The Christian Slave
Page 1
The
Christian Slave A Drama,
Founded on a portion of
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.
Dramatized by
Harriet Beecher Stowe Expressly for the Readings of
MRS. MARY E. WEBB. BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & COMPANY,
No. 13 Winter Street.
1855 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts.
Stereotyped by
HOBART & Robbins,
New England type and Stereotype Foundry,
Boston. THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE
Air:
"Ole Kintuck in de arternoon."
ACT I.
SCENE I. -- UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.
A Table with cups, saucers, &c.; AUNT CHLOE cooking at the fire; UNCLE TOM and
GEO. SHELBY at a table, with slate between them; MOSE and PETE playing with baby
in the corner. Geo. Shelby.
Ha! ha! ha! Uncle Tom! Why, how funny! -- brought up the tail of your g wrong
side out -- makes a q, don't you see?
Uncle Tom.
La sakes! now, does it?
Geo. S.
Why yes. Look here now [writing rapidly], that's g, and that's q--that's g --
that's q. See now?
Aunt Chloe.
How easy white folks al'ays does things! The way he can write now! and read,
too! and then to come out here evenings and read his lessons to us--it's mighty
interestin'!
Geo. Sh.
But, Aunt Chloe, I'm getting mighty hungry. Is n't that cake in the skillet
almost done?
Aunt C.
Mose done, Mas'r George; brownin' beautiful--a real lovely brown. Ah! let me
alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some cake, t' other day, jes to larn
her, she said. "O, go way, Missis," said I; "it really hurts my feelin's, now,
to see good vittles spilt dat ar way! Cake ris all to one side--no shape at all;
no more than my shoe; go way!" Here you, Mose and Pete, get out de way, you
niggers! Get away, Polly, honey,--mammy'll give her baby some fin, by-and-by.
Now, Mas'r George, you jest take off dem books, and set down now with my old
man, and I'll take up de sausages, and have de first griddle-full of cakes on
your plates in less dan no time.
Geo. S.
They wanted me to come to supper in the house, but I knew what was what too well
for that, Aunt Chloe.
Aunt C.
So you did--so you did, honey; you know'd your old aunty'd keep the best for
you. O, let you alone for dat--go way!
Geo. S.
Now for the cake.
Aunt C.
La bless you! Mas'r George, you would n't be for cuttin' it wid dat ar great
heavy knife? Smash all down--spile all de pretty rise of it. Here, I've got a
thin old knife I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see!--comes apart light as a
feather. Now eat away; you won't get anything to beat dat ar.
Geo. S.
Tom Lincoln says that their Jinny is a better cook than you.
Aunt C.
Dem Lincons an't much count no way; I mean, set along side our folks. They's
'spectable folks enough in a plain way; but as to gettin' up anything in style,
they don't begin to have a notion on't. Set Mas'r Lincon, now, alongside Mas'r
Shelby. Good Lor! and Missis Lincon--can she kinder sweep it into a room like my
missis,--so kinder splendid, yer know? O, go way ! don't tell me nothin' of dem
Lincons!
Geo. S.
Well, though, I've heard you say that Jinny way a pretty fair cook.
Aunt C.
So I did. I may say dat. Good, plain, common cookin', Jinny'll do; make a good
pone o' bread--bile her taters far,--her corn cakes is n't extra, not extra,
now, Jinny's corn cakes is n't; but then they's far. But, Lor, come to de higher
branches, and what can she do? Why, she makes pies--sartin she does; but what
kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth and
lies all up like a puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be
married, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin' pies. Jinny and I is good
friends, ye know. I never said nothin'; but go 'long, Mas'r George! Why, I
shouldn't sleep a wink for a week if I had a batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey
wan't no 'count 't all.
Geo. S.
I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice.
Aunt C.
Thought so!--did n't she! Thar she was, showing 'em as innocent--ye see, it's
jest here, Jinny don't know. Lor, the family an't nothing! She can't be spected
to know! 'Ta'nt no fault o' hern. Ah, Mas'r George, you doesn't know half yer
privileges in yer family and bringin' up!
