Aunt C. Well, one o' yer principles will have to be to get to bed some time to-night, and not to be a keepin' everybody up till mornin'; now everyone of you young uns that don't want to be cracked had better be scarse, might sudden.
Sam. Niggers! all on yer, I give yer my blessin': go to bed now, and be good boys.
SCENE X.-- UNCLE TOM'S Cabin..
UNCLE TOM with Testament open. CHILDREN asleep in trundle-bed. Uncle Tom. It 's the last time!
Aunt C. [Weeping.] S'pose we must be resigned; but, O Lord! how ken I? If I know'd anything whar you 's goin', or how they 'd sarve you! Missis says she 'll try and 'deem ye in a year or two; but, Lor! nobody never comes up that goes down that! They kills 'em! I 've hearn 'em tell how dey works 'em up on dem ar plantations.
Uncle T. There 'll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is here.
Aunt C. Well, s'pose dere will; but de Lord lets drefful things happen, sometimes. I don't seem to get no comfort day way.
Uncle T. I'm in the Lord's hands; nothin' can go no furder than he lets it; and thar's one thing I can thank him for. It's me that's sold and going down, and not you nur the chil'en. Here you're safe; what comes will come only on me; and the Lord, he'll help me--I know he will. [A sob.] Let 's think on our marcies!
Aunt C. Marcies! don't see no marcy in 't! 'tan't right! tan't right it should be so! Mas'r never ought ter left it so that ye could be took for his debts. Ye've arnt him all he gets for ye, twice over. He owed ye yer freedom, and ought ter gin 't to yer years ago. Mebbe he can't help himself now, but I feel it's wrong. Nothing can't beat that ar out o' me. Sich a faithful crittur as ye 've been, and allers sot his business 'fore yer own every way, and reckoned on him more than yer own wife and chil'en! Them as sells heart's love and heart's blood, to get out thar scrapes, de Lord 'll be up to 'em!
Uncle T. Chloe! now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when mebbe jest the last time we'll ever have together! And I'll tell ye, Chloe, it goes agin me to hear one word agin mas'r. Wan't he put in my arms a baby? It 's natur I should think a heap of him. And he could n't be 'spected to think so much of poor Tom. Mas'rs is used to havin' all these yer things done for 'em, and nat'lly they don't think so much on 't. They can't be 'spected to, no way. Set him 'longside of other mas'rs--who 's had the treatment and the livin' I have had? And he never would have let this yer come on me, if he could have seed it aforehand. I know he would n't.
Aunt C. Wal, any way, thar's wrong about it somewhar," said Aunt Chloe, in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant trait; "I can't jest make out whar 't is, but thar's wrong somewhar, I'm clar o' that.
Uncle T. Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above--he's above all--thar don't a sparrow fall without him.
Aunt C. It don't seem to comfort me, but I 'spect it ort fur ter. But dar's no use talkin'; I 'll jes get up de corn-cake, and get ye one good breakfast, 'cause nobody knows when you 'll get another.
[AUNT CHLOE gets the breakfast, and the children dress themselves.] Mose. Lor, Pete, ha'n't we got a buster of a breakfast!
Aunt C. [Boxing his ears.] Thar now! crowing over the last breakfast yer poor daddy 's gwine to have to home.
Uncle T. O, Chloe!
Aunt C. Wal, I can't help it! I 's so tossed about it, it makes me act ugly." Thar! now I 's done, I hope--now do eat something. This yer 's my nicest chicken. Thar, boys, ye shall have some, poor critturs! Yer mammy's been cross to yer. [The boys eat.] Now, I must put up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he 'll take 'em all away. I know thar ways--mean as dirt, they is! Wal, now, yer flannels for rhumatis is in this corner; so be careful, 'cause t here won't nobody make ye no more. Then here 's yer old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed off these yer stockings last night, and put de ball in 'em to mend with. But Lor! who 'll ever mend for ye? [Sobbing.] To think on 't! no c rittur to do for ye, sick or well! I don't railly think I ought ter be good now! [Baby crows.] Ay, crow away, poor crittur! ye'll have to come to it, too! ye'll live to see yer husband sold, or mebbe be sold yerself; and these yer boys, the y 's to be sold, I s'pose, too, jest like as not, when dey gets good for somethin'; an't no use in niggers havin' nothin'!
