what is called the Valley of Virginia. Nearly all my living children were in Richmond, and, at my request, I was permitted to go thither, to be hired. But I had other views. I thought, after my master’s removal to a great distance, I might, with my children’s help, live uncontrolled in Richmond. I therefore took care neither to be hired, nor to return to my master. After a while he understood my device, and made a deed of gift of me to a relative of his wife, who lived in the neighborhood he had left. This cousin, finding I was lurking about my old home — for I was afraid to remain long in Richmond — requested me, through some of his slaves, to come to him. Afraid of being apprehended, I thought it best to comply; but not believing that I owed service to any but the master over the mountains, I neglected my duties, and, in truth, was unmanageable. After a short trial, this, my third master, sold me in Richmond, for fifty dollars. I now found myself condemned to harder labor than ever before. I was required to do more than my age or strength could bear, was scantily fed and clothed, and was often punished. I now bitterly lamented my folly in not going with my second master over the mountains, and, for a long time, I tried to mature some plan for reaching him. I got, from one of his men, who had been to the valley, and was then hired in Richmond, some little information about the route; and, at length, after undergoing, for five or six years, more hardships than in my whole previous life, one night, in the month of May, I fled from Richmond and my hard master, and began, on foot, a journey of one hundred and fifty miles, through a country, the greater part of which was entirely unknown to me. I traveled almost wholly at night, because I knew there was great danger of being apprehended as a runaway. I had only a few cents, and provisions for a day or two — was in rags — and weak and emaciated from age and the excesses of my early life. But the belief that, if I could reach my best friends, I should be treated with kindness during the little remnant of life, encouraged me to struggle on. When my means were exhausted, I occasionally begged a little food from other slaves, and sometimes got directions for the way. Once over the mountains, I found nobody molested negroes, and I traveled more by day; and, at length, worn down with weariness and want, I knew I must be near the desired haven. A house was pointed out, by a passing slave, as the home of my former master; but, even then, I was afraid to approach by day. At last, towards night, I ventured up to a house which, I was confident, was occupied by slaves. As I reached the door, I was met by a young man with a light, whom I remembered as a boy some eight years before. To his inquiry — “Who are you?” — I made no reply; when he held the light to my face, and immediately shouted: “Why, if here ain’t our Ralph.” I had thus safely accomplished what very few slaves could hope to do, and what my fellow-slave in Richmond asserted to be impossible.

I was kindly received, and my pressing wants were at once supplied. My flight from my legal owner was soon known. My protector well knew he was liable to prosecution for harboring a runaway; but I was infirm and nearly past labor, and he was too humane to take any steps to restore me to my owner, or to refuse to support me. He never inquired the name of that owner, nor do I believe he ever knew it. After some time, finding no warning of my flight in the Richmond papers, he inferred that my master did not care to recover me, and permitted me to work in the garden. I was not required to do so, and what I did was done willingly. My protector would sometimes tell me, in jest, that he must inform my master where I was concealed; but I believe he said it only as a means of putting me on my good behavior. I soon discovered slavery to be entirely different in that part of the valley. Almost universally slaves are abundantly fed and clothed, and corporeal punishment is rare. They are civilly treated by all classes of whites, and are very seldom required to show a pass. In this farming and grazing country, the labor is light, except in harvest and in thrashing; and

nowhere in Virginia is slavery so tolerable as in the valley.    And now, after enjoying, for more than two years, that rest which my feeble old age requires, I find myself hastening to the grave; and in what frame of mind? Many of the slaves, with whom I was brought up, were members of the Baptist church, and, I now believe, were consistently pious, according to their knowledge. But I had always scoffed at religion and the religious. I loved too well the wages of iniquity to think of a hereafter; or, if I did, it was in a way common to many of my race — that a merciful God would not punish us here, and in the next life too — that, after a life of slavery, he would give us our reward. But, with death close at hand, my blindness and ignorance are, I hope, a little dispelled. In my imperfect, and, I fear, improper, way, I try to ask God’s mercy, and to put my trust in the Saviour; but ’tis all dark before me, and I fear that, in a little while, it will be said of me, he died as a dog dieth. Weak to prostration, and with the swollen frame of dropsy, I can only wait till my change comes, often crying out, “God be merciful to me a sinner.”

