Air: "Ole Kintuck in de arternoon."
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.
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?
La sakes! now, does it?
Why yes. Look here now [writing
rapidly], that's g, and that's q—that's g — that's q.
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
But, Aunt Chloe, I'm getting mighty hungry. Is n't that cake in the skillet
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.
They wanted me to come to supper in the house, but I knew what was what
too well for that, Aunt Chloe.
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!
Now for the cake.
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
Tom Lincoln says that their Jinny is a better cook than you.
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!
Well, though, I've heard you say that Jinny way a pretty fair cook.
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
I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice.
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.]
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.
Yes, I says to him, "Tom, you ought to see some of Aunt Chloe's pies;
they're the right sort," says I.
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 'count yer privileges,
'cause all our privileges is gi'n to us; we ought al'ays to 'member dat ar.
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?
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
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,
And what did mother say?
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!
Well, you made out well with that dinner—I remember everybody said so.
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!
La, now! they are so full of tickle all the while, they can't behave theirselves.
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.
Well, mebbe 't will do 'em some good. What we's to to for cheers, now I declare I don't know.
Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer, last week.
You go long! I'll boun' you pulled 'em out; some o' your shines.
Well, it'll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!
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.
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.]
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?
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
Mr. Shelby. [Lounging on an ottoman, with newspaper.]
Haley is his name.
Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray?
Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with last time I was
And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and dine
Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him.
Is he a negro-trader?
Why, my dear, what put that into your head?
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 goose!
She did, eh? It will have to come out. As well now as ever. [Aside.]
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.
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.
To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious.
I am sorry to say that I am. I've agreed to sell Tom.
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!
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.
But why, of all others, chose these? Why sell them of all on the place,
if you must sell at all?
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.
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.
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.
I know it—I dare say; but what's the use of all this? I can't help myself.
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, excellent, 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
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?
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!
Why, wife, you are getting to be an Abolitionist, quite.
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.
Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men. You remember Mr.
B's sermon the other Sunday?
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.
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.
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.
Is he so hard, then?
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.
And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom and Eliza's child?
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
a drive somewhere, and carry Eliza off. Let the thing be done when she is
out of sight.
No, no; I'll be in no sense accomplice or help in this cruel business.
I'll go and see poor old Tom—God help him!—in his distress! They shall
see, at any rate, that their mistress can feel for and with them. As to
Eliza, I dare not think about it. The Lord forgive us! What have we done
that this cruel necessity should come on us?
SCENE III.— -- UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Midnight.
UNCLE TOM and AUNT CHLOE — knocking
Good Lor! What's that? My sakes alive, if it an't Lizy! Get on yore
clothes, ole man, quick! There's old Bruno, too, a-pawin' round—what on
airth! I'm gwine to open the door.
I'm running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe—carrying off my child. Master's
Uncle Tom and Aunt C.
Yes, sold him! I crept into the closet by mistress' door to-night, and
I heard master tell missis that he had sold my Harry and you, Uncle Tom, both
to a trader, and that he was going off this morning on his horse, and that
the man was to take possession to-day.
The good Lord hab pity on us! O, it don't seem like's if it was true!
What has he done that mas'r should sell him?
He hasn't done anything—it is n't for that. Master don't want to sell,
and missis —she's always good—I heard her plead and beg for us; but he
told her 't was no use—that he was in this man's debt, and that this man
had got the power over him, and that if he did n't pay him off clear, it
would end in his having to sell the place and all the people, and move off.
Yes, I heard him say there was no choice between selling these two and
selling all, the man was driving him so hard. Master said he was sorry; but,
O missis! you ought to have heard her talk! If she an't a Christian and an
angel, there never was one. I'm a wicked girl to leave her so; but then
I can't help it. She said herself one soul was worth more than the world;
and this boy has a soul, and if I let him be carried off, who knows what'll
become of it? It must be right; but if it an't right, the Lord forgive me,
for I can't help doing it!
