don't want to have anything to do with them yourselves. You would send them to
Africa, out of your sight and smell, and then send a missionary or two to do up
all the self-denial of elevating them compendiously. Is n't that it?
Oph.
Well, cousin, there may be some truth in this.
St. C.
What would the poor and lowly do, without children? Your little child is your
only true democrat. Tom, now, is a hero to Eva; his stories are wonders in her
eyes, his songs and Methodist hymns are better than an opera, and the traps and
little bits of trash in his pocket a mine of jewels, and he the most wonderful
Tom that ever wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of Eden that the Lord
has dropped down expressly for the poor and lowly, who get few enough of any
other kind.
Oph.
It 's strange, cousin; one might almost think you were a professor, to hear you
talk.
St. C.
A professor?
Oph.
Yes; a professor of religion.
St. C.
Not at all; not a professor, as your town folks have it; and, what it worse, I
'm afraid, not a practiser either.
Oph.
What makes you talk so, then?
St. C.
Nothing is easier than talking. I believe Shakspeare makes somebody say, "I
could sooner teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty
to follow my own teaching." Nothing like division of labor. My forte lies in
talking, and yours, cousin, lies in doing.
SCENE III.--Sabbath Morning. The Hall.
Enter MARIE and MISS OPHELIA, dressed for church. Marie.
Where 's Eva?
Ophelia.
The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to Mammy.
Enter EVA. Mar.
Eva, what were you stopping for?
Eva.
I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to take to church with her.
Mar.
Eva! your gold vinaigrette to Mammy!. When will you learn what 's proper? Go
right and take it back, this moment!
Enter ST. CLARE. St. C.
I say, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as she pleases.
Mar.
St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?
St. C.
The Lord knows; but she 'll get along in heaven better than you or I.
Eva.
O papa! don't; it troubles mother.
Oph.
Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?
St. C.
I 'm not going, thank you.
Mar.
I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church; but he has n't a particle of
religion about him. It really is n't respectable.
St. C.
I know it. You ladies go to church to learn how to get along in the world, I
suppose, and your piety sheds respectability on us. If I do go at all, I would
go where Mammy goes; there 's something to keep a fellow awake there, at least.
Mar.
What! those shouting Methodists? Horrible!
St. C.
Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches, Marie. Positively, it 's
too much to ask of a man. Eva, do you like to go? Come, stay at home and play
with me.
Eva.
Thank you, papa, but I 'd rather go to church.
St. C.
Is n't it dreadful tiresome?
Eva.
I think it is tiresome, some, and I am sleepy, too; but I try to keep awake.
St. C.
What do you go for, then?
Eva.
Why, you know, papa, cousin told me that God wants to have us; and he gives us
everything, you know; and it is n't much to do it, if he wants us to. It is n't
so very tiresome, after all.
St. C.
You sweet little obliging soul! go along, that 's a good girl; and pray for me.
Eva.
Certainly, I always do.
[Exeunt.] St. C. [Solus.]
O Evangeline! rightly named; hath not God made thee an evangel to me?
SCENE IV.--The Dinner Table. ST. CLARE, MARIE, OPHELIA, EVA, SERVANTS.
St. Clare.
Well, ladies, and what was the bill of fare at church to-day?
Marie.
O, Dr. G----- preached a splendid sermon! It was just such a sermon as you ought
to hear; it expressed all my views exactly.
St. C.
How very improving! The subject must have been an extensive one.
Mar.
Well, I mean all my views about society, and such things. The text was, "He hath
made everything beautiful in its season;" and he showed how all the orders and
distinctions in society came from God; and that it was so appropriate, you know,
and beautiful, that some should be high and some low, and that some were born to
rule and some to serve, and all that, you know; and he applied it so well to all
this ridiculous fuss that is made about slavery, and he proved distinctly that
the Bible was on our side, and supported all our institutions so convincingly, I
only wish you 'd heard him.
St. C.
O, I did n't need it! I can learn what does me as much good as that from the
Picayune any time, and smoke a cigar besides; which I can't do, you know, in a
church.
