 | CHAPTER XVI.
TOM'S MISTRESS AND HER OPINIONS. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
TOM'S MISTRESS AND HER OPINIONS.
“And now, Marie,” said St. Clare, “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.”
This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few mornings
after Miss Ophelia had arrived.
“I 'm sure she 's welcome,” said Marie, leaning her head
languidly on her hand. “I think she 'll find one thing, if she
does, and that is, that it 's we mistresses that are the slaves,
down here.”
“O, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of
wholesome truths besides, no doubt,” said St. Clare.
“Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our
convenience,” said Marie. “I 'm sure, if we consulted that,
we might let them all go at once.”
Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother's
face, with an earnest and perplexed expression, and said, simply,
“What do you keep them for, mamma?”
“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 was plagued with.”
“O, come, Marie, you 've got the blues, this morning,”
the best creature living, — what could you do without her?”
“Mammy is the best I ever knew,” said Marie; “and yet
Mammy, now, is selfish — dreadfully selfish; it 's the fault
of the whole race.”
“Selfishness is a dreadful fault,” said St. Clare, gravely.
“Well, now, there 's Mammy,” said Marie, “I think it 's
selfish of her to sleep so sound 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.”
“Has n't she sat up with you a good many nights, lately,
mamma?” said Eva.
“How should you know that?” said Marie, sharply;
“she 's been complaining, I suppose.”
“She did n't complain; she only told me what bad nights
you 'd had, — so many in succession.”
“Why don't you let Jane or Rosa take her place, a night
or two,” said St. Clare, “and let her rest?”
“How can you propose it?” said Marie. “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;” and Marie sighed.
Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air
of shrewd, observant gravity; and she still kept her lips
tightly compressed, as if determined fully to ascertain her
longitude and position, before she committed herself.
“Now, Mammy has a sort of goodness,” said Marie;
Now, she never will be done fidgeting and worrying about
that husband of hers. You see, when I was married and
came to live here, of course, I had to bring her with me, and
her husband my father could n't spare. He was a blacksmith,
and, of course, very necessary; and I thought and said,
at the time, that Mammy and he had better give each other
up, as it was n't likely to be convenient for them ever to live
together again. I wish, now, I 'd insisted on it, and married
Mammy to somebody else; but I was foolish and indulgent,
and did n't want to insist. I told Mammy, at the time, that
she must n't ever expect to see him more than once or twice
in her life again, for the air of father's place does n't agree
with my health, and I can't go there; and I advised her
to take up with somebody else; but no — she would n't.
Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots, that
everybody don't see as I do.”
“Has she children?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Yes; she has two.”
“I suppose she feels the separation from them?”
“Well, of course, I could n't bring them. They were little
dirty things — I could n't have them about; and, besides,
they took up too much of her time; but I believe that
Mammy has always kept up a sort of sulkiness about this.
She won't marry anybody else; and I do believe, now, though
she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my
health is, she would go back to her husband to-morrow, if she
only could. I do, indeed,” said Marie; “they are just so
selfish, now, the best of them.”
“It 's distressing to reflect upon,” said St. Clare, dryly.
Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of
the lip, as he spoke.
“Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me,” said
Marie. “I wish some of your northern servants could look
at her closets of dresses, — silks and muslins, and one real
linen cambric, she has hanging there. I 've worked sometimes
whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her
ready to go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it
is. She never was whipped more than once or twice in her
whole life. She has her strong coffee or her tea every day,
with white sugar in it. It 's abominable, to be sure; but St.
Clare will have high life below-stairs, and they every one of
them live just as they please. The fact is, our servants are
over-indulged. I suppose it is partly our fault that they are
selfish, and act like spoiled children; but I 've talked to St.
Clare till I am tired.”
“And I, too,” said St. Clare, taking up the morning
paper.
Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother,
with that expression of deep and mystic earnestness which
was peculiar to her. She walked softly round to her mother's
chair, and put her arms round her neck.
“Well, Eva, what now?” said Marie.
“Mamma, could n't I take care of you one night — just
one? I know I should n't make you nervous, and I should n't
sleep. I often lie awake nights, thinking —”
“O, nonsense, child — nonsense!” said Marie; “you are
such a strange child!”
