joyfully to Castelnovo. That night he lay a prisoner in the citadel of
Parma; while the Duchess, alone in her room with locked door, sobbed her
heart out and raved helplessly against the treachery of princes.
"So long as her nephew is in the citadel," said the Prince to himself,
"the Duchess will be in Parma."
The citadel of Parma is a colossal building with a flat roof 180 feet
above the level of the ground. On this roof are erected two structures:
one, the governor's residence; the other, the Famese tower, a prison
specially erected for a recalcitrant prince of earlier days. In this
tower Fabrice, as a prisoner of importance, was confined; and as he
looked from the window on the evening of his arrival and beheld the
superb panorama of the distant Alps, he reflected pleasantly that he
might have found a worse dungeon.
On the next morning his attention was absorbed by something nearer at
hand. His window overlooked one belonging to the governor's palace; in
this window were many bird cages, and at eleven o'clock a maiden came to
feed the birds. Fabrice recognised her as Celia Conti, the governor's
daughter. He succeeded in attracting her attention; she blushed and
withdrew. But next day she came again at the same hour. On the third
day, however, a heavy wooden shutter was clapped upon the window.
Nothing daunted, Fabrice proceeded patiently to cut a peep-hole in the
shutter by aid of the mainspring of his watch. When he had succeeded in
removing a square piece of the wood, he looked with delight upon Clelia
gazing at his window with eyes of profound pity, unconscious that she
was observed.
Gradually he broke down the maiden's reserve. She discovered the secret
of the peep-hole; she consented to communicate with him; finally the two
conversed by a system of signals. Fabrice even dared to tell Clelia that
he loved her--and truly he was in love, for the first time in his life.
The worst of it was that these declarations were apt to bring the
conversation to an end; so Fabrice was sparing of them.
Clelia, meanwhile, was in sore perplexity. Her father, General Fabio
Conti the governor, was a political opponent of Count Mosca, and had
ambitions of office. These ambitions might be forwarded, he deemed, by
the successful marriage of his daughter. He did not desire that she
should remain a lovely recluse, feeding birds on the top of the citadel.
Accordingly he had presented to her an ultimatum; either she must marry
the Marquis Crescenzi, the wealthiest nobleman of Parma, who sought her
hand, or she must retire to a convent.
The signalled conversations with Fabrice, therefore, could not last
long. And yet she had beyond doubt fallen deeply in love with Fabrice.
She knew he was her father's prisoner, and belonged to the party hostile
to her father; she was ashamed, as a daughter, of her love for him. But
she admired him, and pitied him; she was well aware that he was a victim
of political intrigue, for why should a nobleman of Fabrice's standing
be thus punished for killing a mere actor? The stolen interviews with
the captive were as dear to her as to him; and so dear were they to him
that, after months of imprisonment he declared that he had never been so
happy in his life.
-IV.--The Escape-
One night, as Fabrice looked through his peep-hole, he became aware of a
light flashing from the town. Obviously some attempt was being made at
signalling. He observed the flashes, counting them in relation to the
order of the letters in the alphabet--one for A, two for B, and so on.
He discovered that the message was from the Duchess, and was directed to
himself. He replied, on the same system, by passing his lantern in front
of the peep-hole. The answer from the distance was important;
arrangements were being made for his escape. But he did not want to
escape.
Next day he told Clelia of his message, and of his unwillingness to
leave the prison. She gave no answer, but burst into tears. How could
she tell him that she herself must presently leave--for marriage or a
convent?
Next day, Fabrice, by his gaoler's connivance, received a long letter
from Clelia. She urged him to escape, declaring that at any time the
Prince might order his execution, and in addition that he was in danger
of death by poison. Straightway he sought an interview with Clelia, with
whom he had not hitherto conversed save by signals from their windows.
The gaoler arranged that they should meet when Fabrice was being
conducted from his cell to the roof of the Farnese tower, where he was
occasionally allowed to take exercise.
"I can speak but few words to you," she said trembling, with tears in
her eyes. "Swear that you will obey the Duchess, and escape when she
wishes and as she wishes."
"And condemn myself to live far away from her whom I love?"
"Swear it! for my sake, swear it!" she implored hint.
"Well then, I swear it!"
The preparations were quickly advanced. Three knotted ropes were
smuggled with Clelia's aid into Fabrice's cell--one for descending the
35 feet between his window and the roof of the citadel; another for
descending the tremendous wall of 180 feet between the roof and the
ramparts; a third for the 30 feet between the top of the ramparts and
the ground.
A feast-day, when the garrison of the citadel would presumably be drunk,
was chosen for the attempt. Fabrice spent the time of waiting in cutting
a hole in his shutter large enough to enable him to get through.
Fortunately, on the night of the feast-day a thick fog arose and
enveloped the citadel. The Duchess had seen to it that the garrison was
plentifully supplied with wine.
Fabrice attached one of the shorter ropes to his bed, and struggled
through the shutter--an ungainly figure, for round his body was wound
the immense rope necessary for the long descent. Once on the
roof-platform he made his way along the parapet until he came to a new
stove which he had been told marked the best spot for lowering the rope.
He could hear the soldiers talking near at hand, but the fog made him
invisible. Unrolling his rope, and fastening his rope to the parapet by
threading it through a water-duct, he flung it over; then, with a prayer
and a thought of Clelia, he began to descend.
At first he went down mechanically, as if doing the feat for a wager.