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
(more…)

Cyrus Alexander tells John H. McCue of his financial woes and updates McCue on friends and family, including the engagement of their sister, Elizabeth, to a Colonel Bell, as well as offering comment on McCue’s estrangement with his father. Alexander also asks McCue if he knows of a “cheap hand” to work at the house.
Waynesboro Dec. 18th 1858
Dr Jno

Yours of the 15th came to hand yesterday, and found me in a sad fix for lifting our note. I saw (Our Brother!) D S Bell to day , and he permitted me to renew it, which was a godsend indeed, for I never in all my life have been so hard up. We are all in the habit of always complaining of hard times, but without exaggeration I have never seen anything like it here. I have been particularly unfortunate in obtaining means to meet the demands upon me. I have not been able to get a Dollar from Imboden or Saml. Steele, and my hope of the fund in Kinneys [ hands] upon which I chiefly relied, were dashed by his giving a Deed to his creditors a week since, thereby tying up this fund, and probably causing me serious loss in the end. [unclear: His] official Bond is not regarded as covering his receipts for any other year than 52 — which does not embrace my fund. I could not induce Baldwin to conclude a settlement with him, & I employed Imboden to prepare for me a notice for Kinney during the last days of the court, which notice Brought the Deed.

After pretty heavy settlements on his wife in Lieu of Dowry, he next embraces all his indebtedness as Reciever , the amount of which no one seems to know. His assets are considerable, but whether the will cover his indebtedness as Reciever I have no means of ascertaining. Imboden thinks I will lose considerably. But I am rather disposed to think that I will some day come out. This affair has caused a great deal of “squirming” about Staunton, & it is thought that a considerable amount of this fund will be found in hands that will find it inconvenient to fork over.

Why have you not been over. I have looked for you for the last month. Your Fathers treatment of you I think is outrageous, but intirely in Keeping with all I have ever known of him. The Almighty Dollar is the power that governs all his actions. I am sorry that so serious a rupture has occurred between you, but under the circumstances it was inevitable.

The most important & funniest piece of news I have to communicate is that our sister Elizabeth is going to marry Col. Bell. As winter approaches her ” Rhumatis ” increases, and she has come to the conclusion that matrimony is the only remedy for her stiff Legs & other infirmities and I have concluded that the wonders of the world will never cease. Sarah, & myself have had some hearty laughs over this affair and wish you could be here to join us. I have not heard the particulars, but have ascertained that it will certainly be during the next month.*

I am sorry you did not get over to see Meg. She is looking remarkable well, and Prettier than in her younger days. her visit was not a very pleasan one to her, in consequence of the operation on her little Boy, which gave her a great-deal of anxiety & trouble. It was successful however, & he goes home greatly improved. Jno. Imboden has courted Miss McPhail, & will marry her, I understand, early in March. He has been gone all week on a visit to her. We are all about as usual and would like very much to see you all come over soon. Sarah joins with me in much love to yourself & Liz. Write me soon and Believe me as ever

yours

C. Alexander

I wish to hire a cheap hand for next year would prefer a man some 45 or 50 years old, steady and trusty, that would work without overseeing If you know of such a one write me.