“But may I, mamma? I think,” she said, timidly,
“that Mammy is n't well. She told me her head ached all
the time, lately.”
“O, that 's just one of Mammy's fidgets! Mammy is just
little head-ache or finger-ache; it 'll never do to encourage it
— never! I 'm principled about this matter,” said she,
turning to Miss Ophelia; “you 'll find the necessity of it.
If you encourage servants in giving way to every little disagreeable
feeling, and complaining of every little ailment,
you 'll have your hands full. I never complain myself —
nobody knows what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it
quietly, and I do.”
Miss Ophelia's round eyes expressed an undisguised
amazement at this peroration, which struck St. Clare as so
supremely ludicrous, that he burst into a loud laugh.
“St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion
to my ill health,” said Marie, with the voice of a suffering
martyr. “I only hope the day won't come when he 'll
remember it!” and Marie put her handkerchief to her eyes.
Of course, there was rather a foolish silence. Finally,
St. Clare got up, looked at his watch, and said he had an
engagement down street. Eva tripped away after him, and
Miss Ophelia and Marie remained at the table alone.
“Now, that 's just like St. Clare!” said the latter, withdrawing
her handkerchief with somewhat of a spirited flourish
when the criminal to be affected by it was no longer in sight.
“He never realizes, never can, never will, what I suffer, and
have, for years. If I was one of the complaining sort, or ever
made any fuss about my ailments, there would be some reason
for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining wife.
But I 've kept things to myself, and borne, and borne, till
St. Clare has got in the way of thinking I can bear anything.”
Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected
to answer to this.
While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually
wiped away her tears, and smoothed her plumage in a general
sort of way, as a dove might be supposed to make toilet
after a shower, and began a housewifely chat with Miss Ophelia,
concerning cupboards, closets, linen-presses, store-rooms,
and other matters, of which the latter was, by common understanding,
to assume the direction, — giving her so many
cautious directions and charges, that a head less systematic
and business-like than Miss Ophelia's would have been utterly
dizzied and confounded.
“And now,” said Marie, “I believe I 've told you everything;
so that, when my next sick turn comes on, you 'll be
able to go forward entirely, without consulting me; — only
about Eva, — she requires watching.”
“She seems to be a good child, very,” said Miss Ophelia;
“I never saw a better child.”
“Eva 's peculiar,” said her mother, “very. There are
things about her so singular; she is n't like me, now, a
particle;” and Marie sighed, as if this was a truly melancholy
consideration.
Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, “I hope she is n't,”
but had prudence enough to keep it down.
“Eva always was disposed to be with servants; and I think
that well enough with some children. Now, I always played
with father's little negroes — it never did me any harm. But
Eva somehow always seems to put herself on an equality with
every creature that comes near her. It 's a strange thing
about the child. I never have been able to break her of it.
St. Clare, I believe, encourages her in it. The fact is, St.
Clare indulges every creature under this roof but his own
wife.”
Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.
“Now, there 's no way with servants,” said Marie, “but
to put them down, and keep them down. It was always
natural to me, from a child. Eva is enough to spoil a whole
house-full. What she will do when she comes to keep house
herself, I 'm sure I don't know. I hold to being kind to
servants — I always am; but you must make 'em know their
place. Eva never does; there 's no getting into the child's
head the first beginning of an idea what a servant's place is!
You heard her offering to take care of me nights, to let
Mammy sleep! That 's just a specimen of the way the child
would be doing all the time, if she was left to herself.”
“Why,” said Miss Ophelia, bluntly, “I suppose you think
your servants are human creatures, and ought to have some
rest when they are tired.”
“Certainly, of course. I 'm very particular in letting
them have everything that comes convenient, — anything that
does n't put one at all out of the way, you know. Mammy
can make up her sleep, some time or other; there's no difficulty
about that. She 's the sleepiest concern that ever I
saw; sewing, standing, or sitting, that creature will go to
sleep, and sleep anywhere and everywhere. No danger but
Mammy gets sleep enough. But this treating servants as if
they were exotic flowers, or china vases, is really ridiculous,”
said Marie, as she plunged languidly into the depths of a
voluminous and pillowy lounge, and drew towards her an
elegant cut-glass vinaigrette.