Pete. That's missis a-comin' in!
Aunt C. She can't do no good; what 's she coming for?
Enter MRS. SHELBY. Mrs. S. Tom, I come to ----
[Bursts into tears, and sits down in a chair, sobbing.] Aunt C. Lor, now, missis, don't--don't. [All weep.]
Mrs. S. to Uncle T. My good fellow, I can't give you anything to do you any good. If I give you money, it will only be taken from you. But i tell you solemnly, and before God, that I will keep trace of you, and bring you back as soon as I can command the money; and, till then, trust in God!
Mose and Pete. Mas'r Haley 's coming!
Enter HALEY, kicking the door open. Haley. Come, ye nigger, yer ready? Servant, ma'm. [To MRS. SHELBY.]
UNCLE T. and AUNT C. go out, followed by the rest. A crowd of negroes around First Slave [weeping], to Aunt C. Why, Chloe, you bar it better 'n we do!
Aunt C. I 'se done my tears! I does n't feel to cry 'fore day ar old limb, nohow!
Haley. Get in!
[TOM gets in, and HALEY fastens on shackles. Groans.] Mrs. S. Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely unnecessary.
Haley. Don't know, ma'am; I 've lost one five hundred dollars from this ere place, and I can't afford to run no more risks.
Aunt C. What else could she 'spect on him?
Uncle T. I 'm sorry that Mas'r George happened to be away.
Enter GEORGE, springing into wagon and clasping UNCLE T. round the neck. George. I declare it 's real mean! I don't care what they say, any of 'em! It 's a nasty, mean shame! If I was a man they should n't do it--they should not, so!
Uncle T. O, Mas'r George! this does me good! I could n't bar to go off without seein' ye! It does me real good, ye can't tell!
[GEORGE spies the fetters.] George. What a shame! I 'll knock that old fellow down--I will!
Uncle T. No, you won't, Mas'r George; and you must not talk so loud. It won't help me any to anger him.
George. Well, I won't then, for your sake; but only to think of it--is n't it a shame? They never sent for me, nor sent me any word, and if it hadn't been for Tom Lincoln, I should n't have heard it. I tell you, I blew 'em up well, all of 'em, at home!
Uncle T. That ar was n't right, I 'm feared, Mas'r George.
George. Can't help it! I say it 's a shame! Look here, Uncle Tom, I've brought you my dollar!
Uncle T. O! I could n't think o' takin' on 'it, Mas'r George, no ways in the world!
George. But you shall take it! Look here; I told Aunt Chloe I'd do it, and she advised me just to make a hole in it, and put a string through, so you could hang it round your neck, and keep it out of sight; else this mean scamp would take it away. I tell ye, Tom, I want to blow him up! it would do me good!
Uncle T. No, don't, Mas'r George, for it won't do me any good.
George. Well, I won't, for your sake; but there, now, button your coat tight over it, and keep it, and remember, every time you see it, that I'll come down after you, and bring you back. Aunt Chloe and I have been talking about it. I told her not to fear, I 'll see to it, and I 'll tease father's life out, if he don't do it.
Uncle T. O, Mas'r George, ye must n't talk so 'bout yer father!
George. Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad.
Uncle T. And now, Mas'r George, ye must be a good boy; 'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep close to yer mother. Don't be gettin' into any of them foolish ways boys has, of getting too big to mind their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas'r George, the Lord gives good many things twice over, but he don't give ye a mother but once. Ye 'll never see sich another woman, Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hundred years old. So, now, you hold on to her, and grow up, and be a comfort to her, thar's my own good boy--you will now, won't ye?
George. Yes, I will, Uncle Tom!
Uncle T. And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'
r George. Young boys, when they comes to your age, is wfilful, sometimes--it 's natur' they should be. But real gentlemen, such as I hopes you 'll be, never lets fall no words that is n't 'spectful to thar parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George!