About half-way down, his arms seemed to lose their strength; he nearly
let go--he might have fallen had he not supported himself by clinging to
the vegetation on the wall. From time to time he felt horrible pain
between the shoulders. Birds hustled against him now and then; he feared
at the first contact with them that pursuers were coming down the rope
after him. But he reached the rampart undamaged save for bleeding hands.
He was quite exhausted; for a few minutes he slept. On waking and
realising the situation, he attached his third rope to a cannon, and
hurried down to the ground. Two men seized him just as he fainted at the
foot.
A few hours afterwards a carriage crossed the frontier with Ludovico on
the box, and within it the Duchess watching over the sleeping Fabrice.
The journey did not end until they had reached Locarno on Lake Maggiore.
-V.--Clelia's Vow-
To Locarno soon afterwards came die news that Ranuce Ernest IV. was
dead. Fabrice could now safely return, for the young Ranuce Ernest V.
was believed to be entirely under the influence of Count Mosca, and was
an honest youth without the tyrannical instincts of his father.
Nevertheless the Duchess returned first, to make certain of Fabrice's
security. She employed her whole influence to hasten forward the wedding
of Clelia with the Marquis Crescenzi; she was jealous of the ascendancy
the girl had gained over her beloved nephew.
Fabrice, on reaching Parma, was well received by the young Prince.
Witnesses, he was told, had been found who could prove that he had
killed Giletti in self-defence. He would spend a few days in a purely
nominal confinement in the city gaol, and then would be tried by
impartial judges and released.
Imagine the consternation of the Duchess when she learnt that Fabrice,
having to go to prison, had deliberately given himself up at the
citadel!
She saw the danger clearly. Fabrice was in the hands of Count Mosca's
political opponents, among whom General Conti was still a leading
spirit. They would not suffer him to escape this time. Fabrice would be
poisoned.
Clelia, too, knew that this would be his fate. When she saw him once
again at the old window, happily signalling to her, she was smitten with
panic terror. Her alarm was realised when she learnt of a plot between
Rassi and her father to poison the prisoner.
On the second day of his confinement Fabrice was about to eat his dinner
when Clelia, in desperate agitation, forced her way into his cell.
"Have you tasted it?" she cried, grasping his arm.
Fabrice guessed the state of affairs with delight. He seized her in his
arms and kissed her.
"Help me to die," he said.
"Oh, my beloved," she answered, "let me die with you."
"Let me not spoil our happiness with a lie," said he as he embraced her.
"I have not yet tasted."
For an instant Clelia looked at him in anger; then she fell again into
his arms.
At that instant there came a sound of men hurrying. There entered the
Prince's aide-de-camp, with order to remove Fabrice from the citadel and
to seize the poisoned food. The Duchess had heard of the plot, and had
persuaded the Prince to take instant action.
Clelia, when her father was in danger of death on account of the plot,
vowed before the Virgin Mary never again to look upon the face of
Fabrice. Her father escaped with a sentence of banishment; and Clelia,
to the profound satisfaction of the Duchess, was wedded to the Marquis
Crescenzi. The Duchess was now a widow, Count Mosca a widower. Their
long friendship, after Fabrice's triumphant acquittal, was cemented by
marriage.
The loss of Clelia left Fabrice inconsolable. He shunned society; he
lived a life of religious retirement, and gained a reputation for piety
that even inspired the jealousy of his good friend the Archbishop.
At length Fabrice emerged from his solitude; he came forth as a
preacher, and his success was unequalled. All Parma, gentle and simple,
flocked to hear the famous devotee--slender, ill-clad, so handsome and
yet so profoundly melancholy. And ere he began each sermon, Fabrice
looked earnestly round his congregation to see if Clelia was there.
But Clelia, adhering to her vow, stayed away. It was not until she was
told that a certain Anetta Marini was in love with the preacher, and
that gossip asserted that the preacher was smitten with Anetta Marini,
that she changed her mind.
One evening, as Fabrice stood in the pulpit, he saw Clelia before him.
Her eyes were filled with tears; he looked so pale, so thin, so worn.
But never had he preached as he preached that night.
After the sermon he received a note asking him to be at a small garden
door of the Crescenzi Palace at midnight on the next night. Eagerly he
obeyed; when he reached the door, a voice called him enter. The darkness
was intense; he could see nothing.
"I have asked you to come here," said the voice, "to say that I still
love you. But I have vowed to the Virgin never to see your face; that is
why I receive you in this darkness. And let me beg you--never preach
again before Anetta Marini.
"My angel," replied the enraptured Fabrice, "I shall never preach again
before anyone; it was only in the hope of seeing you that I preached at
all."
During the following three years the two often met in darkness. But
twice, by accident, Clelia again broke her vow by looking on Fabrice's
face. Her conscience preyed upon her; she wore away and died.
A few days afterwards Fabrice resigned his reversion to the
Archbishopric, and retired to the Chartreuse of Parma. He ended his days
in the monastery only a year afterwards.
* * * * *
LAURENCE STERNE
Tristram Shandy
A more uncanonical book than the Rev. Laurence Sterne's "Life
and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman," has never been
printed since the monk Rabelais gave to the world his
celebrated masterpiece. "Shandy" made its first appearance in
1757 at York, whose inhabitants were greatly shocked,
generally, at its audacious wit; and particularly at the
caricature of a local physician. But the success of "Shandy"
was pronounced: it spread to the southern counties and to
London, where a second edition was published in 1760. "Parson
Yorick," as he styles himself in the book, was continually
invited to add to it, with the result that between 1761 and
1767 eight more numbers were added to the original slim
volume. There are many imperfections in "Tristram Shandy,"
both from the standpoint of art and taste; yet withal it
remains one of the great classics in English literature, its
many passages of genuine humour and wit ensuring an
immortality for the wayward genius of Laurence Sterne.
(Sterne, biography: See Vol. XIX.)
-I-
On the fifth day of November, 1718, was I, Tristram Shandy, gentleman,
brought forth into this scurvy and disastrous world of ours. I wish I
had been born in the moon, or in any of the planets (except Jupiter or
Saturn), because I never could bear cold weather; for it could not well
have fared worse with me in any of them (though I will not answer for
Venus) than it has in this vile dirty planet of ours, which of my
conscience with reverence be it spoken I take to be made up of the
shreds and clippings of the rest; not but the planet is well enough,
provided a man could be born in it to a great title or to a great
estate, or could anyhow contrive to be called up to public charges and
employments of dignity and power; but that is not my case; and therefore
every man will speak of the fair as his own market has gone in it; for
which cause I affirm it over again to be one of the vilest worlds that
ever was made; for I can truly say, that from the first hour I drew
breath in it, to this--I can now scarce draw it at all, for an asthma I
got in skating against the wind in Flanders--I have been the continual
sport of what the world calls Fortune, and though I will not wrong her
by saying she has ever made me feel the weight of any great and signal
evil, yet with all the good temper in the world, I affirm it of her,
that in every stage of my life, and at every turn and corner where she
could get fairly at me, the ungracious duchess has pelted me with a set
of as pitiful misadventures and cross accidents as ever small hero
sustained.
-II-
"I wonder what's all that noise and running backwards and forwards for
above stairs?" quoth my father, addressing himself after an hour and a
half's silence to my Uncle Toby, who, you must know, was sitting on the
opposite side of the fire, smoking his pipe all the time in mute
contemplation of a new pair of black plush breeches which he had got on.
"What can they be doing, brother?" quoth my father; "We can scarce hear
ourselves talk."
"I think," replied my uncle Toby, taking his pipe from his mouth and
striking the head of it two or three times upon the nail of his left
thumb as he began his sentence; "I think," says he--but to enter rightly
into my Uncle Toby's sentiments upon this matter, you must be made to
enter just a little into his character.
-III-
The wound in my Uncle Toby's groin, which he received at the siege of
Namur, rendering him unfit for the service, it was thought expedient he
should return to England, in order, if possible, to be set to rights.
He was four years totally confined, partly to his bed and all of it to
his room; and in the course of his cure, which was all that time in
hand, suffered unspeakable misery.
My father at that time was just beginning business in London, and had
taken a house, and as the truest friendship and cordiality subsisted
between the two brothers, and as my father thought my Uncle Toby could
nowhere be so well nursed and taken care of as in his own house, he
assigned him the very best apartment in it. And what was a much more
sincere mark of his affection still, he would never suffer a friend or
acquaintance to step into the house, but he would take him by the hand,
and lead him upstairs to see his brother Toby, and chat an hour by his
bedside.
The history of a soldier's wound beguiles the pain of it--my uncle's
visitors at least thought so, and they would frequently turn the
discourse to that subject, and from that subject the discourse would
generally roll on to the siege itself.
-IV-
When my Uncle Toby got his map of Namur to his mind he began immediately
to apply himself, and with the utmost diligence, to the study of it. The
more my Uncle Toby pored over the map, the more he took a liking to it.
In the latter end of the third year my Uncle began to break in upon
daily regularity of a clean shirt, and to allow his surgeon scarce time
sufficient to dress his wound, concerning himself so little about it as
not to ask him once in seven times dressing how it went on, when, lo!
all of a sudden--for the change was as quick as lightning--he began to
sigh heavily for his recovery, complained to my father, grew impatient
with the surgeon; and one morning, as he heard his foot coming upstairs,
he shut up his books and thrust aside his instruments, in order to
expostulate with him upon the protraction of his cure, which he told him
might surely have been accomplished at least by that time.
Desire of life and health is implanted in man's nature; the love of
liberty and enlargement is a sister-passion to it. These my Uncle Toby
had in common with his species. But nothing wrought with our family
after the common way.
-V-
When a man gives himself up to the government of a ruling passion, or,
in other words, when his hobbyhorse grows headstrong, farewell cool
reason and fair discretion. My Uncle Toby's wound was near well; he
broiled with impatience to put his design in execution; and so, without
consulting further, with any soul living, which, by the way, I think is
right, when you are predetermined to take no one soul's advice, he
privately ordered Trim, his man, to pack up a bundle of lint and
dressings, and hire a chariot and four to be at the door exactly by
twelve o'clock that day, when he knew my father would be upon change.
So, leaving a banknote upon the table for the surgeon's care of him, and
a letter of tender thanks for his brother's, he packed up his maps, his
books of fortification, his instruments, and so forth, and by the help
of a crutch on one side and Trim on the other, my Uncle Toby embarked
for Shandy Hall.