“You see,” she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice,
like the last dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or something
equally ethereal, “you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don't
often speak of myself. It is n't my habit; 'tis n't agreeable
to me. In fact, I have n't strength to do it. But there are
points where St. Clare and I differ. St. Clare never understood
of all my ill health. St. Clare means well, I am bound to
believe; but men are constitutionally selfish and inconsiderate
to woman. That, at least, is my impression.”
Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine
New England caution, and a very particular horror of being
drawn into family difficulties, now began to foresee something
of this kind impending; so, composing her face into a grim
neutrality, and drawing out of her pocket about a yard and a
quarter of stocking, which she kept as a specific against what
Dr. Watts asserts to be a personal habit of Satan when people
have idle hands, she proceeded to knit most energetically,
shutting her lips together in a way that said, as plain as words
could, “You need n't try to make me speak. I don't want
anything to do with your affairs,” — in fact, she looked about
as sympathizing as a stone lion. But Marie did n't care for
that. She had got somebody to talk to, and she felt it her
duty to talk, and that was enough; and reinforcing herself by
smelling again at her vinaigrette, she went on.
“You see, I brought my own property and servants into
the connection, when I married St. Clare, and I am legally
entitled to manage them my own way. St. Clare had his
fortune and his servants, and I 'm well enough content he
should manage them his way; but St. Clare will be interfering.
He has wild, extravagant notions about things, particularly
about the treatment of servants. He really does act as
if he set his servants before me, and before himself, too; for
he lets them make him all sorts of trouble, and never lifts a
finger. Now, about some things, St. Clare is really frightful
— he frightens me — good-natured as he looks, in general.
Now, he has set down his foot that, come what will, there
shall not be a blow struck in this house, except what he or I
him. Well, you may see what that leads to; for St. Clare
would n't raise his hand, if every one of them walked over him,
and I — you see how cruel it would be to require me to make
the exertion. Now, you know these servants are nothing but
grown-up children.”
“I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord
that I don't!” said Miss Ophelia, shortly.
“Well, but you will have to know something, and know it
to your cost, if you stay here. You don't know what a provoking,
stupid, careless, unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set
of wretches they are.”
Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got
upon this topic; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed
quite to forget her languor.
“You don't know, and you can't, the daily, hourly trials
that beset a housekeeper from them, everywhere and every
way. But it 's no use to complain to St. Clare. He talks
the strangest stuff. He says we have made them what they
are, and ought to bear with them. He says their faults are
all owing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the fault
and punish it too. He says we should n't do any better, in
their place; just as if one could reason from them to us, you
know.”
“Don't you believe that the Lord made them of one blood
with us?” said Miss Ophelia, shortly.
“No, indeed, not I! A pretty story, truly! They are a
degraded race.”
“Don't you think they 've got immortal souls?” said Miss
Ophelia, with increasing indignation.
“O, well,” said Marie, yawning, “that, of course — nobody
doubts that. But as to putting them on any sort of equality
impossible! Now, St. Clare really has talked to me as if
keeping Mammy from her husband was like keeping me from
mine. There 's no comparing in this way. Mammy could n't
have the feelings that I should. It 's a different thing
altogether, — of course, it is, — and yet St. Clare pretends
not to see it. And just as if Mammy could love her little
dirty babies as I love Eva! Yet St. Clare once really and
soberly tried to persuade me that it was my duty, with my
weak health, and all I suffer, to let Mammy go back, and take
somebody else in her place. That was a little too much even
for me to bear. I don't often show my feelings. I make it
a principle to endure everything in silence; it 's a wife's
hard lot, and I bear it. But I did break out, that time; so
that he has never alluded to the subject since. But I know
by his looks, and little things that he says, that he thinks so
as much as ever; and it 's so trying, so provoking!”
Miss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she
should say something; but she rattled away with her needles
in a way that had volumes of meaning in it, if Marie could
only have understood it.