END

LEGREE:
Go and send Cassy to me.
SAMBO:
Yes, mas’r. [(Exit.)]
LEGREE:
Curse the woman! she’s got a temper worse than the devil; I shall
do her an injury one of these days, if she isn’t careful. [(Re-enter Sambo,
frightened.)]
What’s the matter with you, you black scoundrel?
SAMBO:
S’help me, mas’r, she isn’t dere.
LEGREE:
I suppose she’s about the house somewhere?
SAMBO:
No, she isn’t, mas’r; I’s been all over de house and I can’t find
nothing of her nor Emmeline.
LEGREE:
Bolted, by the Lord! Call out the dogs! saddle my horse. Stop! are
you sure they really have gone?
SAMBO:
Yes, mas’r; I’s been in every room ‘cept the haunted garret and dey
wouldn’t go dere.
LEGREE:
I have it! Now, Sambo, you jest go and walk that Tom up here,
right away! [(Exit Sambo.)]
The old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter;
and I’ll have it out of his infernal black hide, or I’ll know the reason why! I hate him — I hate him! And isn’t he mine? Can’t I do what I like with him? Who’s to
hinder, I wonder? [(Tom is dragged on by Sambo and Quimbo, Legree grimly
confronting Tom.)]
Well, Tom, do you know I’ve made up my mind to kill you?
TOM:
It’s very likely, Mas’r.
LEGREE:
I — have — done — just — that — thing, Tom, unless you’ll tell me what
do you know about these yer gals? [(Tom is silent.)]
D’ye hear? Speak!
TOM:
I han’t got anything to tell, mas’r.
LEGREE:
Do you dare to tell me, you old black rascal, you don’t know?
Speak! Do you know anything?
TOM:
I know, mas’r; but I can’t tell anything. I can die!
LEGREE:
Hark ye, Tom! ye think, ’cause I have let you off before, I don’t mean
what I say; but, this time, I have 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:
Mas’r, if you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save you, I’d
give you 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. Do the worst you can,
my troubles will be over soon; but if you don’t repent yours won’t never end.

[(Legree strikes Tom down with the butt of his whip.)]
LEGREE:
How do you like that?
SAMBO:
He’s most gone, mas’r!
TOM:
[(Rises feebly on his hands.)]
There an’t no more you can do. I forgive
you with all my soul. [(Sinks back, and is carried off by Sambo and Quimbo.)]
LEGREE:
I believe he’s done for finally. Well, his mouth is shut up at last –
that’s one comfort. [(Enter George Shelby, Marks and Cute.)]
Strangers! Well
what do you want?
GEORGE:
I understand that you bought in New Orleans a negro named
Tom?
LEGREE:
Yes, I did buy such a fellow, and a devil of a bargain I had of it,
too! I believe he’s trying to die, but I don’t know as he’ll make it out.
GEORGE:
Where is he? Let me see him?
SAMBO:
Dere he is. [(Points to Tom).]
LEGREE:
How dare you speak? [(Drives Sambo and Quimbo off. George exits.)]
CUTE:
Now’s the time to nab him.
MARKS:
How are you, Mr. Legree?
LEGREE:
What the devil brought you here?
MARKS:
This little bit of paper. I arrest you for the murder of Mr. St.
Clare. What do you say to that?
LEGREE:
This is my answer! [(Makes a blow at Marks, who dodges, and Cute
receives the blow — he cries out and runs off, Marks fires at Legree, and follows
Cute.)]
I am hit! — the game’s up! [(Falls dead. Quimbo and Sambo return and
carry him off laughing.)]

[Enter: (George Shelby enters, supporting Tom. Music. They advance to front and Tom
falls.)]
GEORGE:
Oh! dear Uncle Tom! do wake — do speak once more! look up!
Here’s Master George — your own little Master George. Don’t you know me?
TOM:
[(Opening his eyes and speaking in a feeble tone.)]
Mas’r George! Bless de
Lord! it’s all I wanted! They hav’n't forgot me! It warms my soul; it does my old
heart good! Now I shall die content!
GEORGE:
You shan’t die! you mustn’t die, nor think of it. I have come to
buy you, and take you home.
TOM:
Oh, Mas’r George, you’re too late. The Lord has bought me, and is
going to take me home.
GEORGE:
Oh! don’t die. It will kill me — it will break my heart to think what
you have suffered, poor, poor fellow!
TOM:
Don’t call me, poor fellow! 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 has given it to me! Glory be to His
name! [(Dies.)]

[(Solemn music. George covers Uncle Tom with his cloak, and kneels over him.
Clouds work on and conceal them, and then work off.)]