The reason, or rather the rise, of this sudden demigration was as
follows:
The table in my Uncle Toby's room, being somewhat of the smallest, for
that infinity of great and small instruments of knowledge which usually
lay crowded upon it, he had the accident in reaching over for his
tobacco box to throw down his compasses, and in stooping to take the
compasses up, with his sleeve he threw down his case of instruments and
snuffers; and in his endeavouring to catch the snuffers in falling, he
thrust his books off the table. 'Twas to no purpose for a man, lame as
my Uncle Toby was, to think of redressing all these evils by himself; he
rung his bell for his man Trim,--"Trim," quoth my Uncle Toby, "prithee
see what confusion I have been making. I must have some better
contrivance, Trim."
I must here inform you that this servant of my Uncle Toby's, who went by
the name of Trim, had been a corporal in my Uncle's own company. His
real name was James Butter, but having got the nickname of Trim in the
regiment, my Uncle Toby, unless when he happened to be very angry with
him, would never call him by any other name.
The poor fellow had been disabled for the service by a wound on his left
knee by a musket bullet at the Battle of Landen, which was two years
before the affair of Namur; and as the fellow was well-beloved in the
regiment, and a handy fellow into the bargain, my Uncle Toby took him
for his servant, and of excellent use was he, attending my Uncle Toby in
the camp and in his quarters as valet, groom, barber, cook, sempster,
and nurse; and indeed, from first to last, waited upon him and served
him with great fidelity and affection.
My Uncle Toby loved the man in return, and what attached him more to him
still, was the similitude of their knowledge; for Corporal Trim by four
years occasional attention to his master's discourse upon fortified
towns had become no mean proficient in the science, and was thought by
the cook and chambermaid to know as much of the nature of strongholds as
my Uncle Toby himself.
"If I durst presume," said Trim, "to give your honour my advice, and
speak my opinion in this matter"--"Thou art welcome, Trim," quoth my
Uncle Toby. "Why then," replied Trim, pointing with his right hand
towards a map of Dunkirk: "I think with humble submission to your
honour's better judgement, that the ravelins, bastions, and curtains,
make but a poor, contemptible, fiddle-faddle piece of work of it here
upon paper, compared to what your honour and I could make of it were we
out in the country by ourselves, and had but a rood and a half of ground
to do what we pleased with. As summer is coming on," continued Trim,
"your honour might sit out of doors and give me the nography"--(call it
icnography, quoth my uncle)--"of the town or citadel your honour was
pleased to sit down before, and I will be shot by your honour upon the
glacis of it if I did not fortify it to your honour's mind."--"I dare
say thou wouldst, Trim," quoth my uncle. "I would throw out the earth,"
continued the corporal, "upon this hand towards the town for the scarp,
and on the right hand towards the campaign for the counterscarp."--"Very
right, Trim," quoth my Uncle Toby.--"And when I had sloped them to your
mind, an' please your honour, I would face the glacis, as the finest
fortifications are done in Flanders, with sods, and as your honour knows
they should be, and I would make the walls and parapets with sods
too."--"The best engineers call them gazons, Trim," said my Uncle Toby.
"Your honour understands these matters," replied corporal Trim, "better
than any officer in His Majesty's service; but would your honour please
but let us go into the country, I would work under your honour's
directions like a horse, and make fortifications for you something like
a Tansy with all their batteries, saps, ditches, and pallisadoes, that
it should be worth all the world to ride twenty miles to go and see it."
My Uncle Toby blushed as red as scarlet as Trim went on, but it was not
a blush of guilt, of modesty, or of anger--it was a blush of joy; he was
fired with Corporal Trim's project and description. "Trim," said my
Uncle Toby, "say no more; but go down, Trim, this moment, my lad, and
bring up my supper this instant."
Trim ran down and brought up his master's supper, to no purpose. Trim's
plan of operation ran so in my Uncle Toby's head, he could not taste it.
"Trim," quoth my Uncle Toby, "get me to bed." 'Twas all one. Corporal
Trim's description had fired his imagination. My Uncle Toby could not
shut his eyes. The more he considered it, the more bewitching the scene
appeared to him; so that two full hours before daylight he had come to a
final determination, and had concerted the whole plan of his and
Corporal Trim's decampment.
My Uncle Toby had a neat little country house of his own in the village
where my father's estate lay at Shandy. Behind this house was a kitchen
garden of about half an acre; and at the bottom of the garden, and cut
off from it by a tall yew hedge, was a bowling-green, containing just
about as much ground as Corporal Trim wished for. So that as Trim
uttered the words, "a rood and a half of ground, to do what they would
with," this identical bowling-green instantly presented itself upon the
retina of my Uncle Toby's fancy.
Never did lover post down to a beloved mistress with more heat and
expectation than my Uncle Toby did to enjoy this self-same thing in
private.
-VI-
"Then reach my breeches off the chair," said my father to
Susanah.--"There's not a moment's time to dress you, sir," cried
Susanah; "bless me, sir, the child's in a fit. Mr. Yorick's curate's in
the dressing room with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name; and
my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as Captain Shandy is
the godfather, whether it should not be called after him."
"Were one sure," said my father to himself, scratching his eyebrow,
"that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother
Toby as not, and 'twould be a pity in such a case to throw away so great
a name as Trismegistus upon him. But he may recover."
"No, no," said my father to Susanah, "I'll get up."--"There's no time,"
cried Susanah, "the child's as black as my shoe."--"Trismegistus," said
my father: "but stay; thou art a leaky vessel, Susanah; canst thou carry
Trismegistus in thy head the length of the gallery without
scattering?"--"Can I," cried Susanah, shutting the door in a huff.--"If
she can, I'll be shot," said my father, bouncing out of bed in the dark
and groping for his breeches.
Susanah ran with all speed along the gallery.
My father made all possible speed to find his breeches. Susanah got the
start and kept it. "'Tis Tris something," cried Susanah.--"There is no
Christian name in the world," said the curate, "beginning with Tris, but
Tristram."--"Then 'tis Tristram-gistus," quoth Susanah.
"There is no gistus to it, noodle; 'tis my own name," replied the
curate, dipping his hand as he spoke into the basin. "Tristram," said
he, etc., etc. So Tristram was I called, and Tristram shall I be to the
day of my death.
-VII.--The Story of Le Fevre-
It was some time in the summer of that year in which Dendermond was
taken by the Allies, which was about seven years after the time that my
Uncle Toby and Trim had privately decamped from my father's house in
town, in order to lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest
cities in Europe, when my Uncle Toby was one evening getting his supper,
with Trim sitting behind him at a small sideboard, when the landlord of
a little inn in the village came into the parlour with an empty phial in
his hand, to beg a glass or two of sack: "'Tis for a poor gentleman, I
think, of the Army," said the landlord, "who has been taken ill at my
house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a
desire to taste anything, till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass
of sack and a thin toast: 'I think,' says he, 'it would comfort me.' If
I could neither beg, borrow nor buy such a thing," added the landlord,
"I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so ill. I hope in
God he will still mend, we are all of us concerned for him."
"Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee," cried my Uncle
Toby, "and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's health in a glass of
sack thyself, and take a couple of bottles with my service and tell him
he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more if they will do him
good."
"Though I am persuaded," said my Uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the
door, "he is a very compassionate fellow, Trim, yet I cannot help
entertaining a high opinion of his guest too; there must be something
more than common in him, that in so short a time should win so much upon
the affections of his host."--"And of his whole family," added the
Corporal, "for they are all concerned for him."--"Step after him," said
my Uncle Toby; "do, Trim, ask if he knows his name."
"I have quite forgot it truly," said the landlord, coming back to the
parlour with the Corporal, "but I can ask his son again."--"Has he a son
with him, then?" said my Uncle Toby.--"A boy," replied the landlord, "of
about eleven or twelve years of age; but the poor creature has tasted
almost as little as his father; he does nothing but mourn and lament for
him night and day. He has not stirred from the bedside these two days."
My Uncle Toby lay down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from
before him, as the landlord gave him the account; and Trim, without
being ordered, took it away without saying one word, and in a few
minutes after brought him his pipe and tobacco.
"Trim," said my Uncle Toby, after he had lighted his pipe and smoked
about a dozen whiffs; "I have a project in my head, as it is a bad
night, of wrapping myself up warm and paying a visit to this poor
gentleman." "Leave it, an' please your honour, to me," quoth the
Corporal; "I'll take my hat and stick and go to the house and
reconnoitre, and act accordingly; and I will bring your honour a full
account in an hour."
-VIII.--The Story of Le Fevre (continued)-
It was not till my Uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third
pipe that Corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave him the
following account.
"I despaired at first," said the Corporal, "of being able to bring back
any intelligence to your honour about the Lieutenant and his son; for
when I asked where his servant was, from whom I made myself sure of
knowing everything which was proper to be asked,"--("that's a right
distinction, Trim," said my Uncle Toby)--"I was answered, an' please
your honour, that he had no servant with him; that he had come to the
inn with hired horses, which, upon finding himself unable to proceed (to
join, I suppose the regiment) he had dismissed the morning after he
came. 'If I get better, my dear,' said he, as he gave his purse to his
son to pay the man, 'we can hire horses from hence'--'but, alas! the
poor gentleman will never get from hence,' said the landlady to me, 'for
I heard the deathwatch all night long; and when he dies, the youth, his
son, will certainly die with him, for he's broken-hearted already.' I
was hearing this account, when the youth came into the kitchen, to order
the thin toast the landlord spoke of. 'But I will do it for my father
myself,' said the youth.--'Pray let me save you the trouble, young
gentleman,' said I, taking up a fork for that purpose.--'I believe,
sir,' said he, very modestly, 'I can please him best myself.'--'I am
sure,' said I, 'his honour will not like the toast the worse for being
toasted by an old soldier,' The youth took hold of my hand and instantly
burst into tears." ("Poor youth," said my Uncle Toby, "he has been bred
up from an infant in the army, and the name of a soldier, Trim, sounded
in his ears like the name of a friend. I wish I had him here.")
"When I gave him the toast," continued the Corporal, "I thought it was
proper to tell him I was Captain Shandy's servant, and that your honour
(though a stranger) was extremely concerned for his father, and that if
there was anything in your house or cellar,"--("And thou mightest have
added my purse, too," said my Uncle Toby)--he was heartily welcome to
it. He made a very low bow (which was meant to your honour) but no
answer, for his heart was full; so he went upstairs with the toast. When
the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt himself a
little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let me know that he
should be glad if I would step upstairs. He did not offer to speak to me
till I had walked up close to his bedside. 'If you are Captain Shandy's
servant,' said he, 'you must present my thanks to your master, with my
little boy's thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me: if he was
of Leven's,' said the Lieutenant,--I told him your honour was. 'Then,'
said he, 'I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember
him; but 'tis most likely that he remembers nothing of me. You will tell
him, however, that the person his good nature has laid under obligations
to him is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus'--'but he knows me not,'
said he a second time, musing. 'Possibly he may know my story,' added
he. 'Pray tell the Captain I was the ensign at Breda whose wife was most
unfortunately killed with musket-shot as she lay in my arms in my tent'"
"I remember," said my Uncle Toby, sighing, "the story of the ensign and
his wife. But finish the story thou art upon."--"'Tis finished already,"
said the Corporal, "for I could stay no longer, so wished his honour
good night; young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, and saw me to the
bottom of the stairs, and, as we went down, he told me they had come
from Ireland and were on their route to join the regiment in Flanders.
But, alas!" said the Corporal, "the lieutenant's last day's march is
over."
-IX.--The Story of Le Fevre (concluded)-
"Thou hast left this matter short," said my Uncle Toby to the Corporal,
as he was putting him to bed, "and I will tell thee in what, Trim. When
thou offeredst Le Fevre whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have
offered him my house, too. A sick brother officer should have the best
quarter's, Trim, and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to
him. Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim, and what with thy care
of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine together, we might
recruit him again at once and set him upon his legs. In a fortnight or
three weeks he might march."
"He will never march, an' please your honour, in this world," said the
Corporal.--"He will march," said my Uncle Toby, rising up from the side
of the bed with one shoe off. "An' please your honour," said the
Corporal, "he will never march but to his grave."--"He shall march,"
cried my Uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though
without advancing an inch, "he shall march to his regiment." "He cannot
stand it," said the Corporal.--"He shall be supported," said my Uncle
Toby. "He'll drop at last," said the Corporal.--"He shall not drop,"
said my Uncle Toby, firmly.--"Ah, well-a-day, do what we can for him,"
said Trim, "the poor soul will die."--"He shall not die, by G----,"
cried my Uncle Toby.
The Accusing Spirit which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath,
blushed as he gave it in; and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down,
dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.
* * * * *
The sun looked bright the morning after to every eye in the village but
Le Fevre's and his afflicted son's. My Uncle Toby, who had rose up an
hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's room, and sat
himself down upon the chair by the bedside, and opened the curtain in
the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it.
There was a frankness in my Uncle Toby--not the effect of familiarity,
but the cause of it--which let you at once into his soul, and showed you
the goodness of his nature. The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which
were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to the last
citadel, the heart, rallied back. The film forsook his eyes for a
moment. He looked up wistfully in my Uncle Toby's face, then cast a look
upon his boy. Nature instantly ebbed again. The film returned to its
place: the pulse fluttered, stopped, went on--throbbed, stopped
again--moved, stopped----.
My Uncle Toby, with young Le Fevre in his hand, attended the poor
lieutenant as chief mourners to his grave.
* * * * *
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
Uncle Tom's Cabin
When the authoress of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Harriet Elizabeth
Beecher Stowe, visited the White House in 1863, President
Lincoln took her hand, and, looking down from his great
height, said, "Is this the little woman who brought on so
great a war?" But, strangely enough, the attitude of the
writer was thoroughly misunderstood. A terrible indictment
against the principle of slavery the story certainly is.
"Scenes, incidents, conversation, rushed upon her," says one
of her biographers, "with a vividness that would not be
denied. The book insisted upon getting itself into print." Yet
there is no trace of bitterness against those who inherited
slaves throughout the story. The most attractive personages
are Southerners, the most repulsive Northerners. No more
delightful a picture of conditions under slavery has ever been
drawn as that with which the book opens--on the Shelby estate
in Kentucky. Mrs. Stowe was born at Litchfield, Connecticut,
on June 14, 1812. Her father was the Rev. Lyman Beecher, her
brother Henry Ward Beecher. She died on July 1, 1896. "Uncle
Tom," published in book form in 1852, is one of the most
successful novels of modern times. In less than a week of its
appearance, 10,000 copies were sold, and before the end of the
year 300,000 copies had been supplied to the public. It was
almost at once translated into all European languages. Mrs.
Stowe wrote about forty other stories, but posterity will know
her as the authoress of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" only.
-I.--Humane Dealing-
Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February two gentlemen were
sitting over their wine, in a well-furnished parlour in the town of
P---- in Kentucky in the midst of an earnest conversation.
"That is the way I should arrange the matter," said Mr. Shelby, the
owner of the place. "The fact is, Tom is an uncommon fellow; he is
certainly worth that sum anywhere; steady, honest, capable, manages my
farm like a clock. You ought to let him cover the whole of the debt; and
you would, Haley, if you'd got any conscience."
"Well, I've got just as much conscience as any man in business can
afford to keep," said Haley, "and I'm willing to do anything to 'blige
friends; but this yer, ye see, is too hard on a feller, it really is.
Haven't you a boy or gal you could thrown in with Tom?"
"Hum!--none that I could well spare; to tell the truth, it's only hard
necessity makes me sell at all." Here the door opened, and a small
quadroon boy, remarkably beautiful and engaging, entered with a comic
air of assurance which showed he was used to being petted and noticed by
his master. "Hulloa, Jim Crow," said Mr. Shelby, snapping a bunch of
raisins towards him, "pick that up, now!" The child scampered, with all
his little strength after the prize, while his master laughed. "Tell you
what," said Haley, "fling in that chap, and I'll settle the business, I
will."
At this moment a young woman, obviously the child's mother, came in
search of him, and Haley, as soon as she had carried him away, turned to
Mr. Shelby in admiration.
"By Jupiter!" said the trader, "there's an article now! You might make
your fortune on that one gal in Orleans, any way. What shall I say for
her? What'll you take?"
"Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold. I say no, and I mean no," said Mr.
Shelby, decidedly.
"Well, you'll let me have the boy, though."
"I would rather not sell him," said Mr. Shelby; "the fact is, I'm a
humane man, and I hate to take the boy from his mother, sir."
"Oh, you do? La, yes, I understand perfectly. It is mighty unpleasant
getting on with women sometimes. I al'ays hates these yer screechin'
times. As I manages business, I generally avoids 'em, sir. Now, what if
you get the gal off for a day or so? then the thing's done quietly. It's
always best to do the humane thing, sir; that's been my experience."
"I'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the steps," said Mr.
Shelby to himself, when the trader had bowed himself out. "And Eliza's
child, too! I know I shall have some fuss with the wife about that, and
for that matter, about Tom, too! So much for being in debt, heigho!"
* * * * *
The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom's Cabin had been protracted to a very
late hour, and Tom and his worthy helpmeet were not yet asleep, when
between twelve and one there was a light tap on the window pane.
"Good Lord! what's that?" said Aunt Chloe, starting up. "My sakes alive,
if it aint Lizzy! Get on your clothes, old man, quick. I'm gwine to open
the door." And suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, and
the light of the candle which Tom had hastily lighted, fell on the face
of Eliza. "I'm running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe--carrying off my
child. Master sold him."
"Sold him?" echoed both, holding up their hands in dismay.
"Yes, sold him!" said Eliza firmly. "I crept into the closet by
mistress's door to-night, and I heard master tell missus that he had
sold my Harry and you, Uncle Tom, both to a trader, and that the man was
to take possession to-day."
Slowly, as the meaning of this speech came over Tom, he collapsed on his
old chair, and sunk his head on his knees.
"The good Lord have pity on us!" said Aunt Chloe. "What has he done that
mas'r should sell him?"
"He hasn't done anything--it isn't for that. I heard Master say there
was no choice between selling these two, and selling all, the man was
driving him so hard. Master said he was sorry; but, oh! missis! you
should have heard her talk! If she ain't a Christian and an angel, there
never was one. I'm a wicked girl to leave her so--but then I can't help
it, the Lord forgive me, for I can't help doing it."
"Well, old man," said Aunt Chloe, "why don't you go too? Will you wait
to be toted down river, where they kill niggers with hard work and
starving? There's time for ye; be off with Lizzy, you've got a pass to
come and go any time."
Tom slowly raised his head, and sorrowfully said, "No, no: I aint going.
Let Eliza go--it's her right. 'Tan't in -natur- for her to stay, but you
heard what she said. If I must be sold, or all the people on the place
and everything to go to rack, why let me be sold. Mas'r aint to blame,
Chloe; and he'll take care of you and the poor--." Here he turned to the
rough trundle-bed full of little woolly heads and fairly broke down.
"And now," said Eliza, "do try, if you can, to get a word to my husband.
He told me this afternoon he was going to run away. Tell him why I went,
and tell him, I'm going to try and find Canada. Give my love to him, and
tell him, if I never see him again--tell him to be as good as he can,
and try and meet me in the kingdom of heaven."
A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings, and she
glided noiselessly away.
-II.--Eliza's Escape-
It is impossible to conceive of a human being more wholly desolate and
forlorn than Eliza as she left the only home she had ever known. Her
husband's sufferings and danger, and the danger of her child, all
blended in her mind, she trembled at every sound, and every quaking leaf
quickened her steps. She felt the weight of her boy as if it had been a
feather, he was old enough to have walked by her side, but now she
strained him to her bosom as she went rapidly forward; and every flutter
of fear seemed to increase the supernatural strength that bore her on,
while from her pale lips burst forth, in frequent ejaculations, "Lord
help me."
Still she went, leaving one familiar object after another, till
reddening daylight found her many a long mile, upon the open highway, on
the way to the village of T---- upon the Ohio river, when she
constrained herself to walk regularly and composedly, quickening the
speed of her child, by rolling an apple before him, when the boy would
run with all his might after it; this ruse often repeated carried them
over many a half-mile.
An hour before sunset she came in sight of the river, which lay between
her and liberty. Great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily to
and fro in the turbid waters. Eliza turned into a small public house to
ask if there was no ferry boat.
"No, indeed," said the hostess, stopping her cooking as Eliza's sweet,
plaintive voice fell on her ear; "the boats has stopped running."
Eliza's look of dismay struck her and she said, "Maybe you're wanting to
get over? anybody sick? Ye seem mighty anxious."
"I've got a child that's very dangerous," said Eliza, "I never heard of
it till last night, and I've walked quite a piece to-day, in hopes to
get to the ferry."
"Well, now, that's unlucky" said the woman, her motherly sympathies
aroused; "I'm rilly concerned for ye. Solomon!" she called from the
window. "I say Sol, is that ar man going to tote them bar'ls over
to-night?"
"He said he should try, if 'twas any ways prudent," replied a man's
voice.
"There's a man going over to-night, if he durs' to; he'll be in to
supper, so you'd better sit down and wait. That's a sweet little fellow"
added the woman, offering him a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
"Take him into this room," said the woman opening into a small bedroom,
and Eliza laid the weary boy on the comfortable bed, and held his hands
till he was fast asleep. For her there was no rest, the thought of her
pursuers urged her on, and she gazed with longing eyes on the swaying
waters between her and liberty.
