Scholarly Editing

The Annual of the Association for Documentary Editing

2015, Volume 36

Swayze Drama

by Kate Lucy Edwards SwayzeEdited by Laura L. Mielke and Martha Baldwin
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Nigger Sweethearts. [1]



ACT I



Scene 1. = A Swamp in Africa. [2]
Enter Twaddle & Riley. [3]
Twaddle.—
Confound the fellow, it’s only wasting time and breath. Balling and calling wont persuade him to budge a bit faster. Things are all altered now; and, whatever weight it may have in some places, bawling, it seems, don't go for argument here. Plague on't we are now in the wilds of Africa.
Riley.—
Hollo! Mr.! Lammer! hollo!—
Twa.—
Hold your tongue, you blockhead, or—
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Riley—
Oh, lord! if my masther don't hurry up, these black divils ‘ill eat us all up.—Dy'e hear that ould man tellin' a sthory this mornin', how the natives, cuts off heads and hangs 'em up in their parlors? Oh, lord! I see me own head there now—Oh!—Hollo! Misther Lammer! hollo! [4]
Twa.—
Stop your infernal bawling. It's enough to bring all the natives about us, while the capturing party may be miles away from us, and be stripped and plundered in a minute.
Riley.—
Yis, that it! they'd sthrip us first, for they seem to be very much in want of a wardrobe. I saw three of the black divils, at a distance, and they dadn't as much on em as I have when
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I get out of bed—dancin' about in black buff—just like Adam in mourning. [5]
Twa.—
This is for having to do with a schemer! a fellow who risks his life, for a chance of advancing his interest.—Always advantage in view! trying here to make discoveries that may promote his profit and popularity at home. Nothing else could in=duce him to quit our capturing party, from the yacht—when he knows every inhabitant here is as black as a pepper-corn, and as hot into the bargain—and I, like a fool, to follow him!—and then to let him loiter behind! Nephew! Lammer! (calling.)
Riley.—
Faith what a difference there is in men!—he'd a been View Page
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afther throwin' the poker at our head, if I should ever let him call me so often. I wish he was callin' me now in that same ould way again, how shmort I would be, to-be-sure!—what a fool I was, to lave ould Savannah, for foreign parts,—and afther niggers into the bargain—maybe one of 'em 'ill toke me old place when we get back! [6] Oh, dear! oh, dear!
Twa.—
Patience, Riley! patience! If we once get back to the vessel—
Riley.—
I'll never get back, sir! When I was in Savannah, I had such an aisy shnug place, nothin' to do but go to the post office an' pleague thim lazy divils of clarks ‘till I was tired, an' thin take the litters to Mr. Lammer!—
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If I had only sthayed there I might a' been a great man now—a great invintor,—I was goin' to invint a patent bed for thim same clarks—so that they could lay down while on their they was a givin' out the litters. It was such such awful hard work for the poor divils—I pitied them so.
Twa.—
Pitied them!—Well Riley, I really think that men cursed with laziness deserves real genuine pity.—I pitty them!
Riley.—
But just think of that invintion!—The honor of it!—Ye find very few invintors in these days that sphring up from a self made man like myself.
Twa.—
Yes, no, oh nonsense! a self made man—you blundering blockhead.
X

From George Colman's Inkle and Yarico. (New York: Charles Wiley, 1825) 6-7:

Trudge.
Why, Inkle—Well! only to see the difference of men! he'd have thought it very hard, now, if I had let him call so often after me. Ah! I wish he was calling after me now, in the old jog-trot way, again. What a fool was I, to leave London for foreign parts!—That ever I should leave Threadneedle-street, to thread an American forest, where a man's as soon lost as a needle in a bottle of hay!
Med.
Patience, Trudge! patience! if we once recover the ship—
Trudge.
Lord, sir, I shall never recover what I have lost in coming abroad. When my master and I were in London, I had such a mortal snug birth of it! why, I was factotum.
Med.
Factotum to a young merchant is no such sinecure, neither.
Trudge.
But then the honour of it. Think of that, sir; to be clerk as well as own man. Only consider. You find very few city clerks made out of a man, now-a-days. To be king of the counting-house, as well as lord of the bed-chamber. Ah! if I had him but now in the little dressing room behind the office; tying his hair, with a bit of red tape, as usual.
Med.
Yes, or writing an invoice with lamp-black, and shining his shoes with an ink bottle, as usual, you blundering blockhead!