Well, ole man, why don't you go too? Will you wait to be toted down river,
whar dey kill niggers wid hard work and starving? I'd a heap rather fur
to die than go dar, any day! Dere's time for ye; be off with Lizy—you've
got a pass to come and go any time. Come, bustle up, and I'll get your
No, no; I an't going. Let Eliza go; it's her right. I wouldn't be the
one to say no. 'T an't in natur for her to stay; but
you heard what she said! If I must be sold, or all the people on the place,
and everything go to rack, why, let me be sold. I s'pose I
can b'ar it as well as any on 'em. [Sobbing.] Mas'r always found me on the spot—he always will.
I never have broke trust, nor used my pass noways contrary to my word, and
I never will. It's better for me alone to go, than to break up the place
and sell all. Mas'r an't to blame, Chloe; and he'll take care of you and
the poor— [Covers his face with his
And now, I saw my husband only this afternoon, and I little knew then
what was to come. They have pushed him to the very last standing place,
and he told me to-day he was going to run away. Do try, if you can, to get
word to him. Tell him how I went, and why I went; and tell him I'm going
to try and find Canada. You must give my love to him, and tell him, if I
never see him again [turning away,
and speaking agitatedly], tell him to be as good as he can,
and try and meet me in the kingdom of heaven. Call Bruno in there. Shut
the door on him, poor beast! He must n't go with me!
SCENE IV.—Lawn before the house.
BLACK SAM solus.
It's an ill wind dat blow nowhar—dat ar a fact. Yes, it's an ill wind
blows nowhar. Now, dar, Tom's down—wal, course der's room for some nigger
to be up; and why not dis nigger?—dat's de idee. Tom, a ridin' round de
country—boots blacked—pass in his pocket—all grand as Cuffee; but who
he? Now, why should n't Sam?—dat's what I want to know.
Enter ANDY, shouting.
Halloo, Sam! O Sam! Mas'r wants you to cotch Bill and Jerry.
High! what's afoot now, young un?
Why, you don't know, I s'pose, that Lizy's cut stick, and clared out,
with her young un?
You teach your granny! knowed it a heap sight sooner than you did. Dis
nigger ain't so green, now.
Well, anyhow, mas'r wants Bill and Jerry geared right up; and you and
I's to go with Mas'r Haley, to look arter her.
Good, now! dat's de time o' day! It's Sam dat's called for in dese yer
times. He's de nigger. See if I don't cotch her, now; mas'r'll see what
Sam can do!
Ah! but Sam, you'd better think twice; for missis don't want her cotched,
and she'll be in yer wool.
High! how you know dat ar?
Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin', when I bring in mas'r's
shaving water. She sent me to see why Lizy did n't come to dress her; and
when I telled her she was off, she jest riz up, and ses she, "The Lord be
praised!" And mas'r he seemed rael mad, and ses he, "Wife, you talk like a
fool!" But, Lor! she'll bring him to! I knows well enough how that'll be—it's
allers best to stand missis' side the fence, now I tell yer.
Sam. [Scratching his head.]
Der an't no sayin'—never—'bout no kind o' thing in dis yer world. Now, sartin I'd a said that missis would a scoured the
varsal world after Lizy.
So she would; but can't ye see through a ladder, ye black nigger? Missis
don't want dis yer Mas'r Haley to get Lizy's boy, dat's de go.
And I'll tell ye what, Sam, ye'd better be makin' tracks for dem hosses—mighty
sudden too; mas'r's in a grand hurry.
Andy, chile, you go cotch 'em—you's a mighty good boy, Andy—and bring
'em long quick.
Mrs. Shelby. [Calling from the balcony.]
Andy! don't ye hear, ye nigger? be off quick, and bring the critturs up,
and I'll go and 'scuse us to missis—dat ar takes dis chile to do.
Mrs. S. [From the balcony.]
Sam! what have you been loitering so for?
Lord bless you, missis! hosses won't be cotched all in a minnit; they'd
done clared out way down to the south pasture, and the Lord knows whar!
Sam, how often must I tell you not to say "Lord bless you," and "the Lord
knows," and such things? It's wicked.
O, Lord bless my soul! I done forgot, missis! I won't say nothing of
de sort no more.
Why, Sam, you just have said it again.
Did I? O Lord! I mean—I did n't go fur to say dar ar.
You must be careful, Sam.
Jest let me get my breath, missis, and I'll start fair. I'll be wery
Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show him the road, and help
him. Be careful of the horses, Sam; you know Jerry was a little lame last
week; don't ride them too fast.