George. No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good advice.
Uncle T. I 's older, ye knows, and I sees all that 's bound up in you. O, Mas'r George, you has everything--l'arnin', privileges, readin', writin',--and you 'll grow up to be a great, learned, good man, and all the people on the place, and your mother and father 'll be so proud on ye! Be a good mas'r, like yer father; and be a Christian, like yer mother. 'Member yer Creator in the days o' yer youth, Mas'r George.
George. I'll be real good, Uncle Tom, I tell you. I'm going to be a first-rater; and don't you be discouraged. I 'll have you back to the place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe this morning, I 'll build your house all over, and you shall have a room for a parlor, with a carpet on it, when I 'm a man. O, you 'll have good times yet!
[UNCLE T. is handcuffed and driven off.]
ACT II.
SCENE I.--New Orleans.
A Parlor in ST. CLARE'Shouse. MARIE reclining on a lounge. Enter EVA, flying to embrace her mother. Eva. Mamma!
Marie. That 'll do! [Languidly kissing her.] Take care, child--don't you make my headache!
Enter ST. CLARE; he embraces MARIE and presents MISS OPHELIA. St. Clare. Marie! this is our cousin Ophelia.
Mar. I am happy to see you, cousin.
Enter SERVANTS, crowding--foremost the old nurse. EVA flies to her and hugs and kisses her. Eva. O, Mammy! dear Mammy!
Miss Oph. Well, you Southern children can do something that I could n't.
St. C. What, now, pray?
Oph. Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I would n't have anything hurt; but as to kissing --
St. C. Niggers, that you 're not up to; eh?
Oph. Yes, that 's it. How can she?
St. C. [Laughing.] O, that 's the way with you, is it? [Goes among the servants.] Here, you all, Mammy, Sukey, Jinny, Polly--glad to see mas'r? Look out for the babies! [Stumb ling over one.] If I step on anybody let 'em mention it. [Sees TOM, and beckons.] Here, Tom. See here, Marie, I 've brought you a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you he 's a regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you want. Open your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don't say I never think about you when I 'm gone.
Mar. I know he 'll get drunk.
St. C. No, he 's warranted a pious and sober article.
Mar. Well, I hope he may turn out well; it 's more than I expect, though.
St. C. 'Dolph, show Tom down stairs; and mind yourself; remember what I told you.
[Exit TOM and DOLPH.] Mar. He 's a perfect behemoth!
St. C. Come, now, Marie, be gracious, and say something pretty to a fellow.
Mar. You 've been gone a fortnight beyond the time.
St. C. Well, you know I wrote you the reason.
Mar. Such a short, cold letter!
St. C. Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or nothing.
Mar. That 's just the way always; always something to make your journeys long, and letters short.
St. C. See here, now; here 's a present I got for you in New York.
Mar. A daguerreotype! What made you sit in such an awkward position?
St. C. Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but what do you think of the likeness?
Mar. If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose you would n't in another.
St. C. Hang to woman! [Aside.] Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don't be nonsensical!
Mar. It 's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare, to insist on my talking and looking at things. You know I 've been lying all day with the sick-headache; and there 's been such a tumult made, ever since you came, I 'm half dead.
Oph. You 're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am?
Mar. Yes, I 'm a perfect martyr to it.
Oph. Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache; at least, Augustine, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife used to say so; and she was a great nurse.
St. C. I 'll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the lake brought in for that especial purpose. And now [rings the bell. Enter MAMMY], show this lady to her room. [To MARIE, offering her his arm.] Come, now--come--I 've got something for you in here--come.
[Exeunt ST. CLARE and MARIE.]
SCENE II.--A Parlor. A Breakfast Table. MARIE, ST. CLARE, EVA, OPHELIA.
St. Clare. And now, Marie, your golden days are dawning. Here is our practical, business-like New England cousin, who will take the whole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to refresh yourself, and grow young and handsome. The ceremony of delivering the keys had better come off forthwith.
Marie. I'm sure she 's welcome. I think she 'll find one thing, if she does, and that is, that it 's we mistresses that are the slaves, down here.
