Great by theme, and great by skill, and greater by a writer's soul honestly flung into its pages, “Uncle Tom,” to the surprise of many that twaddle traditional phrases in reviews and magazines about the art of fiction, and to the surprise of no man who knows anything about the art of fiction, was all the rage. Not to have read it was like not to have read the Times for a week.
Once or twice during the crucifixion of a prisoner Mr. Eden had said bitterly to Fry, “Have you read 'Uncle Tom?'”
“No!” would Fry grunt.
But one day that the question was put to him he asked, with some appearance of interest, “Who is Uncle Tom?”
Then Mr. Eden began to reflect. “Who knows? The cases are in a great measure parallel. Prisoners are a tabooed class in England, as are blacks in some few of the United States. The lady writes better than I can talk. If she once seizes his sympathies by the wonderful power of fiction, she will touch his conscience through his heart. This disciple of Legree is fortified against me; Mrs. Stowe may take him off his guard. He said slyly to Fry, 'Not know Uncle Tom! Why it is a most interesting story—a charming story. There are things in it, too, that meet your case.'”
“Indeed, sir.”
“It is a book you will like. Shall I lend it you?”
“If you please, sir. Nights are drawing in now.”
“I will, then.”
And he would; but that frightful malady, jaundice, among its other feats, impairs the patient's memory; and he forgot all about it. So Fry, whose curiosity was at last excited, came for the book. The rest we know.