Let dis chile alone for dat! Lord knows! High! did n't say dat! Yes,
missis, I'll look out fur de hosses.
SCENE V.—The Lawn before the house.
Enter SAM and ANDY with the horses.
Here dey is! [Fastens them to a post.]
Here, now, Andy—see dis? [Holding up a beech-nut.]
Look here! [Slips it under the
An't I a hoss!—ku! ku!— [Strokes
the horse.]—Skeery are ye? I'll fix ye—Ku! [Poking Andy in the side.] Now, Andy, chile,
I's gwine to be 'structin' ye in yer duties. Ye see, by'm-bye, when dat ar
grand gentleman comes to be gettin' up, I would n't be't all surprised if
this yer critter should gib a fling. Ye know, Andy, critters will do sich
things. Ku! ku!
Yes, you see, Andy, missis wants to make time,—dat ar's clar to der most
or'nary 'bserver. I jis make a little for her. Now,
see, get all dese yer hosses loose, caperin' permiscus round dis yer lot and
down to de wood dar, and I spec mas'r won't be off in a hurry.
Ku! ku! ku!
Yer see, Andy, if any such thing should happen
as that Mas'r Haley's horse should begin to act contrary,
and cut up, you and I jist let's go of our 'n to help him; and we'll help him—O yes!
Enter HALEY, booted and spurred, with large riding-whip.
Well, boys, look alive now; we must lose no time.
Not a bit of him, mas'r.[HALEY mounts, and is
instantly thrown. The horses run away. SAM and ANDY chasing, waving their hats and shouting, followed by all the negro children. HALEY retires to the
-- SCENE VI.—The Stable-yard.
Enter SAM and ANDY, leading the horses, covered with foam.
Did yer see him, Andy?—did yer see him? O, Lor,
if it war n't as good as a meetin', now, to see him a dancin' and kickin'
and swarin' at us. Did n't I hear him? Swar away, ole fellow, ses I; will
yer have yer hoss now, or wait till you cotch him? ses I. Lor, Andy, I think
I can see him now.
Sam and Andy.
Ha ha ha! he he he! hi hi hi! ho ho ho!
Yer oughter seen how mad he looked, when I brought the hoss up. Lor,
he'd a killed me, if he durs' to; and there I was a standin' as innercent
and as humble.
Lor, I seed you; an't you an old hoss, Sam?
Rather 'spects I am. Did yer see missis upstars at the winder? I seed
I'm sure, I was racin' so, I did n't see nothing.
Well, yer see, I's 'quired what yer may call a habit o' bobservation, Andy. It's a very 'portant habit, Andy, and I 'commend
yer to be cultivatin' it, now yer young. Hist up that hind foot, Andy.
Yer see, Andy, it's bobservation makes all de difference
in niggers. Did n't I see which way the wind blew dis yer mornin'? Didn't
I see what Missis wanted, though she never let on? Dat ar's bobservation,
Andy. I 'spects it's what you may call a faculty. Faculties is different
in different peoples, but cultivation of 'em goes a great way.
I guess if I had n't helped yer bobservation dis mornin', yer would n't
have see yet way so smart.
Andy, you's a promisin' child, der an't no manner o' doubt. I thinks
lots of yer, Andy; and I don't feel no ways ashamed to take idees from you.
We oughtenter overlook nobody, Andy, 'cause the smartest on us gets tripped
up sometimes. And so, Andy, let's go up to the house now. I'll be boun'
missis 'll give us an uncommon good bite dis yer time.
SCENE VII.—The Road.
Enter HALEY, SAM and ANDY, mounted.
Your master, I s'pose, don't keep no dogs?
Heaps on 'em; that's Bruno— he's a roarer! and, besides that, 'bout every
nigger of us keeps a pup of some natur' or uther.
Ho! But your master don't keep no dogs—I pretty much know he don't—for
trackin' out niggers?
Our dogs all smells round considerable sharp. I 'spect the's the kind,
though they ha' n't never had no practice. The's far
dogs, though, at most anything, if you'd get 'em started. Here, Bruno! [Whistling.]
Bruno be ———-!
