The Christian Slave Read online

feller for yer all to come to, bredren--I'll stand up for yer rights--I'll fend

  'em to the last breath!

  Andy.

  Why, but Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin' that you'd help this yer mas'r

  fur to cotch Lizy; seems to me yer talk don't hang together, mun.

  Sam.

  I tell you now, Andy, don't yer be a talkin' 'bout what yer don't know nothin'

  on; boys like you, Andy, means well, but they can't be 'spected to collusitate

  the great principles of action. Dat ar was conscience , Andy; when I thought of

  gwine arter Lizy, I railly spected mas'r was sot dat way. When I found Missis

  was sot the contrar, dat ar was conscience more yet--cause fellers allers gets

  more by stickin' to missis' side--so yer see I 's persistent either way, and

  sticks up to conscience, and holds on to principles. Yes, principles, what's

  principles good for, if we isn't persistent, I wanter know? Thar, Andy, you may

  have dat ar bone--tan't picked quite clean. Dis yer matter 'bout persistence,

  feller-niggers, dis yer 'sistency 's a thing what an't seed into very clar, by

  most anybody. Now, yer see, when a feller stands up for a thing one day, and

  right de contrar de next, folks ses (and nat'rally enough dey ses), why he an't

  persistent--hand me dat ar bit o' corn-cake, Andy. But let's look inter it. I

  hope the gen'lmen and der fair sex will scuse my usin' an or'nary sort o'

  'parison. Here! I'm a trying to get top o' der hay. Wal, I puts up my larder dis

  yer side; 'tan't no go; den, 'cause I don't try dere no more, but puts my larder

  right de contrar side, an't I persistent? I'm persistent in wanting to get up

  which ary side my larder is; don't you see, all on yer?

  Aunt C.

  It's the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows. [Aside.]

  Sam.

  Yes, indeed! Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies of de other sex in general, I

  has principles, I has--I 'm proud fur to 'oon 'em--they 's perquisite to dese

  yer times, and ter all times. I has principles, and I sticks to 'em like

  forty--jest anything that I thinks is principle, I goes in to 't; I would n't

  mind if dey burnt me 'live, I'd walk right up to de stake, I would, and say,

  Here I comes to shed my last blood fur my principles, fur my country, fur de

  gen'l interests of society.

  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.

&nb
sp; [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