“So, you just see,” she continued, “what you 've got to
manage. A household without any rule; where servants
have it all their own way, do what they please, and have
what they please, except so far as I, with my feeble health,
have kept up government. I keep my cowhide about, and
sometimes I do lay it on; but the exertion is always too much
for me. If St. Clare would only have this thing done as
others do —”
“And how 's that?”
“Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other
places to be flogged. That 's the only way. If I was n't
twice the energy that St. Clare does.”
“And how does St. Clare contrive to manage?” said Miss
Ophelia. “You say he never strikes a blow.”
“Well, men have a more commanding way, you know; it
is easier for them; besides, if you ever looked full in his
eye, it 's peculiar, — that eye, — and if he speaks decidedly,
there 's a kind of flash. I 'm afraid of it, myself; and the
servants know they must mind. I could n't do as much by a
regular storm and scolding as St. Clare can by one turn of
his eye, if once he is in earnest. O, there 's no trouble
about St. Clare; that 's the reason he 's no more feeling for
me. But you 'll find, when you come to manage, that there 's
no getting along without severity, — they are so bad, so
deceitful, so lazy.”
“The old tune,” said St. Clare, sauntering in. “What
an awful account these wicked creatures will have to settle, at
last, especially for being lazy! You see, cousin,” said he, as
he stretched himself at full length on a lounge opposite to
Marie, “it 's wholly inexcusable in them, in the light of the
example that Marie and I set them, — this laziness.”
“Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad!” said Marie.
“Am I, now? Why, I thought I was talking good, quite
remarkably for me. I try to enforce your remarks, Marie,
always.”
“You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare,” said
Marie.
“O, I must have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my
dear, for setting me right.”
“You do really try to be provoking,” said Marie.
“O, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have
just had a long quarrel with Dolph, which has fatigued me
repose in the light of your smile.”
“What 's the matter about Dolph?” said Marie. “That
fellow's impudence has been growing to a point that is
perfectly intolerable to me. I only wish I had the undisputed
management of him a while. I 'd bring him down!”
“What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual
acuteness and good sense,” said St. Clare. “As to Dolph,
the case is this: that he has so long been engaged in imitating
my graces and perfections, that he has, at last, really mistaken
himself for his master; and I have been obliged to give
him a little insight into his mistake.”
“How?” said Marie.
“Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that
I preferred to keep some of my clothes for my own personal
wearing; also, I put his magnificence upon an allowance of
cologne-water, and actually was so cruel as to restrict him to
one dozen of my cambric handkerchiefs. Dolph was particularly
huffy about it, and I had to talk to him like a father, to
bring him round.”
“O! St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your
servants? It 's abominable, the way you indulge them!”
said Marie.
“Why, after all, what 's the harm of the poor dog's wanting
to be like his master; and if I have n't brought him up
any better than to find his chief good in cologne and cambric
handkerchiefs, why should n't I give them to him?”
“And why have n't you brought him up better?” said
Miss Ophelia, with blunt determination.
“Too much trouble, — laziness, cousin, laziness, — which
ruins more souls than you can shake a stick at. If it
were n't for laziness, I should have been a perfect angel,
Dr. Botherem, up in Vermont, used to call the `essence of
moral evil.' It 's an awful consideration, certainly.”
“I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility
upon you,” said Miss Ophelia. “I would n't have it, for a
thousand worlds. You ought to educate your slaves, and
treat them like reasonable creatures, — like immortal creatures,
that you 've got to stand before the bar of God with.
That 's my mind,” said the good lady, breaking suddenly out
with a tide of zeal that had been gaining strength in her mind
all the morning.
“O! come, come,” said St. Clare, getting up quickly;
“what do you know about us?” And he sat down to the
piano, and rattled a lively piece of music. St. Clare had a
decided genius for music. His touch was brilliant and firm,
and his fingers flew over the keys with a rapid and bird-like
motion, airy, and yet decided. He played piece after piece,
like a man who is trying to play himself into a good humor.
After pushing the music aside, he rose up, and said, gayly,
“Well, now, cousin, you 've given us a good talk, and done
your duty; on the whole, I think the better of you for it. I
make no manner of doubt that you threw a very diamond of
truth at me, though you see it hit me so directly in the face
that it was n't exactly appreciated, at first.”