Editorial Note:

Riley’s counterpart, Trudge, laments having left London and in particular its financial district, as represented by Threadneedle Street. Unlike Riley (at least until the final scene of the play), Trudge proudly refers to himself as a “factotum,” that is, “a domestic servant who undertakes all kinds of household tasks” (OED), and the scene focuses humorously on the prospect of Trudge confusing his domestic and financial duties. In Swayze’s update, Riley refers to their mission to enslave Africans, and the central joke rests on the audience’s sense of how lazy the clerks are in Savannah. In contrast to Trudge, Riley is more concerned with his status as a self-made man—and an aspiring inventor to boot—than with deriving prestige through association with his wealthy employer. See Frank Felsenstein, ed., English Trader, Indian Maid: Representing Gender, Race, and Slavery in the New World, An Inkle and Yarico Reader (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 175n7, 176n9.
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Riley.—
Oh Lord! (starting.) What's that?
Twa.—
That! what?
Riley.—
Didn't you hear a noise?
Twa.—
Y—e—s—but—hush!—Oh, thank Heaven! here he is at last.

Enter Lammer. [7]
Now, nephew?
Lam.—
So, Mr. Twaddle.
Twa.—
Humph! one would think, by your confounded com=posure, that you were nothing but good company.—The hollow trees here cuntry foxes [8] , and the lions in 'em soldiers—the jackalls, cour=tiers—the crockodiles, fine women, and the baboons, beaus. What the pleague made you loiter so long?
Lam.—
Reflection.
Twa.—
So I should think—re=
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flection generally comes lagging behind. What, scheming, I suppose—never quiet. At it again eh—what a happy trader your father is, to have so prudent a son for a partner! why, you are the carefullest Co. in the whole city. Never losing sight of the main chance—and that's the reason, perhaps, you lost sight of us.
Lam.—
Right, Mr. Twaddle. Arithmetic, I own, has been the means of our parting at present.
Riley.—
Ha! that's a sum in di=vision, I suppose. (aside.)
Twa.—
And pray, if I may be so bold, what mighty scheme has just tempted you to employ your head, when you ought to make use of your heels?
Lam.—
Heels! here's pretty doctrine
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do you think I travel merely for motion? a fine expensive plan for a trader, truly. What Would you have a man of business come abroad, scamper extravagantly here and there and every where, then return home, and have nothing to tell, but that he has been here and there and everywhere?
Twa.—
I should think the less you said about this trip the better. [9]
Lam.—
Traveling, uncle, was always intended for improvement, and improvement is an advantage, and advantage is profit, and profit is gain. Which in the travelling translation of a trader, means, that you should gain every ad=vantage of improving your profit.—I have been comparing the land here with that of our own country.
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Twa.—
And you find it like a good deal of the land of our own country—cursedly encumbered with black legs [10] , I take it.
Lam.—
And calculating how much it might be made to produce by the acre.
Twa.—
You were?
Lam.—
Yes, I was proceeding algebraically upon the subject.
Twa.—
Indeed!
Lam.—
And just about extracting the square root.
Twa.—
Hum!
Lam.—
I was thinking too, if so many natives could be caught, how much they might fetch at the American or West Indian Markets. [11]
Twa.—
Now let me ask you a question or two, young cannibal catcher, if you please.
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Lam.—
Well.
Twa.—
Ain't we bound for Amer=ica to carry a load of niggers?
Lam.—
Granted.
Twa.—
And isn't it determined between the old folks, that you are to marry Miss Fanny as soon as we get there?
Lam.—
A fixed thing.
Twa.—
Then what the devil do you want to be exploring here for—you'll have other things to think of when you are married, I promise you. A plodding fellow's head, in the hands of a young wife, like a boy's slate after school, soon gets all its arithmetic wiped off—and then it appears in its true simple state—dark, empty, and bound in wood.
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Lam.—
Not in a match of this kind. Why it's a table of interest from beginning to end.
Twa.—
Well, well, this is no time to talk. Who knows but, instead of sailing to a wedding, we may get cut up, here, for a wedding dinner—tossed up for a dingy duke perhaps, or stewed down for a black baronet, or eat raw by an inky commoner?
Lam.—
Why, to-be-sure, you are not afraid?
Twa.—
Who, I afraid! ha, ha, ha! no, not I! what the duce should I be afraid of? thank Heaven, I have a clear conscience, and need not be afraid of anything. A scoundrel might not be quite so easy on such an occasion; but it's the part of an honest man not to behave like a scoundrel—I never behaved like a scoundrel—for which reason I am
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an honest man, you know. But come I hate to boast of my good qualities.
Lam.—
Slow and sure, my good virtuous, Mr. Twaddle! our com=panions can be but half a mile before us—and, if we do but double their steps, we shall over=take them at one mile's end, by all the powers of arithmetic.
Twa.—
Oh, curse your arithme=tic! how are we to find our way? Will arithmetic do that too?
Lam.—
That, uncle, must be left to the doctrine of chances.
(Exeunt.) Scene 2. = Another part of the forest. The Wanderer at anchor at a little distance.
Enter Sailors & capturing party. [12]
Mate.—
Come, come, bear a hand, my lads, it will take a damned
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deal of tripping to come at her—there's hardly any steering clear of these cursed sink holes. But do we muster all hands? all night, think ye?
Sailor.—
All to a man—be=sides yourself, and a monkey—and them four niggers. [13] The three lubbers, that edged away in the morning, goes for nothing, you know—they're all dead may=hap by this.
