Oph. How can you let her?

St. C. Why not?

Oph. Why, I don't know, it seems so dreadful!

St. C. 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?

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d; 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 inst.i.tutions 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.dly 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 gla.s.s-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, religion? Is that religion which is less scrupulous, less generous, less just, less considerate for man, than even my own unG.o.dly, 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, p.u.s.s.y?

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, p.u.s.s.y. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y! 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.