“For my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk,” said
Marie. “I 'm sure, if anybody does more for servants than
we do, I 'd like to know who; and it don't do 'em a bit good,
— not a particle, — they get worse and worse. As to talking to
them, or anything like that, I 'm sure I have talked till I was
tired and hoarse, telling them their duty, and all that; and
I 'm sure they can go to church when they like, though they
don't understand a word of the sermon, more than so many
but they do go, and so they have every chance; but, as I said
before, they are a degraded race, and always will be, and
there is n't any help for them; you can't make anything of
them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia, I 've tried, and
you have n't; I was born and bred among them, and I
know.”
Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and therefore
sat silent. St. Clare whistled a tune.
“St. Clare, I wish you would n't whistle,” said Marie;
“it makes my head worse.”
“I won't,” said St. Clare. “Is there anything else you
would n't wish me to do?”
“I wish you would have some kind of sympathy for my
trials; you never have any feeling for me.”
“My dear accusing angel!” said St. Clare.
“It 's provoking to be talked to in that way.”
“Then, how will you be talked to? I 'll talk to order, —
any way you 'll mention, — only to give satisfaction.”
A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken
curtains of the verandah. St. Clare stepped out, and lifting
up the curtain, laughed too.
“What is it?” said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing.
There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every
one of his button-holes stuck full of cape jessamines, and Eva,
gayly laughing, was hanging a wreath of roses round his
neck; and then she sat down on his knee, like a chip-sparrow,
still laughing.
“O, Tom, you look so funny!”
Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his
quiet way, to be enjoying the fun quite as much as his little
half-deprecating, apologetic air.
“How can you let her?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Why not?” said St. Clare.
“Why, I don't know, it seems so dreadful!”
“You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large
dog, even if he was black; but a creature that can think, and
reason, and feel, and is immortal, you shudder at; confess it,
cousin. I know the feeling among some of you northerners
well enough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in our
not having it; but custom with us does what Christianity
ought to do, — obliterates the feeling of personal prejudice. I
have often noticed, in my travels north, how much stronger
this was with you than with us. You loathe them as you
would a snake or a toad, yet you are indignant at their
wrongs. You would not have them abused; but you 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?”
“Well, cousin,” said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, “there
may be some truth in this.”
“What would the poor and lowly do, without children?”
said St. Clare, leaning on the railing, and watching Eva, as
she tripped off, leading Tom with her. “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
kind.”
“It 's strange, cousin,” said Miss Ophelia; “one might
almost think you were a professor, to hear you talk.”
“A professor?” said St. Clare.
“Yes; a professor of religion.”
“Not at all; not a professor, as your town-folks have it;
and, what is worse, I 'm afraid, not a practiser, either.”
“What makes you talk so, then?”
“Nothing is easier than talking,” said St. Clare. “I
believe Shakespeare makes somebody say, `I could sooner
show twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the
twenty to follow my own showing.' Nothing like division of
labor. My forte lies in talking, and yours, cousin, lies in
doing.”
In Tom's external situation, at this time, there was, as the
world says, nothing to complain of. Little Eva's fancy for
him — the instinctive gratitude and loveliness of a noble
nature — had led her to petition her father that he might be
her especial attendant, whenever she needed the escort of a
servant, in her walks or rides; and Tom had general orders to
let everything else go, and attend to Miss Eva whenever she
wanted him, — orders which our readers may fancy were far
from disagreeable to him. He was kept well dressed, for St.
Clare was fastidiously particular on this point. His stable
services were merely a sinecure, and consisted simply in a
daily care and inspection, and directing an under-servant in
his duties; for Marie St. Clare declared that she could not
have any smell of the horses about him when he came near
that would make him unpleasant to her, as her nervous system
was entirely inadequate to any trial of that nature; one snuff
of anything disagreeable being, according to her account, quite
sufficient to close the scene, and put an end to all her earthly
trials at once. Tom, therefore, in his well-brushed broadcloth
suit, smooth beaver, glossy boots, faultless wristbands
and collar, with his grave, good-natured black face, looked
respectable enough to be a Bishop of Carthage, as men of his
color were, in other ages.