Mate.—
Dead! you be——why they're friends of the captain—and if not brought safe a-board to-night, you may all chance to have a salt eel for your supper—that's all. [14]
Sailor.—
Avast! look ahead there. Here they come, chased by a fleet of black devils.
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Mate.—
And the devil a fire have I to give 'em.— We haven't a grain of powder left. What must we do, lad?
Sailor.—
Do? Sheer off, to be sure.
Mate.—
(looks off.) Yoho! lubbers! crowd all the sail you can, d'ye mind me! (Exeunt.)
(Enter Twaddle running.) Twa.—
Nephew! Riley! run—Scamper!—Scour—fly!—What in the name of sense did I ever do, to be hunted to death by a pack of bloodhounds? Why, nephew! Oh, confound your long sums in arithmetic! I'll take care of myself—and if we must have any arithmetic, dot and carry one for my money.
(Runs off.)
Enter Lammer & Riley hastily. View Page
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Riley.—
Oh! that I was iver born at all, and then to lave ould Savannah for this—oh, murder!
Lam.—
Riley, how far are the sailors before us?
Riley.—
I'll run and see, sir.
(Starts off.) Lam.—
Blockhead, come here. These wild devils are close upon us; we shall scarcely be able to recover our party. Get behind this tuft of trees with me—they'll pass us, and we may then recover our little craft with safety.
Riley.—
(going behind.) Oh old Savannah! Sav—
Lam.—
Hush!
Riley.—
annah! (Both hide) (Several niggers run across; after a pause Lammer looks out.)
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Lam.—
Riley!—
Riley.—
(in a whisper.) Sir.
Lam.—
Are they all gone?
Riley.—
Won't you plase sir to look and see?
Lam.—
(looking.) So, all's safe at last. (comes down.) Nothing like policy in these cases—but you'd have run on like a booby! A tree I fancy, you'll find, in future, the best resource in a hot pursuit.
Riley.—
(comes down.) Oh, charm=ing! it's a rethreat for a king sir. Mr. Twaddle, he run on like a booby, and I suppose he is out of their reach by this time.—But what the divil are we to do now?
Lam.—
Reconnoitre a little and then proceed.
Riley.—
I rather you would
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do the reconnoitreing, sir, if it's all the same.
Lam.—
Then look out,—d'ye hear, and tell me if you discover any danger approaching.
Riley.—
Yes—but— (trembling.)
Lam.—
Well, is the coast clear?
Riley.—
Eh! oh howly mother! clear is it ye say? (rubbing eyes.) Well if it aint clear, it soon will be, an that's the truth—they're all aboard an' gettin' under sail—
Lam.—
Confusion!—have they no more regard for me than that—to leave me here alone,
Riley.—
And me, sir, I'm here.
Lam.—
They may report me dead, perhaps—and dispose of my property at the next island,
Riley.—
Ooh! botheration to me unlucky stars, there they go, and
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that the last we'll ever see of 'em; and here we are—two fine full-grown babes in the wood!
Lam.—
What an illtimed acci=dent! just too, when my marriage would have so much advanced my interests. Something must be hit upon, and spedily—but what resource? (thinking.)
Riley.—
The old one—a tree, sir I suppose—it's the only thing I can see sir now. What would I give now, to be sithing on the top of a high stool, scribbling away answering yer business litthers—But all my red ink will be spilt by an old black canibal of a nigger. [15] —Now you may meet a luckier fate, for you can ex=tract the square root, and that's the very best provision you can
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find here. But I!—mercy on us!—here they come again.
Lam.—
Confusion! deserted on one side, and pressed on the other, which way shall I turn? Here, here! this looks like a safe retreat—lets in for the present.
Riley.—
Oh, no, sir, don't don't! We'll get our heads bit off.
Lam.—
I'll enter, cost what it will.—This is no time for debating. You are before, lead the way.
Riley.—
What! go in before my master! I know my place better—I might walk into more mouths than one. (aside.)
Lam.—
Coward! then follow me.
Riley.—
I must, sir, I suppose I must!—Ah, Jimmy Riley, what a damned hole are ye getting into now?
(Exeunt.)
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Scene 3. = A hut—interior—decor=ated with skins of wild beasts, feathers, &c.—A curtain for door in flat.— Enter Lammer and Riley. Riley.—
What the divil are ye at goin' any farther for. Didn't ye know that this leads to a man=thrap?
Lam.—
So far, at least, we have proceeded with safety. Ha! no bad specimen of savage elegance. These ornaments would be worth something in Savannah. We have little to fear here, I hope—this cave or hut, or whatever it may be, bears the pleasing face of a profitable adventure.
Riley.—
Very likely, sir—but for a pleasing face, it has the curse’dist ugly mouth I ever saw in me life. Now come along Mr. Lammer, we shall be eat up alive—come—
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Lam.—
Rascal! talk again of going out, and I'll flea you alive.
Riley.—
That's just what I expect for coming in—All that enter here, seem to have had their skin stripped over their ears—and ours will come next—we'll stand here stuffed for a couple of white wonders.
Lam.—
This curtain seems to lead to another apartment—I'll draw it.
Riley.—
No, no, no! don't don't! We'll have the divil to pay for disturbing the company.
Lam.—
Peace, booby, and stand on your guard.
Riley.—
Murther! what will become of us?—
Lam.—
By Heaven! a woman!
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Riley.—
A woman! (aside.) Let 'em come on—I'm ready—by Saint Pathrick, I don't fear the divil himself—Faith, it is a woman (looking through door.) fast asleep too.
Lam.—
And not bad looking either—none of the nigger in her face. [16]
Riley.—
Faith, whats that in the corner—an nice, little, plump bit eh?—
Lam.—
Hush! keep back—she wakes.
(Enter. Philis.) [17] Philis.—
Hark! I heard a noise! Lucy, awake! whence can it pro=ceed? (goes back and brings Lucy.)