MARKS:
By the land, stranger, but it strikes me that I’ve seen you somewhere
before.
CUTE:
By chowder! do you know now, that’s just what I was a going to say?
MARKS:
Isn’t your name Cute?
CUTE:
You’re right, I calculate. Yours is Marks, I reckon.
MARKS:
Just so.
CUTE:
Well, I swow, I’m glad to see you. [(They shake hands.)]
How’s your
wholesome?
MARKS:
Hearty as ever. Well, who would have thought of ever seeing you
again. Why, I thought you was in Vermont?
CUTE:
Well, so I was. You see I went there after that rich relation of mine –
but the speculation didn’t turn out well.
MARKS:
How so?
CUTE:
Why, you see, she took a shine to an old fellow — Deacon Abraham
Perry — and married him.
MARKS:
Oh, that rather put your nose out of joint in that quarter.
CUTE:
Busted me right up, I tell you. The Deacon did the hand-some thing
though, he said if I would leave the neighborhood and go out South again, he’d
stand the damage. I calculate I didn’t give him much time to change his mind.
and so, you see, here I am again.
MARKS:
What are you doing in that soldier rig?
CUTE:
Oh, this is my sign.
MARKS:
Your sign?
CUTE:
Yes; you see, I’m engaged just at present in an all-fired good
speculation, I’m a Fillibusterow.
MARKS:
A what?
CUTE:
A Fillubusterow! Don’t you know what that is? It’s Spanish for
Cuban Volunteer; and means a chap that goes the whole perker for glory and all
that ere sort of thing.
MARKS:
Oh! you’ve joined the order of the Lone Star!
CUTE:
You’ve hit it. You see I bought this uniform at a second hand
clothing store, I puts it on and goes to a benevolent individual and I says to

him, — appealing to his feelings, — I’m one of the fellows that went to Cuba and
got massacred by the bloody Spaniards. I’m in a destitute condition — give me a
trifle to pay my passage back, so I can whop the tyrannical cusses and avenge
my brave fellow soger what got slewed there.
MARKS:
How pathetic!
CUTE:
I tell you it works up the feelings of benevolent individuals dreadful-
ly. It draws tears from their eyes and money from their pockets. By chowder!
one old chap gave me a hundred dollars to help on the cause.
MARKS:
I admire a genius like yours.
CUTE:
But I say, what are you up to?
MARKS:
I am the traveling companion of a young gentleman by the name
of Shelby, who is going to the plantation of a Mr. Legree of the Red River, to
buy an old darkey who used to belong to his father.
CUTE:
Legree — Legree? Well, now, I calculate I’ve heard that ere name
afore.
MARKS:
Do you remember that man who drew a bowie knife on you in
New Orleans?
CUTE:
By chowder! I remember the circumstance just as well as if it was
yesterday; but I can’t say that I recollect much about the man, for you see I was
in something of a hurry about that time and didn’t stop to take a good look at
him.
MARKS:
Well, that man was this same Mr. Legree.
CUTE:
Do you know, now, I should like to pay that critter off!
MARKS:
Then I’ll give you an opportunity.
CUTE:
Chowder! how will you do that?
MARKS:
Do you remember the gentleman that interfered between you and
Legree?
CUTE:
Yes — well?
MARKS:
He received the blow that was intended for you, and died from
the effects of it. So, you see, Legree is a murderer, and we are only witnesses of
the deed. His life is in our hands.
CUTE:
Let’s have him right up and make him dance on nothing to the tune
of Yandee Doodle!
MARKS:
Stop a bit. Don’t you see a chance for a profitable speculation?
CUTE:
A speculation! Fire away, don’t be bashful, I’m the man for a
speculation.
MARKS:
I have made a deposition to the Governor of the state on all the
particulars of that affair at Orleans.
CUTE:
What did you do that for?
MARKS:
To get a warrant for his arrest.
CUTE:
Oh! and have you got it?
MARKS:
Yes; here it is. [(Takes out paper.)]
CUTE:
Well, now, I don’t see how you are going to make anything by that
bit of paper?
MARKS:
But I do. I shall say to Legree, I have got a warrant against you
for murder; my friend, Mr. Cute, and myself are the only witnesses who can ap-
pear against you. Give us a thousand dollars, and we will tear the warrant and
be silent.
CUTE:
Then Mr. Legree forks over a thousand dollars, and your friend
Cute pockets five hundred of it, is that the calculation?