Lor, Mas'r Haley, don't see no use, cursin on 'em, nuther!
Haley. [Smothering his anger.]
Take the straight road to the river. I know the way of all of 'em—they
make tracks for the underground.
Sartin, dat's de idee. Mas'r Haley hits de things right in de middle.
Now, der's two roads to de river—de dirt road and der pike—which mas'r
mean to take?
Dat am fact.
'Cause, I'd rather be 'clined to 'magine that Lizy'd take de dirt road,
bein' it's the least travelled.
I tink so too.
If yet war n't both on yer such cussed liars, now!
Course, mas'r can do as he'd ruther; go de straight road, if mas'r think
best—it's all one to us. Now, when I study 'pon it, I think de straight
road de best, decidedly.
She would naturally go a lonesome way
Dar an't no sayin'; gals is pecular. They never does nothin' ye thinks
they will; mose gen'lly the contrar. Gals is nat'lly made contrary; and
so, if you thinks they've gone one road, it is sartin you'd better go t'other,
and then you'll be sure to find 'em. Now, my private 'pinion is, Lizy took
der dirt road; so I think we'd better take de straight one.
On the whole, I shall take the dirt road. How far is it?
A little piece ahead [winking
to Andy]; but I've studded on de matter, and I'm quite clar
we ought not to go dat ar way. I nebber been over it no way. It's despit
lonesome, and we might lose our way—whar we'd come to, de Lord only knows.
Nevertheless, I shall go that way.
Now I think on't, I think I hearn 'em tell dat ar road was all fenced
up and down by der creek, and that; an't it, Andy.
Dunno 'zackly. So I hearn tell.
Its despit rough and bad for Jerry's lame foot, mas'r.
Now, I jest give yer warning, I know yer; yer won't get me to turn off
this yer road, with all yer fussin'—so you shet up!
Mas'r will go his own way![Exeunt.]
SCENE VIII.—The Parlor.
Enter SAM and ANDY below, horseback. MRS. SHELBY from the window.
Is that you, Sam? Where are they?
Mas'r Haley's a-restin' at the tavern; he's drefful fatigued, missis.
And Eliza, Sam?
Wal, she's clar 'cross Jordan. As a body may say, in the land o' Canaan.
Why Sam, what do you mean?
Wal, missis, de Lord he persarves his own. Lizy's done gone over the
river into 'Hio, as 'markably as if the Lord took her over in a charrit of
fire and two hosses.
Enter MR. SHELBY.
Come up here, Sam, and tell your mistress what she wants. Come, come,
Emily, you are cold and all in a shiver; you allow yourself to feel too much.
Feel too much! Am I not a woman—a mother? Are we not both responsible
to God for this poor girl? My God, lay not this sin to our charge!
What sin, Emily? You see yourself that we have only done what we were
There's an awful feeling of guilt about it, though. I can't reason it
Enter SAM from below.
Now, Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was. Where is Eliza, if you
Wal, mas'r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin' on the floatin' ice.
She crossed most 'markably; it wasn't no less nor a miracle; and I saw a
man help her up the 'Hio side, and then she was lost in the dusk.
Sam, I think this rather apocryphal—this miracle. Crossing on floating
ice is n't so easily done.
Easy! couldn't nobody a done it, without de Lord. Why, now, 't was jist
dis yer way. Mas'r Haley, and me, and Andy, we comes up to de little tavern
by the river, and I rides a leetle ahead—(I's so zealous to be a cotchin'
Lizy, that I could n't hold in, no way)—and when I comes by the tavern winder,
sure enough there she was, right in plain sight, and dey diggin' on behind.
Wal, I loses off my hat, and sings out nuff to raise the dead. Course Lizy
she hars, and she dodges back, when Mas'r Haley he goes past the door; and
then, I tell ye, she clared out de side door; she went down de river bank;
Mas'r Haley he seed her, and yelled out, and him, and me, and Andy, we took
arter. Down she came to the river, and thar was the current running ten
feet wide by the shore, and over t' other side ice a sawin'
and a jiggling up and down, kinder as 't were a great island. We come
right behind her, and I thought my soul he'd got her sure enough—when she
gin sich a screech as I never hearn, and thar she was, clar over t' other
side of the current, on the ice, a nd then on she went, a screechin' and
a jumpin'—the ice went crack! c'wallop! chunk! and she a boundin' like a
buck! Lord, the spring that ar gal's got in her an't common, I'm o' 'pinion.