Oph.
Why, don't you believe in these views?
St. C.
Who--I? You know I 'm such a graceless dog that these religious aspects of such
subjects don't edify me much. If I was to say anything on this slavery matter, I
would say out, fair and square, "We 're in for it; we've got 'em, and mean to
keep 'em--it 's for our convenience and our interest;" for that 's the long and
short of it; that 's just the whole of what all this sanctified stuff amounts
to, after all; and I think that will be intelligible to everybody everywhere.
Mar.
I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent! I think it 's shocking to hear you
talk.
St. C.
Shocking! it 's the truth. This religious talk on such matters, why don't they
carry it a little further, and show the beauty, in its season, of a fellow's
taking a glass too much, and sitting a little too late over his cards, and
various providential arrangements of that sort, which are pretty frequent among
us young men? We 'd like to hear that those are right and godly too.
Oph.
Well, do you think slavery right or wrong?
St. C.
I 'm not going to have any of your horrid New England directness, cousin. If I
answer that question, I know you 'll be at me with half a dozen others, each one
harder than the last; and I'm not a-going to define my position. I am one of
that sort that lives by throwing stones at other people's glass-houses; but I
never mean to put up one for them to stone.
Mar.
That 's just the way he 's always talking; you can't get any satisfaction out of
him. I believe it 's just because he don't like religion that he 's always
running out in this way he 's been doing.
St. C.
Religion! Religion! Is what you have been hearing at church, religion? Is that
which can bend and turn, and descend and ascend, to fit every crooked phase of
selfish, worldly society, r
eligion? Is that religion which is less scrupulous,
less generous, less just, less considerate for man, than even my own ungodly,
worldly, blinded nature? No! When I look for a religion, I must look for
something above me, and not something beneath.
Oph.
Then you don't believe that the Bible justifies slavery?
St. C.
The Bible was my mother's book. By it she lived and died, and I would be very
sorry to think it did. I 'd as soon desire to have it proved that my mother
could drink brandy, chew tobacco, and swear, by way of satisfying me that I did
right in doing the same. It would n't make me at all more satisfied with these
things in myself, and it would take from me the comfort of respecting her; and
it really is a comfort, in this world, to have anything one can respect. In
short, you see [gayly], all I want is that different things be kept in different
boxes. The whole frame-work of society, both in Europe and America, is made up
of various things which will not stand the scrutiny of any very ideal standard
of morality. It 's pretty generally understood that men don't aspire after the
absolute right, but only to do about as well as the rest of the world. Now, when
any one speaks up, like a man, and says slavery is necessary to us, we can't get
along without it, we should be beggared if we give it up, and, of course, we
mean to hold on to it--this is strong, clear, well-defined language; it has the
respectability of truth to it; and, if we may judge by their practice, the
majority of the world will bear us out in it. But when he begins to put on a
long face, and snuffle, and quote Scripture, I incline to think he isn't much
better than he should be.
Mar.
You are very uncharitable.
St. C.
Well, suppose that something should bring down the price of cotton once and
forever, and make the whole slave property a drug in the market; don't you think
we should soon have another version of the Scripture doctrine? What a flood of
light would pour into the church, all at once, and how immediately it would be
discovered that everything in the Bible and reason went the other way!
Mar.
Well, at any rate, I 'm thankful I 'm born where slavery exists; and I believe
it 's right--indeed, I feel it must be; and, at any rate, I 'm sure I could n't
get along with it.
Enter EVA. St. C. [To EVA.]
I say, what do you think, pussy?
Eva.
What about, papa?
St. C.
Why, which do you like the best; to live as they do at your uncle's, up in
Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants, as we do?
Eva.
O, of course, our way is the pleasantest!
St. C.
Why so?
Eva.
Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you know.
Mar.
Now, that 's just like Eva; just one of her odd speeches.
Eva.
Is it an odd speech, papa?
St. C.
Rather, as this world goes, pussy. But where has my little Eva been, all
dinner-time?