[Sighs and rolls her eyes.] Geo. S.
I'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie-and-pudding privileges. Ask Tom
Lincoln if I don't crow over him every time I meet him.
Aunt C. [Sitting back in her chair.]
Ya! ha! ha! And so ye telled Tom, did ye? Ha! ha! ha! O Lor--what young mas'r
will be up to! Ha! ha! ha! Ye crowed over Tom! Ho! ho! ho! Lor, Mas'r George, if
ye would n't make a hornbug laugh.
Geo. S.
Yes, I says to him, "Tom, you ought to see some of Aunt Chloe's pies; they're
the right sort," says I.
Aunt C.
Pity, now, Tom could n't. Ye oughter jest ax him here to dinner some o' these
times, Mas'r George; it would look quite pretty of ye. Ye know, Mas'r George, ye
oughtenter fur to feel 'bove nobody on 'coun t yet privileges, 'cause all our
privileges is gi'n to us; we ought al'ays to 'member dat ar.
Geo. S.
Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week; and you do your prettiest,
Aunt Chloe, and we'll make him stare. Won't we make him eat so he won't get over
it for a fortnight?
Aunt C.
Yes, yes--sartin; you'll see. Lor! to think of some of our dinners! Yer mind dat
ar great chicken pie I made when we guv de dinner to General Knox? I and Missis,
we come pretty near quarrellin' about dat ar crust. What does get into ladies
sometimes, I don't know; but sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o'
'sponsibility on 'em, as ye may say, and is all kinder "seris" and taken up, dey
takes dat ar time to be hangin' round and kinder interferin'! Now, Missis, she
wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me to do dat way; and finally I got
kinder sarcy, and, says I, "Now, Missis, do jist look at dem beautiful white
hands o' yourn, with long fingers, and all a sparklin' with rings, like my white
lilies when de dew's on 'em; and look at my great black stumpin' hands. Now,
don't ye think dat de Lord must have meant me to make de pie-crust, and you to
stay in de parlor?" Dar! I was jist so sarcy, Mas'r George.
Geo. S.
And what did mother say?
Aunt C.
Say?--why, she kinder larfed in her eyes--dem great handsome eyes o' hern; and
says she, "Well, Aunt
Chloe, I think you are about in the right on 't," says
she; and she went off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over de head for
bein' so sarcy; but dar's whar 't is--I can't do nothin' with ladies in de
kitchen!
Geo. S.
Well, you made out well with that dinner--I remember everybody said so.
Aunt C.
Didn't I? And wan't I behind de dinin'-room door dat bery day? and didn't I see
de Gineral pass his plate three times for some more dat bery pie? and, says he,
"You must have an uncommon cook, Mrs. Shelby." Lor! I was jest fit fur ter
split.
And de Gineral, he knows what cookin' is. Bery nice man, de Gineral! He comes of
one of de bery fustest families in Ole Virginny! He knows what's what, now, as
well as I do--de Gineral. Ye see, there's pints in all pies, Mas'r George; but
tan't everybody knows what they is, or fur to be. But the Gineral, he knows; I
knew by his 'marks he made. Yes, he knows what de pints is!
Geo. S. [Throwing pieces of cake to the children.]
Here you Mose, Pete--you want some, don't you? Come, Aunt Chloe, bake them some
cakes.
Aunt C. [Feeding baby, while Mose and Pete roll on the floor and pull baby's
toes.]
O, go long, will ye?
[Kicking them.]
Can't ye be decent when white folks comes to see ye? Stop dat ar, now, will ye?
Better mind yerselves, or I'll take ye down a button-hole lower, when Mas'r
George is gone!
Uncle Tom.
La, now! they are so full of tickle all the while, they can't behave
theirselves.
Aunt C.
Get along wid ye! ye'll all stick together. Go long to de spring and wash
yerselves. Mas'r George! did ye ever see such aggravatin' young uns? Wall, now,
I hopes you's done. Here, now, you Mose and Pet e--ye got to go to bed, mighty
sudden, I tell ye. Cause we's gwine to have meetin' here.
Mose and Pete.
O, mother, we don't wanter. We wants to sit up to meetin'--meetin's is so curis.
We likes 'em.
Geo. S. [Pushing the trundle-bed.]
La! Aunt Chloe, let 'em sit up.
Aunt C.
Well, mebbe 't will do 'em some good. What we's to to for cheers, now I declare
I don't know.
Mose.
Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last week.
Aunt C.
You go long! I'll boun' you pulled 'em out; some o' your shines.
Mose.
Well, it'll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!
Pete.
Den Uncle Peter mus' n't sit in it, 'cause he al'ays hitches when he gets a
singing. He hitched pretty nigh cross de room t'udder night.
Mose.
Good Lor! get him in it den; and then he'd begin, "Come, saints and sinners,
hear me tell," and then down he'll go.
[Mimicking.] Aunt C.
Come, now, be decent, can't ye? An't yer shamed yerself? Well, ole man, you'll
have to tote in them ar bar'ls yerself.
Mose. [Aside to Pete.]
Mother's bar'ls is like dat ar widder's Mas'r George was reading 'bout in de
good book--dey never fails.
Pete. [Aside to Mose.]
I'm sure one on 'em caved in last week, and let 'em all down in de middle of de
singin'; dat ar was failin', warn't it?
Aunt C.
Mas'r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know he'll stay to read for us;
'pears like 't will be so much more interestin'.
SCENE II. -- A Boudoir. Evening. MR. and MRS. SHELBY.
Mrs. Shelby. [Arranging her ringlets at the mirror.]
By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you lugged in to our
dinner-table to-day?
Mr. Shelby. [Lounging on an ottoman, with newspaper.]
Haley is his name.
Mrs. S.
Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray?
Mr. S.
Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with last time I was at
Natchez.
Mrs. S.
And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and dine here, eh?
Mr. S.
Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him.
Mrs. S.
Is he a negro-trader?
Mr. S.
Why, my dear, what put that into your head?
Mrs. S.
Nothing--only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a great worry, crying and
taking on, and said you were talking with a trader, and that she heard him make
an offer for her boy--the ridiculous little goo se!
Mr. S.
She did, eh? It will have to come out. As well now as ever.
[Aside.] Mrs. S.
I told Eliza that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had
anything to do with that sort of persons. Of course, I knew you never meant to
sell any of our people--least of all, to such a fellow.
Mr. S.
Well, Emily, so I have always felt and said; but the fact is, my business lies
so that I cannot get on without. I shall have to sell some of my hands.
Mrs. S.
To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious.
Mr. S.
I am sorry to say that I am. I've agreed to sell Tom.
Mrs. S.
What! our Tom? that good, faithful creature! been your faithful servant from a
boy! O, Mr. Shelby! and you have promised him his freedom, too--you and I have
spoken to him a hundred times of it. Well, I can believe anything now; I can
believe now that you could sell little Harry, poor Eliza's only child!
Mr. S.
Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to sell Tom and Harry
both; and I don't know why I am to be rated as if I were a monster for doing
what every one does every day.
Mrs. S.
But why, of all others, chose these? Why sell them of all on the place, if you
must sell at all?
Mr. S.
Because they will bring the highest sum of any--that's why. I could chose
another, if you say so. The fellow made me a high bid on Eliza, if that would
suit you any better.
Mrs. S.
The wretch!
Mr. S.
Well, I did n't listen to it a moment, out of regard to your feelings, I would
n't; so give me some credit.
Mrs. S.
My dear, forgive me. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared
for this; but surely you will allow me to intercede for these poor creatures.
Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr.
Shelby, that if he were put to it, he would lay down his life for you.
Mr. S.
I know it--I dare say; but what's the use of all this? I can't help myself.
Mrs. S.
Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I'm willing to bear my part of the
inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have tried--tried most faithfully, as a
Christian woman should--to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent
creatures. I have cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and know
all their little cares and joys, for years; and how can I ever hold up my head
again among them, if, for the sake of a little paltry gain, we sell such a
faithful, ex
cellent, confiding creature as poor Tom? I have taught them the
duties of the family, of parent and child, and husband and wife; and how can I
bear to have this open acknowledgment that we care for no tie, no duty, no
relation? I have talked with Eliza about her boy--her duty to him as a Christian
mother, to watch over him, pray for him, and bring him up in a Christian way; I
have told her that one soul is worth more than all the money in the world; and
how will she believe me when she sees us turn round and sell her child? sell
him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body and soul!
Mr. S.
I'm sorry you feel so about it, Emily--indeed, I am; and I respect your
feelings, too, though I don't pretend to share them to their full extent; but I
tell you now, solemnly, it's of no use--I can't help myself. I didn't mean to
tell you this Emily; but, in plain words, there is no choice between selling
these two and selling everything. Either they must go, or all must. Haley has
come into possession of a mortgage, which, if I don't clear off with him
directly, will take everything before it. I've raked, and scraped, and borrowed,
and all but begged, and the price of these two was needed to make up the
balance, and I had to give them up. Haley fancied the child; he agreed to settle
the matter that way, and no other. I was in his power, and had to do it. If you
feel so to have them sold, would it be any better to have all sold?
Mrs. S.
This is God's curse on slavery!--a bitter, bitter, most accursed thing!--a curse
to the master, a curse to the slave! I was a fool to think I could make anything
good out of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under laws like
ours. I always felt it was--I always thought so when I was a girl--I thought so
still more after I joined the church; but I thought I could gild it over. I
thought, by kindness, and care, and instruction, I could make the condition of
mine better than freedom--fool that I was!
Mr. S.
Why, wife, you are getting to be an Abolitionist, quite.
Mrs. S.
Abolitionist! If they knew all I know about slavery they might talk. We don't
need them to tell us. You know I never thought slavery was right--never felt
willing to own slaves.
Mr. S.
Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men. You remember Mr. B's
sermon the other Sunday?
Mrs. S.
I don't want to hear such sermons. I never wish to hear Mr. B. in our church
again. Ministers can't help the evil, perhaps,--can't cure it, any more than we
can,--but defend it!--it always went against my common sense. And I think you
did n't think much of the sermon, either.
Mr. S.
Well, I must say these ministers sometimes carry matters further than we poor
sinners would exactly dare to do. We men of the world must wink pretty hard at
various things, and get used to a deal that is n't the exact thing. But we don't
quite fancy, when women and ministers come out broad and square, and go beyond
us in matters of either modesty or morals, that's a fact. But now, my dear, I
trust you see the necessity of the thing, and you see that I have done the very
best that circumstances would allow.
Mrs. S. [Agitatedly.]
O yes, yes! I have n't any jewelry of any amount; but would not this watch do
something? It was an expensive one when it was bought. If I could only at least
save Eliza's child, I would sacrifice anything I have.
Mr. S.
I'm sorry, very sorry, Emily,--I'm sorry this takes hold of you so; but it will
do no good. The fact is, Emily, the thing's done; the bills of sale are already
signed, and in Haley's hands; and you must be thankful it is no worse. That man
has had it in his power to ruin us all, and now he is fairly off. If you knew
the man as I do you'd think that we had had a narrow escape.
Mrs. S.
Is he so hard, then?
Mr. S.
Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather, a man alive to nothing but
trade and profit; cool, and unhesitating, and unrelenting as death and the
grave. He'd sell his own mother at a good percentage, not wishing the old woman
any harm either.
Mrs. S.
And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom and Eliza's child?
Mr. S.
Well, my dear, the fact is, that this goes rather hard with me; it's a thing I
hate to think of. Haley wants to drive matters, and take possession to-morrow.
I'm going to get out my horse bright and early, and be off. I can't see Tom,
that's a fact; and you had better arrange a drive somewhere, and carry Eliza
off. Let the thing be done when she is out of sight.
Mrs. S.
No, no; I'll be in no sense accomplice or help in this cruel business. I'll go