Then, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration to
which his sensitive race are never indifferent; and he did
enjoy with a quiet joy the birds, the flowers, the fountains,
the perfume, and light and beauty of the court, the silken
hangings, and pictures, and lustres, and statuettes, and gilding,
that made the parlors within a kind of Aladdin's palace
to him.
If ever Africa shall show an elevated and cultivated race,
— and come it must, some time, her turn to figure in the
great drama of human improvement, — life will awake there
with a gorgeousness and splendor of which our cold western
tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-off mystic land of
gold, and gems, and spices, and waving palms, and wondrous
flowers, and miraculous fertility, will awake new forms of art,
new styles of splendor; and the negro race, no longer despised
and trodden down, will, perhaps, show forth some of the
latest and most magnificent revelations of human life. Certainly
they will, in their gentleness, their lowly docility of
heart, their aptitude to repose on a superior mind and rest on
a higher power, their childlike simplicity of affection, and
facility of forgiveness. In all these they will exhibit the
highest form of the peculiarly Christian life, and, perhaps,
Africa in the furnace of affliction, to make her the highest
and noblest in that kingdom which he will set up, when every
other kingdom has been tried, and failed; for the first shall
be last, and the last first.
Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she
stood, gorgeously dressed, on the verandah, on Sunday morning,
clasping a diamond bracelet on her slender wrist? Most
likely it was. Or, if it was n't that, it was something else;
for Marie patronized good things, and she was going now, in
full force, — diamonds, silk, and lace, and jewels, and all, — to
a fashionable church, to be very religious. Marie always made
a point to be very pious on Sundays. There she stood, so
slender, so elegant, so airy and undulating in all her motions,
her lace scarf enveloping her like a mist. She looked a graceful
creature, and she felt very good and very elegant indeed.
Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfect contrast. It was
not that she had not as handsome a silk dress and shawl, and
as fine a pocket-handkerchief; but stiffness and squareness,
and bolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as indefinite yet
appreciable a presence as did grace her elegant neighbor; not
the grace of God, however, — that is quite another thing!
“Where 's Eva?” said Marie.
“The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to
Mammy.”
And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs?
Listen, reader, and you will hear, though Marie does not.
“Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully.”
“Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately.
You don't need to worry.”
“Well, I 'm glad you 're going out; and here,” — and the
take my vinaigrette.”
“What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them
diamonds! Lor, Miss, 't would n't be proper, no ways.”
“Why not? You need it, and I don't. Mamma always
uses it for headache, and it 'll make you feel better. No, you
shall take it, to please me, now.”
“Do hear the darlin talk!” said Mammy, as Eva thrust
it into her bosom, and, kissing her, ran down stairs to her
mother.
“What were you stopping for?”
“I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to
take to church with her.”
“Eva!” said Marie, stamping impatiently, — “your gold
vinaigrette to Mammy! When will you learn what 's
proper? Go right and take it back, this moment!”
Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly.
“I say, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as she
pleases,” said St. Clare.
“St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?”
said Marie.
“The Lord knows,” said St. Clare; “but she 'll get along
in heaven better than you or I.”
“O, papa, don't,” said Eva, softly touching his elbow;
“it troubles mother.”
“Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?” said Miss
Ophelia, turning square about on St. Clare.
“I 'm not going, thank you.”
“I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church,” said
Marie; “but he has n't a particle of religion about him. It
really is n't respectable.”
“I know it,” said St. Clare. “You ladies go to church
piety sheds respectability on us. If I did go at all, I would
go where Mammy goes; there 's something to keep a fellow
awake there, at least.”
“What! those shouting Methodists? Horrible!” said
Marie.
“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.”
“Thank you, papa; but I 'd rather go to church.”
“Is n't it dreadful tiresome?” said St. Clare.
“I think it is tiresome, some,” said Eva; “and I am
sleepy, too, but I try to keep awake.”
“What do you go for, then?”
“Why, you know, papa,” she said, in a whisper, “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.”
“You sweet, little obliging soul!” said St. Clare, kissing
her; “go along, that 's a good girl, and pray for me.”
“Certainly, I always do,” said the child, as she sprang
after her mother into the carriage.
St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her,
as the carriage drove away; large tears were in his eyes.