She was standing by the window as Haley and two of Mr. Shelby's servants
came riding by. Sam, the foremost, catching sight of her, contrived to
have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic
ejaculation. She drew back and the whole train swept by to the front
door. A thousand lives were concentrated in that moment to Eliza. Her
room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her child and sprang
down the steps. The trader caught a glimpse of her as she disappeared
down the bank, and calling loudly to Sam and Andy, was after her like a
hound after a deer. Her feet scarce seemed to touch the ground, a moment
brought her to the water's edge. Right on behind they came, and nerved
with strength such as God gives only to the desperate, with one wild and
flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the current by the shore, on to the
raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap--impossible to anything but
madmen and despair. The huge green fragment of ice pitched and creaked
as her weight came on it, but she stayed there not a moment. With wild
cries and desperate energy she leaped to another and still another cake;
stumbling, leaping, slipping, springing upwards again. Her shoes were
gone--her stockings cut from her feet--while blood marked every step;
but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly she saw the Ohio side, and
a man helping her up the bank.
"Yer a brave girl, now, whoever ye are!" said he. Eliza recognised a
farmer from near her old home. "Oh, Mr. Symmes! save me! do save me! do
hide me!" said Eliza.
"Why, what's this?" said the man, "why, if 'taint Shelby's gal!"
"My child!--this boy--he'd sold him! There is his mas'r," said she,
pointing to the Kentucky shore. "Oh, Mr. Symmes, you've got a little
boy."
"So I have," said the man, as he roughly but kindly helped her up the
bank. "Besides, you're a right brave gal. I'd be glad to do something
for you. The best thing I can do is to tell you to go -there-," pointing
to a large white house, standing by itself, "they're kind folks. There's
no kind o' danger but they'll help you--they're up to all that sort of
thing."
"The Lord bless you!" said Eliza earnestly, and folding her child to her
bosom, walked firmly away.
* * * * *
Late that night the fugitives were driven to the house of a man who had
once been a considerable shareholder in Kentucky; but, being possessed
of a great, honest, just heart, he had witnessed for years with
uneasiness the workings of a system equally bad for oppressors and
oppressed, and one day bought some land in Ohio, made out free passes
for all his people, and settled down to enjoy his conscience. He
conveyed Eliza to a Quaker settlement, where by the help of these good
friends she was joined by her husband and soon landed in Canada. Free!
-III.--The Property Is Carried Off-
An unceremonious kick pushed open the door of Uncle Tom's cabin, and Mr.
Haley stood there in very ill humour after his hard riding and ill
success.
"Come, ye nigger, ye'r ready. Servant, ma'am!" said he, taking off his
hat as he saw Mrs. Shelby, who detained him a few moments. Speaking in
an earnest manner, she made him promise to let her know to whom he sold
Tom; while Tom rose up meekly, and his wife took the baby in her arms,
her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks of fire, to go with him to
the wagon: "Get in," said Haley, and Tom got in, when Haley made fast a
heavy pair of shackles round each ankle; a groan of indignation ran
round the crowd of servants gathered to bid Tom farewell. Mr. Shelby had
gone away on business, hoping all would be over before he returned.
"Give my love to Mas'r George," said Tom earnestly, as he was whirled
away, fixing a steady, mournful look to the last on the old place. Tom
insensibly won his way far into the confidence of such a man as Mr.
Haley, and on the steamboat was permitted to come and go freely where he
pleased. Among the passengers was a young gentleman of New Orleans whose
little daughter often and often walked mournfully round the place where
Haley's gang of men and women were chained. To Tom she appeared almost
divine; he half believed he saw one of the angels stepped out of his New
Testament, and they soon got on confidential terms. As the steamer drew
near New Orleans Mr. St. Clare, carelessly putting the tip of his finger
under Tom's chin, said good-humouredly, "Look up, Tom, and see how you
like your new master."
It was not in nature to look into that gay, handsome young face without
pleasure, and Tom said heartily, "God bless you, Mas'r."
Eva's fancy for him had led her to petition her father that Tom might be
her special attendant in her walks and rides. He was called coachman,
but his stable duties were a sinecure; struck with his good business
capacity, his master confided in him more and more, till gradually all
the providing for the family was entrusted to him. Tom regarded his airy
young master with an odd mixture of fealty, reverence and fatherly
solicitude, and his friendship with Eva grew with the child's growth;
but his home yearnings grew so strong that he tried to write a
letter--so unsuccessfully that St. Clare offered to write for him, and.
Tom had the joy of receiving an answer from Master George, stating that
Aunt Chloe had been hired out, at her own request, to a confectioner,
and was gaining vast sums of money, all of which was to be laid by for
Tom's redemption.
About two years after his coming, Eva began to fail rapidly, and even
her father could no longer deceive himself. Eva was about to leave him.
It was Tom's greatest joy to carry the frail little form in his arms, up
and down, into the veranda, and to him she talked, what she would not
distress her father with, of these mysterious intimations which the soul
feels ere it leaves its clay for ever. He lay, at last, all night in the
veranda ready to rouse at the least call, and at midnight came the
message. Earth was passed and earthly pain; so solemn was the triumphant
brightness of that face it checked even the sobs of sorrow. A glorious
smile, and she said, brokenly, "Oh--love--joy--peace" and passed from
death unto life.
Week after week glided by in the St. Clare mansion and the waves of life
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