Eva.
O, I 've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing, and Aunt Dinah gave me my
dinner.
St. C.
Hearing Tom sing, eh?
Eva.
O, yes! He sings such beautiful things about the New Jerusalem, and bright
angels, and the land of Canaan.
St. C.
I dare say; it 's better than the opera, is n't it?
Eva.
Yes; and he 's going to teach them to me.
St. C.
Singing-lessons, eh?--you are coming on.
Eva.
Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible; and he explains what it
means, you know.
Mar.
On my word, that is the latest joke of the season.
St. C.
Tom is n't a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I 'll dare swear. Tom has a
natural genius for religion. I wanted the horses out early, this morning, and I
stole up to Tom's cubiculum there, over the s tables, and there I heard him
holding a meeting by himself; and, in fact, I have n't heard anything quite so
savory as Tom's prayer this some time. He put in for me with a zeal that was
quite apostolic.
Mar.
Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I 've heard of that trick before.
St. C.
If he did, he was n't very polite; for he gave the Lord his opinion of me pretty
feely. Tom seemed to think there was decidedly room for improvement in me, and
seemed very earnest that I should be converted.
Oph.
Ihope you 'll lay it to heart.
St. C. [Gayly.]
I suppose you are much of the same opinion. Well, we shall see-shan't we, Eva?
SCENE V.--The Kitchen.
DINAH (smoking). Negro children playing about. Dinah.
'Still there, ye young uns, 'sturbin' me, while I 's takin' my smoke!
Enter JANE and ROSA. Rosa.
Well, such a time as there 's been in the house to-day, I never saw! Such a
rummagin' and frummagin' in bandboxes and closets!--everything dragged out! Hate
these yer northen misses!
Jane.
Laws! ye orter seen her to the sheet trunk! Wan't it as good as a play to see
her turn 'em out!
Bob. [From floor.]
Tell ye, ef she don't sail round the house, coat-tail standin' out ahind her!
Bound if she don't clar every one on us off the verandys minnit we shows our
faces!
Dinah.
An't gwine to have her in my diggin's, sturbin' my idees! Never let Miss Marie
interfere, and she sartin shan't, her! Allus telled Miss Marie the kitchen wan't
no place for ladies; Miss Marie got sense--she know'd it; but these yer northen
misses--Good Lor! who is she, anyhow?
Rosa.
Why, she 's Mas'r St. Clare's cousin.
Dinah.
'Lation, is she? Poor, too, an't she?--hearn tell they done their own work up
thar. Anything I hate, it 's these yer poor 'lations!
Rosa.
Hush! here she comes!
Enter MISS OPHELIA. Oph. [Advances and opens a drawer.]
What 's this drawer for, Dinah?
Dinah.
Handy for most anything, missis.
Oph. [Rummaging--draws out a table-cloth.]
What 's this? A beautiful French damask table-cloth, all stained and bloody!
Why, Dinah, you don't wrap up meat in your mistress' best damask table-cloths?
Dinah.
O Lor, missis, no! the towels was all a missin'--so I jest did it. I laid out to
wash that are--that 's why I put it thar.
Oph. [Disgusted--still rummaging.]
Shiftless! What 's here?--nutmeg-grater--Methodist hymn-book--knitting-work!
Faugh!--filthy old pipe! Faugh! what a sight! Where do you keep your nutmegs,
Dinah?
Dinah.
Most anywhar, missis; there 's some in that cracked tea-cup up there, and there
's some over in that ar cuboard.
Oph.
Here are some in the grater.
Dinah.
Laws, yes! I put 'em there this morning. I likes to keep my things handy. You,
Bob! what ar
e you stopping for? You 'll cotch it! Be still thar!
[Striking at him with a stick.] Oph.
What 's this?
[Holding up a saucer.] Dinah.
Laws, it 's my har grease; I put it thar to have it handy.
Oph.
Do you use your mistress' best saucers for that?
Dinah.
Law! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry; I was gwine to change it this
very day.
Oph.
Here are two damask table-napkins.
Dinah.
Them table-napkins I put thar to get 'em washed out, some day.
Oph.
Don't you have some place here on purpose for things to be washed?
Dinah.
Well, Mas'r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; but I likes to mix up
biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it an't handy a liftin' up
the lid.
Oph.
Why don't you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, there?
Dinah.
Law, missis, it get sot so full of dishes, and one thing and another, der an't
no room, noways----
Oph.
But you should wash your dishes, and clear them away.
Dinah. [Enraged.]
Wash my dishes! What does ladies know 'bout work, I want to know? When 'd mas'r
ever get his dinner if I was to spend all my time a washin' and a puttin' up
dishes? Miss Marie never telled me so, nohow.
Oph.
Well, here are these onions.
Dinah.
Laws, yes! thar is whar I put 'em, now. I could n't 'member. Them 's particular
onions I was a savin' for dis yer very stew. I 'd forgot they was in dar ar old
flannel. [MISS OPHELIA lifts a paper of herbs.] I wish missis would n't touch
dem ar. I likes to keep my things whar I knows what to go to 'em.
Oph.
But you don't want these holes in the papers.
Dinah.
Them 's handy for siftin' on't out.
Oph.
But you see it spills all over the drawer.
Dinah.
Laws, yes! if missis will go a tumblin' things all up so, it will. Missis has
spilt lots dat ar way. If missis only will go up stars till my clarin'-up time
comes, I 'll have everything right; but I can't do nothin' when ladies is round,
a henderin'. You, Sam, don't you gib the baby dat ar sugar-bowl! I'll crack ye
over, if ye don't mind!
Oph.
I 'm going through the kitchen, and going to put everything in order once,
Dinah; and then I 'll expect you to keep it so.
Dinah.
Lor, now! Miss 'Phelia, dat ar an't no way for ladies to do. I never did see
ladies doin' no sich; my old missis nor Miss Marie never did, and I don't see no
kinder need on't.
[] Enter ST. CLARE. Oph.
There is no such thing as getting anything like system in this family!
St. Clare.
To be sure there is n't.
Oph.
Such shiftless management, such waste, such confusion, I never saw!
St. C.
I dare say you did n't.
Oph.
You would not take it so coolly if you were a housekeeper.
St. C.
My dear cousin, you may as well understand, once for all, that we masters are
divided into two classes, oppressors and oppressed. We who are good-natured and
hate severity make up our minds to a good deal of inconvenience. If we will keep
a shambling, loose, untaught set in the community, for our convenience, why, we
must take the consequence. Some rare cases I have seen, of persons, who, by a
peculiar tact, can produce order and system without severity; but I 'm not one
of them, and so I made up my mind, long ago, to let things go just as they do. I
will not have the poor devils thrashed and cut to pieces, and they know it; and,
of course, they know the staff is in their own hands.
Oph.
But to have no time, no place, no order--all going on in this shiftless way!
St. C.
My dear Vermont, you natives up by the North Pole set an extravagant value on
time! What on earth is the use of time to a fellow who has twice as much of it
as he knows what to do with? As to order and system, where there is nothing to
be done but to lounge on the sofa and read, an hour sooner or later in breakfast
or dinner is n't of much account. Now, there's Dinah gets you a capital
dinner--soup, ragout, roast fowl, dessert, ice-creams and all--and she creates
it all out of Chaos and old Night out here in this kitchen. I think it really
sublime, the way she manages. But, Heaven bless us! if we were to come out here,
and view all the smoking and squatting about, and hurryscurryation of the
preparatory process, we should never eat more. My good cousin, absolve yourself
from that! It 's more than a Catholic penance, and does no more good. You 'll
only lose your own temper, and utterly confound Dinah. Let her go her own way.
Oph.
But, Augustine, you don't know how I found things.
St. C.
Don't I? Don't I know that the rolling-pin is under her bed, and the
nutmeg-grater in her pocket with her tobacco--that there are sixty-five
different sugar-bowls, one in every hole in the house--that she wa shes dishes