God be praised, she is n't dead! But where is the poor child now?
De Lord will pervide. As I've been a sayin', dis yer 's a providence and
no mistake, as missis has allers been a instructin' on us. Thar's allers
instruments ris up to do de Lord's will. Now, if 't hadn't been for me
to-day, she'd a been took a dozen times. Warn't it I started off de hosses,
dis yer morning', and kept 'em chasin' till nigh dinner time? And didn't
I car Mas'r Haley night five miles out of de road, dis evening? or else he'd
a come up with Lizy as easy as a dog arter a coon. These yer's all providences.
They are the kind of providences that you 'll have to be pretty sparing
of, Master Sam. I allow no such practices with gentlemen on my place.
Mas'r quite right—quite; it was ugly on me, there's no disputin' that
ar; and of course mas'r and missis wouldn't encourage no such works. I'm
sensible of dat ar; but a poor nigger like me 's 'mazin' tempted to act
ugly sometimes, when fellers will cut up such shines as dat ar Mas'r Haley;
he an't no gen'l'man no way; anybody's been raised as I've been can't help
a seein' dat ar.
Well, Sam, as you appear to have a proper sense of your errors, you may
go now and tell Aunt Chloe she may get you some of that cold ham that was
left of dinner to-day. You and Andy must be hungry.
Missis is a heap too good for us.
SCENE IX.— -- SAM and -- ANDY at Table. -- AUNT CHLOE and all the negroes
surrounding in admiration.
Sam. [Flourishing a greasy bone.]
Yer see, fellow-countrymen, yer see, now, what dis yer chile's up ter,
for fendin' yer al,—yes, all on yer. For him as tries to get one o' our
people is as good as tryin' to get all; yer see the principle's de same—dat
ar's clar. And any one o' these yer drivers that comes smelling round arter
any our people, why, he's got me in his way; I'm the feller he's got to set in with—I'm the feller for yer all
to come to, bredren—I'll stand up for yer rights—I'll fend 'em to the last
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.
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?
It's the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows. [Aside.]
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.
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.
Niggers! all on yer, I give yer my blessin': go to bed now, and be good
SCENE X.— -- UNCLE TOM'S Cabin.
UNCLE TOM with Testament open. CHILDREN asleep in trundle-bed.
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
There 'll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is here.
Well, s'pose dere will; but de Lord lets drefful things happen, sometimes.
I don't seem to get no comfort day way.
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!
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!
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.
Wal, any way, thar's wrong about it somewhar, I can't jest make out whar 't is, but thar's wrong somewhar, I'm clar o' that.
Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above—he's above all—thar don't a
sparrow fall without him.
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.]
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
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 crittur 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, they 's to be sold, I s'pose, too,
jest like as not, when dey gets good for somethin'; an't no use in niggers
That's missis a-comin' in!
She can't do no good; what 's she coming for?
Enter MRS. SHELBY.
Tom, I come to ——
[Bursts into tears, and sits down
in a chair, sobbing.]
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.
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!
I 'se done my tears! I does n't feel to cry 'fore
day ar old limb, nohow!
in, and HALEY fastens on
Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely unnecessary.
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.
What else could she 'spect on him?
I 'm sorry that Mas'r George happened to be away.
Enter GEORGE, springing into wagon and clasping UNCLE T. round the neck.
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
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.]
What a shame! I 'll knock that old fellow down—I will!
No, you won't, Mas'r George; and you must not talk so loud. It won't
help me any to anger him.
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!
That ar was n't right, I 'm feared, Mas'r George.
Can't help it! I say it 's a shame! Look here, Uncle Tom, I've brought you my dollar!
O! I could n't think o' takin' on 'it, Mas'r George, no ways in the world!
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!
No, don't, Mas'r George, for it won't do me any
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.
O, Mas'r George, ye must n't talk so 'bout yer father!
Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad.
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?
Yes, I will, Uncle Tom!
And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young boys, when they comes
to your age, is willful, 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!
No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good advice.
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.
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.]