MARKS:
If you will join me in the undertaking.
CUTE:
I’ll do it, by chowder!
MARKS:
Your hand to bind the bargain.
CUTE:
I’ll stick by you thro’ thick and thin.
MARKS:
Enough said.
CUTE:
Then shake.

[(They shake hands.)]
MARKS:
But I say, Cute, he may be contrary and show fight.
CUTE:
Never mind, we’ve got the law on our side, and we’re bound to stir
him up. If he don’t come down handsomely we’ll present him with a neck-tie
made of hemp!
MARKS:
I declare you’re getting spunky.
CUTE:
Well, I reckon, I am. Let’s go and have something to drink. Tell you
what, Marks, if we don’t get him, we’ll have his hide, by chowder!

[(Exeunt,
arm in arm.)]

LEGREE:
Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between Tom and the new
hands. [(Cassy steals on and stands behind him.)]
The fellow won’t be fit to work
for a week now, right in the press of the season.
CASSY:
Yes, just like you.
LEGREE:
Hah! you she-devil! you’ve come back, have you? [(Rises)]
CASSY:
Yes, I have; come to have my own way, too.
LEGREE:
You lie, you jade! I’ll be up to my word. Either behave yourself
or stay down in the quarters and fare and work with the rest.
CASSY:
I’d rather, ten thousand times, live in the dirtiest hole at the
quarters, than be under your hoof!
LEGREE:
But you are under my hoof, for all that, that’s one comfort; so sit
down here and listen to reason. [(Grasps her wrist.)]
CASSY:
Simon Legree, take care! [(Legree lets go his hold.)]
You’re afraid of me,
Simon, and you’ve reason to be; for I’ve got the Devil in me!
LEGREE:
I believe to my soul you have. After all, Cassy, why can’t you be
friends with me, as you used to?
CASSY:
[(Bitterly.)]
Used to!
LEGREE:
I wish, Cassy, you’d behave yourself decently.
CASSY:
You talk about behaving decently! and what have you been doing?
You haven’t even sense enough to keep from spoiling one of your best hands,
right in the most pressing season, just for your devilish temper.
LEGREE:
I was a fool, it’s fact, to let any such brangle come up. Now when
Tom set up his will he had to be broke in.
CASSY:
You’ll never break him in.
LEGREE:
Won’t I? I’d like to know if I won’t? He’d be the first nigger that
ever come it round me! I’ll break every bone in his body but he shall give up.
[(Enter Sambo, with a paper in his hand, stands bowing.)]
What’s that, you dog?
SAMBO:
It’s a witch thing, mas’r.
LEGREE:
A what?
SAMBO:
Something that niggers gits from witches. Keep ‘em from feeling
when they’s flogged. He had it tied round his neck with a black string.

[(Legree takes the paper and opens it. A silver dollar drops on the stage, and a long
curl of light hair twines around his finger.)]
LEGREE:
Damnation. [(Stamping and writhing, as if the hair burned him.)]
Where
did this come from? Take it off! burn it up! [(Throws the curl away.)]

What did you bring it to me for?
SAMBO:
[(Trembling.)]
I beg pardon, mas’r; I thought you would like to see um.
LEGREE:
Don’t you bring me any more of your devilish things. [(Shakes his
fist at Sambo who runs off. Legree kicks the dollar after him.)]
Blast it! where

did he get that? If it didn’t look just like — whoo! I thought I’d forgot that. Curse
me if I think there’s any such thing as forgetting anything, any how.
CASSY:
What is the matter with you, Legree? What is there in a simple curl
of fair hair to appall a man like you — you who are familiar with every form of
cruetly.
LEGREE:
Cassy, to-night the past has been recalled to me — the past that I
have so long and vainly striven to forget.
CASSY:
Has aught on this earth power to move a soul like thine?
LEGREE:
Yes, for hard and reprobate as I now seem, there has been a time
when I have been rocked on the bosom of a mother, cradled with prayers and
pious hymns, my now seared brow bedewed with the waters of holy baptism.
CASSY:
[(Aside.)]
What sweet memories of childhood can thus soften down
that heart of iron?
LEGREE:
In early childhood a fair-haired woman has led me, at the sound
of Sabbath bells, to worship and to pray. Born of a hard-tempered sire, on
whom that gentle woman had wasted a world of unvalued love, I followed in
the steps of my fgather. Boisterous, unruly and tyrannical, I despised all her
counsel, and would have none of her reproof, and, at an early age, broke from
her to seek my fortunes on the sea. I never came home but once after that; and
then my mother, with the yearning of a heart that must love something, and
had nothing else to love, clung to me, and sought with passionate prayers and
entreaties to win me from a life of sin.
CASSY:
That was your day of grace, Legree; then good angels called you,
and mercy held you by the hand.
LEGREE:
My heart inly relented; there was a conflict, but sin got the victory,
and I set all the force of my rough nature against the conviction of my cons-
cience. I drank and swore, was wilder and more brutal than ever. And one
night, when my mother, in the last agony of her despair, knelt at my feet, I
spurned her from me, threw her senseless on the floor, and with brutal curses fl-
ed to my ship.
CASSY:
Then the fiend took thee for his own.
LEGREE:
The next I heard of my mother was one night while I was carous-
ing among drunken companions. A letter was put in my hands. I opened it, and
a lock of long, curling hair fell from it, and twined about my fingers, even as
that lock twined but now. The letter told me that my mother was dead, and that
dying she blest and forgave me! [(Buries his face in his hands.)]
CASSY:
Why did you not even then renounce your evil ways?
LEGREE:
There is a dread, unhallowed necromancy of evil, that turns
things sweetest and holiest to phantoms of horror and afright. That pale, loving
mother, — her dying prayers, her forgiving love, — wrought in my demoniac
heart of sin only as a damning sentence, bringing with it a fearful looking for of
judgment and fiery indignation.
CASSY:
And yet you would not strive to avert the doom that threatened you.
LEGREE:
I burned the lock of hair and I burned the letter; and when I saw
them hissing and crackling in the flame, inly shuddered as I thought of
everlasting fires! I tried to drink and revel, and swear away the memory; but
often in the deep night, whose solemn stillness arraings the soul in forced com-
munion with itself, I have seen that pale mother rising by my bed-side, and felt
the soft twining of that hair around my fingers, ’till the cold sweat would roll
down my face, and I would spring from my bed in horror — horror! [(Falls in]

[chair — After a pause.)]
What the devil ails me? Large drops of sweat stand on
my forehead, and my heart beats heavy and thick with fear. I thought I saw
something white rising and glimmering in the gloom before me, and it seemed
to bear my mother’s face! I know one thing; I’ll let that fellow Tom alone, after
this. What did I want with his cussed paper? I believe I am bewitched sure
enough! I’ve been shivering and sweating ever since! Where did he get that hair?
It couldn’t have been that! I burn’d that up, I know I did! It would be a joke if
hair could rise from the dead! I’ll have Sambo and Quimbo up here to sing and
dance one of their dances, and keep off these horrid notions. Here, Sambo!
Quimbo! [(Exit.)]
CASSY:
Yes, Legree, that golden tress was charmed; each hair had in it a
spell of terror and remorse for thee, and was used by a mightier power to bind
thy cruel hands from inflicting uttermost evil on the helpless! [(Exit.)]