“O, Evangeline! rightly named,” he said; “hath not
God made thee an evangel to me?”
So he felt a moment; and then he smoked a cigar, and read
the Picayune, and forgot his little gospel. Was he much
unlike other folks?
“You see, Evangeline,” said her mother, “it 's always
right and proper to be kind to servants, but it is n't proper to
treat them just as we would our relations, or people in our
want to put her in your own bed.”
“I should feel just like it, mamma,” said Eva, “because
then it would be handier to take care of her, and because,
you know, my bed is better than hers.”
Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moral
perception evinced in this reply.
“What can I do to make this child understand me?” she
said.
“Nothing,” said Miss Ophelia, significantly.
Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment; but
children, luckily, do not keep to one impression long, and in
a few moments she was merrily laughing at various things
which she saw from the coach-windows, as it rattled along.
“Well, ladies,” said St. Clare, as they were comfortably
seated at the dinner-table, “and what was the bill of fare at
church to-day?”
“O, Dr. G— preached a splendid sermon,” said Marie.
“It was just such a sermon as you ought to hear; it expressed
all my views exactly.”
“It must have been very improving,” said St. Clare.
“The subject must have been an extensive one.”
“Well, I mean all my views about society, and such
things,” said Marie. “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
you 'd heard him.”
“O, I did n't need it,” said St. Clare. “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.”
“Why,” said Miss Ophelia, “don't you believe in these
views?”
“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.”
“I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent!” said
Marie. “I think it 's shocking to hear you talk.”
“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.”
“Well,” said Miss Ophelia, “do you think slavery right
or wrong?”
“I 'm not going to have any of your horrid New England
directness, cousin,” said St. Clare, gayly. “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 the sort that lives by
mean to put up one for them to stone.”
“That 's just the way he 's always talking,” said Marie;
“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.”
“Religion!” said St. Clare, in a tone that made both
ladies look at him. “Religion! Is what you hear at church
religion? Is that which can bend and turn, and descend and
ascend, to fit every crooked phase of selfish, worldly society,
religion? 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.”
“Then you don't believe that the Bible justifies slavery,”
said Miss Ophelia.
“The Bible was my mother's book,” said St. Clare.
“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,” said he, suddenly
resuming his gay tone, “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
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 is n't much better than he should be.”
“You are very uncharitable,” said Marie.
“Well,” said St. Clare, “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!”
“Well, at any rate,” said Marie, as she reclined herself on
a lounge, “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 without it.”
“I say, what do you think, Pussy?” said her father to
Eva, who came in at this moment, with a flower in her
hand.
“What about, papa?”
“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?”
“O, of course, our way is the pleasantest,” said Eva.
“Why so?” said St. Clare, stroking her head.
“Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you
know,” said Eva, looking up earnestly.
“Now, that 's just like Eva,” said Marie; “just one of
her odd speeches.”
“Is it an odd speech, papa?” said Eva, whisperingly, as
she got upon his knee.
“Rather, as this world goes, Pussy,” said St. Clare. “But
where has my little Eva been, all dinner-time?”
“O, I 've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing, and
Aunt Dinah gave me my dinner.”
“Hearing Tom sing, hey?”
“O, yes! he sings such beautiful things about the New
Jerusalem, and bright angels, and the land of Canaan.”
“I dare say; it 's better than the opera, is n't it?”
“Yes, and he 's going to teach them to me.”
“Singing lessons, hey? — you are coming on.”
“Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible;
and he explains what it means, you know.”
“On my word,” said Marie, laughing, “that is the latest
joke of the season.”
“Tom is n't a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I 'll
dare swear,” said St. Clare. “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 stables, 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.”
“Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I 've heard of
that trick before.”
“If he did, he was n't very politic; for he gave the Lord
his opinion of me, pretty freely. Tom seemed to think there
was decidedly room for improvement in me, and seemed very
earnest that I should be converted.”
“I hope you 'll lay it to heart,” said Miss Ophelia.
“I suppose you are much of the same opinion,” said St.
Clare. “Well, we shall see, — shan't we, Eva?”
| CHAPTER XVI.
TOM'S MISTRESS AND HER OPINIONS. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |