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Tom was as rigid in religious as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbours, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. In a word, Tom’s zeal became as notorious as his riches.
And mice and rats, and such small gear, Have been Tom’s food for seven long year.
The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom’s wife was a tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband; and his face sometimes showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words. No one ventured, however, to interfere between them.
Let him alone; Tom knows the way. We follow him down an almost perpendicular flight of stairs into a spirit kellar, and gratify Tom’s little propensity for ardent liquors. Tom has disappeared, and is now paddling his way back to the “Glory,” and we stand upon the humble water-terrace, the Vorsetzen, looking out upon the shipping. It is a still, bright, Sunday afternoon in September.
“Well, as Tom lay thinking, with his eyes turned toward the door, it opens slowly, and who should come in but old Squire Bowes, his face lookin’ as dead as he was in his coffin. “Tom’s very breath left his body; he could not take his eyes off him; and he felt the hair rising up on his head.
Porter delighted, the performers embarrassed; Uncle Tom never was better pleased in all his life; and Uncle Tom’s nephews and nieces had never, although the declared heirs to his large property, so heartily wished him gathered to his fathers as on that memorable occasion. Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the dramatis personae.
It was half a mile before he could get to a place where he was able to climb down, and when he reached the shore he ran with breathless speed to the spot where Tom’s head was still above the water.
As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide wings, and sailed off, screaming, into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized the checked apron, but, woeful sight! found nothing but a heart and liver tied up in it! Such, according to this most authentic old story, was all that was to be found of Tom’s wife.
O do, de, do, de, do, de; bless thee from whirlwind, star-blasting, and taking; do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes; there could I have him now, and there, and there again, and there; through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind; Tom’s a-cold! who gives any thing to poor Tom?—In this character, and with such like expressions, our hero entered the house both of great and small, claiming kindred to them, and committing all manner of frantic actions; such as beating himself, offering to eat coals of fire, running against the wall, and tearing to pieces those garments that were given him to cover his nakedness; by which means he raised very considerable contributions.
“Well, sir, I don’t think these niggers know much about tying ropes. It seems to me that I could get free without much trouble.” “Could you, Dimchurch? I can’t say as much, for mine are knotted so tightly that I cannot move a finger.” “That won’t matter, sir. If I can shift out of mine I have got my jack-knife in my pocket, and can make short work of your ropes and Tom’s.”
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