St. C. O, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of wholesome truths beside, no doubt.
Mar. Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our convenience! I 'm sure, if we consulted that, we might let them all go at once.
Eva. What do you keep them for, mamma?
Mar. I don't know, I 'm sure, except for a plague; they are the plague of my life. I believe that more of my ill-health is caused by them than by any one thing; and ours, I know, are the very worst that ever anybody w as plagued with.
St. C. O, come, Marie, you 've got the blues this morning. You know 't is n't so. There 's Mammy, the best creature living--what could you do without her?
Mar. Mammy is the best I ever knew; and yet Mammy, now, is selfish--dreadfully selfish; it 's the fault of the whole race.
St. C. Selfishness is a dreadful fault.
Mar. Well, now, there 's Mammy; I think it 's selfish of her to sleep so sound at nights; she knows I need little attentions almost every hour, when my worst turns are on, and yet she 's so hard to wake. I absolutely am worse, this very morning, for the efforts I had to make to wake her last night.
Eva. Has n't she sat up with you a good many nights lately, mamma?
Mar. How should you know that? She 's been complaining, I suppose.
Eva. She did n't complain; she only told me what bad night you 'd had--so many in succession!
St. C. Why don't you let Jane or Rosa take her place a night or two and let her rest?
Mar. How can you propose it? St. Clare, you really are inconsiderate! So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me; and a strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt the interest in me she ought to, she 'd wake easier--of course she would. I 've heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never was my luck. Now, Mammy has a sort of goodness; she 's smooth and respectful, but she 's selfish at heart. Now, she never will be done fidgeting and worrying about that husband of hers. You see, when I was married and came to live here, of course I had to bring her with me, and her husband my father could n't spare. He was a blacksmith, and, of course, very necessary; and I thought, and said at the time, that Mammy and he had better give each other up, as it was n't likely to be convenient for them ever to live together again. I wish now I 'd insisted on it, and married Mammy to somebody else; but I was foolish and indulgent, and did n't want to insist. I told Mammy at the time that she must n't ever expect to see him more than once or twice in her life again, for the air of father's place does n't agree with my health, and I can't go there; and I advised her to take up with somebody else; but no--she would n't. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots, that everybody don't see as I do.
Oph. Has she children?
Mar. Yes; she has two.
Oph. I suppose she feels the separation from them?
Mar. Well, of course, I could n't bring them. They were little, dirty things--I could n't have them about; and, besides, they took up too much of her time; but I believe that Mamm
y has always kept up a sort of sulkiness about this. She won't marry anybody else; and I do believe now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my health is, she would go back to her husband to-morrow, if she only could. I do, indeed; they are just so selfish, now, the best of them!
St. C. [Dryly.] It 's distressing to reflect upon.
Mar. Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me. I wish some of your northern servants could look at her closets of dresses--silks and muslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging there. I've worked sometimes whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her ready to go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She never was whipped in her whole life. She has her strong coffee or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It's abominable, to be sure; but St. Clare will have high life below stairs, and they, every one of them, live just as they please. The fact is, our servants are over-indulged. I suppose it is partly our fault that they are selfish, and act like spoiled children; but I've talked to St. Clare till I am tired.
St. C. And I, too.
[EVA goes to her mother, and puts her arms round her neck.] Mar. Well, Marie, what now?
Eva. Mamma, could n't I take care of you one night--just one? I know I should n't make you nervous, and I should n't sleep. I often lie awake nights, thinking----
Mar. O, nonsense, child--nonsense! You are such a strange child!
Eva. But may I, mamma? I think that Mammy is n't well. She told me her head ached all the time, lately.
Mar. O, that 's just one of Mammy's fidgets! Mammy is just like all the rest of them--makes such a fuss about every little headache or finger-ache; it 'll never do to encourage it--never! I 'm principled about this matter;-- [To MISS OPHELIA] you 'll find the necessity of it. If you encourage servants in giving way to every little disagreeable feeling, and complaining of every little ailment, you 'll have your hands full. I never complain myself; nobody knows what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do.
The Christian Slave: A Drama Page 3