GEORGE:
At length my mission of mercy is nearly finished, I have reached
my journey’s end. I have now but to find the house of Mr. St. Clare, re-purchase
old Uncle Tom, and convey him back to his wife and children, in old Kentucky.
Some one approaches; he may, perhaps, be able to give me the information I re-
quire. I will accost him. [(Enter Marks.)]
Pray, sir, can you tell me where Mr. St.
Clare dwells?
MARKS:
Where I don’t hink you’ll be in a hurry to seek him.
GEORGE:
And where is that?
MARKS:
In the grave!
GEORGE:
Stay, sir! you may be able to give me some information concern-
ing Mr. St. Clare.
MARKS:
I beg pardon, sir, I am a lawyer; I can’t afford to give anything
GEORGE:
But you would have no objections to selling it?
MARKS:
Not the slightest.
GEORGE:
What do you value it at?
MARKS:
Well, say five dollars, that’s reasonable.
GEORGE:
There they are. [(Gives money.)]
Now answer me to the best of your
ability. Has the death of St. Clare caused his slaves to be sold?
MARKS:
It has.
GEORGE:
How were they sold?
MARKS:
At auction — they went dirt cheap.
GEORGE:
How were they bought — all in one lot?
MARKS:
No, they went to different bidders.
GEORGE:
Was you present at the sale?
MARKS:
I was.
GEORGE:
Do you remember seeing a negro among them called Tom?
MARKS:
What, Uncle Tom?
GEORGE:
The same — who bought him?
MARKS:
A Mr. Legree.
GEORGE:
Where is his plantation?
MARKS:
Up in Louisiana, on the Red River; but a man never could find it,
unless he had been there before.
GEORGE:
Who could I get to direct me there?
MARKS:
Well, stranger, I don’t know of any one just at present ‘cept

myself, could find it for you; it’s such an out-of-the-way sort of hole; and if you
are a mind to come down handsomely, why, I’ll do it.
GEORGE:
The reward shall be ample.
MARKS:
Enough said, stranger; let’s take the steamboat at once. [(Exeunt.)]

CASSY:
Drink all ye want. I knew how it would be. It isn’t the first time I’ve been
out in the night, carrying water to such as you.
TOM:
[(Returning cup.)]
Thank you, missis.
CASSY:
Don’t call me missis. I’m a miserable slave like yourself — a lower
one than you can ever be! It’s no use, my poor fellow, this you’ve been trying to
do. You were a brave fellow. You had the right on your side; but it’s all in vain
for you to struggle. You are in the Devil’s hands; he is the strongest, and you
must give up.
TOM:
Oh! how can I give up?
CASSY:
You see you don’t know anything about it; I do. Here you are, on a
lone plantation, ten miles from any other, in the swamps; not a white person
here who could testify, if you were burned alive. There’s no law here that can do
you, or any of us, the least good; and this man! there’s no earthly thing that he is
not bad enough to do. I could make one’s hair rise, and their teeth chatter, if I
should only tell what I’ve seen and been knowing to here; and it’s no use
resisting! Did I want to live with him? Wasn’t I a woman delicately bred? and
he! — Father in Heaven! what was he and is he? And yet I’ve lived with him
these five years, and cursed every moment of my life, night and day.
TOM:
Oh heaven! have you quite forgot us poor critters?
CASSY:
And what are these miserable low dogs you work with, that you
should suffer on their account? Every one of them would turn against you the
first time they get a chance. They are all of them as low and cruel to each other
as they can be; there’s no use in your suffering to keep from hurting them?
TOM:
What made ‘em cruel? If I give out I shall get used to it and grow,
little by little, just like ‘em. No, no, Missis, I’ve lost everything, wife, and
children, and home, and a kind master, and he would have set me free if he’d
only lived a day longer — I’ve lost everything in this world, and now I can’t lose
heaven, too: no I can’t get to be wicked besides all.
CASSY:
But it can’t be that He will lay sin to our account; he won’t charge
it to us when we are forced to it; he’ll charge it to them that drove us to it. Can I

do anything more for you? Shall I give you some more water?
TOM:
Oh missis! I wish you’d go to Him who can give you living waters!
CASSY:
Go to him! Where is he? Who is he?
TOM:
Our Heavenly Father!
CASSY:
I used to see the picture of him, over the altar, when I was a girl but
he isn’t here! there’s nothing here but sin, and long, long despair! There, there,
don’t talk any more, my poor fellow. Try to sleep, if you can. I must hasten
back, lest my absence be noted. Think of me when I am gone, Uncle Tom, and
pray, pray for me.

[(Music. Exit Cassy. Tom sinks back to sleep.)]