adjust pillows more accurately, sweep, and dust, and arrange more perfectly, than Topsy, when she chose-but she didn't very often choose. If Miss Ophelia, after three or four days of careful and patient supervision, was so sanguine as to suppose that Topsy ha at last fallen into her way, could do without overlooking, and so go off and busy herself about something else, Topsy would hold a perfect carnival of confusion for some one or two hours. Instead of making the bed, she would amuse herself with pulling off the pillow-cases, butting her woolly head among the pillows, till it would sometimes be grotesquely ornamented with feathers sticking out in various directions; she would climb the posts, and hang head downward from the tops; flourish the sheets and coverlets all over the apartment; dress the bolster up in Miss Ophelia's nightclothes, and enact various scenic performances with that-singing, and whistling, and making grimaces at herself in the lookingglass; in short, as Miss Ophelia phrased it, "raising Cain" generally. On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her very best scarlet India shawl wound round her head for a turban, going on with her rehearsals before the glass in great style-Miss Ophelia having, with carelessness most unheard of in her, left the key for once in her drawer. "Topsy!" she would say, when at the end of all patience, “what does make you act so?" "Dunno, missus-I 'spects 'cause I's so wicked!" "I don't know what I should do with you, Topsy." "Oh, missus, you must whip me; my old missus allers whipped me. I an't used to workin' unless I gets whipped." "Why, Topsy, I don't want to whip you. You can do well, if you've a mind to; what is the reason you won't?" "Oh, missus, I's used to whippin'; I 'spects it's good for me." Miss Ophelia tried the recipe, and Topsy invariably made a terrible commotion, screaming, groaning, and imploring; though, half an hour afterwards, when roosted on some projection of the balcony, and surrounded by a flock of "young uns," she would express the utmost contempt of the whole affair. SCENES FROM "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN." DEATH OF UNCLE TOM. When George Shelby entered the shed he felt his head giddy and his heart sick. "Is it possible is it possible?" said he, kneeling down by him. “Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend !" Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying man. He moved his head gently, smiled, and said,— "Jesus can make a dying bed Feel soft as downy pillows are." Tears, which did honour to his manly heart, fell from the young man's eyes as he bent over his poor friend. 66 "Oh, dear Uncle Tom! do wake-do speak once more! Look up! Here's Mas'r George-your own little Mas'r George. Don't you know me ?" "Mas'r George!" said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble voice--" Mas'r George !" He looked bewildered. Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacant eye became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks. "Bless the Lord! it is—it is—it's all I wanted! They haven't forgot me. It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, O my soul!" The sudden flush of strength, which the joy of meeting his young master had infused into the dying man, gave way. A sudden sinking came over him; he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his face that told the approach of other worlds. He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations; and his broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that of a conqueror. "Who-who-who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and with a smile he fell asleep. George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that the place was holy; and as he closed the lifeless eyes, and rose up from the dead, only one thought possessed him-that expressed by his simple old friend, "What a thing it is to be a Christian!" He turned. Legree was standing sullenly behind him. Something in that dying scene had checked the natural fierceness of youthful passion. The presence of the man was simply loathsome to George; and he felt only an impulse to get away from him with as few words as possible. Fixing his keen, dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, pointing to the dead, "You have got all you ever can of him. What shall I pay you for the body? I will take it away, and bury it decently." "I don't sell dead niggers," said Legree, doggedly; "you are welcome to bury him where and when you like." 66 'Boys," said George, in an authoritative tone, to two or three negroes who were looking at the body, "help me to lift him up and carry him to my waggon; and get me a spade." One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted George to carry the body to the waggon. George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did not countermand his orders, but stood whistling with an air of forced unconcern. He sulkily followed them to where the waggon stood at the door. George spread his cloak in the waggon, and had the body carefully disposed of in it,-moving the seat, so as to give it room. Then he turned, fixed his eyes on Legree, and said, with forced composure,— "I have not as yet said to you what I think of this most atrocious affair;-this is not the time and place. But, sir, this innocent blood must have justice. I will proclaim this murder. I will go to the very first magistrate, and expose you." "Do!" said Legree, snapping his fingers scornfully. “I will like to see you doing it. Where are you going to get witnesses? -how are you going to prove it? Come, now!" George saw at once the force of this defiance. There was not a white person in the place; and, in all southern courts, the testimony of coloured blood is nothing. He felt at that moment as if he could have rent the heavens with his heart's indignant cry for justice. Beyond the boundaries of the plantation George had noticed a dry, sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees; there they made the grave. Shall we take off the cloak, mas'r?" said the negroes, when the grave was ready. "No, no; bury it with him.-It's all I can give you now, poor Tom, and you shall have it." They laid him in; and the men shovelled away silently. They banked it up, and laid green turf over it. "You may go, boys," said George, slipping a piece of silver into the hand of each. They lingered about, however. "If young mas'r would please buy us,” said one. "We'd serve him so faithful!" said the other. "Hard times here, mas'r?" said the first. please!" "Do, mas'r, buy us, "I can't I can't," said George, with difficulty, motioning them off; "it's impossible !" The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence. 66 Witness, eternal God," said George, kneeling on the grave of his poor friend-"oh! witness, that, from this hour, I will do what one man can to drive out this curse of slavery from my land!" There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of Uncle Tom. He needs none. His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up immortal, to appear with Him when he shall appear in his glory. Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity. Not in the riches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God; but in selfdenying, suffering love. And blessed are the men whom he calls to fellowship with him, bearing their cross after him with patience. Of such it is written, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." MRS. H. B. STOWE. SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. [The following touching piece represents a negro slave singing the Psalms of David at midnight.] LOUD he sang the Psalms of David! he, a negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory,-sang of Zion, bright and free. In that hour when night is calmest, sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear that I could not choose but hear,— Songs of triumph and ascriptions such as reached the swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast perished Pharaoh and his host. And the voice of his devotion filled my soul with strange emotion; For its tones by turns were glad, sweetly solemn, wildly sad. Paul and Silas, in their prison, sang of Christ the Lord arisen; And an earthquake's arm of might broke their dungeon-gates at night. But, alas! what holy angel brings the slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of might breaks his dungeon-gates at night? LONGFELLOW. SLAVERY. I WOULD not have a slave to till my ground, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. power COWPER |