Enter Lucy.
Ah! what form is this?—are you a man?
Lam.—
True flesh and blood,
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my charming heathen, I promise you
Philis.—
What harmony in his voice! what a shape? How fair his skin too!
Riley.—
I suppose this must be a lady of quality.
Phil.—
Say, stranger, whence come you?
Lam.—
From a far distant coun=try—driven on this coast by dis=tress, and deserted by my com=panions.
Phil.—
And do you know the danger that surrounds you here? our woods are filled with beasts of prey—my countrymen too—might kill you. It would be a pity if you fell in their way—I think I should weep if you came to any harm.
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Riley.—
Ho, ho! its time for me to begin to work out my salva=tion with the chambermaid. (he talks with Lucy.)
Lam.—
How wild, and beautiful sure, there's magic in her shape, and she has rivetted me to the place. But where shall I look for safety? let me fly, and avoid my death.
Phil.—
Oh, no!—But—(as if puzzled.) well then, die stranger, but don't depart—But I will try to preserve you—and if you are killed, Philis must die too! Yet 'tis I alone can save you—your death is certain without my assistance—and indeed you shall not want it.
Lam.—
My kind Philis! what means then must be used for my safety?
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Phil.—
My cave must conceal [torn page]u—none enter it, since my [torn page]ather's death. I will bring you [torn page]ood, by day, then lead you to [torn page]ur unfrequented groves, by [torn page]oonlight, to listen to the night=[torn page]ngale. [18] If you should sleep, I'll watch you, and wake you when there's danger.
Lam.—
Generous maid! then, to you I will owe my life—and whilst it lasts, nothing shall part us.
Phil.—
Shan't it indeed! then how happy have you made Philis.
Lam.—
And when an oppor=tunity offers to return to my country, you shall be my companion
Phil.—
What! cross the sea!
Lam.—
Yes.—Help me to dis=cover a vessel, and you shall
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enjoy wonders. You shall be decked in silks, my brave maid, and have a house drawn with horses to carry you.
Phil.—
Nay, do not laugh at me—but is it so?
Lam.—
It is, indeed!
Phil.—
Oh, wonder! I wish my countrywomen could see me—But won't your warriors kill us?
Lam.—
No, our only danger, on land, is here.
Phil.—
Then let us retire further into the cave. Come—your safety is in my keeping.
Lam.—
I follow you—Yet, can you run some risk in following me? [19]
(Exit.) Riley.—
Why you speak English bether than I, my little Lucy.
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Lucy.—
Does I?
Riley.—
Yes, and you learned it from a strange man eh—that tumbled from a big boat?
Lucy.—
Yes—teach me good deal.
Riley.—
What the divil made ye so frightened when ye seen us—was he like me? (shakes her head.) I suppose he wasn't as good lookin as me. Was his face like mine?
Lucy.—
Like dead leaf—brown and shrivel.
Riley.—
Oh, an old shipwrecked sailor-man—with white and gray hair, eh?
Lucy.—
All white. When night come he put it in pocket.
Riley.—
Oh! the divil, he wore a wig.—But the ould boy taught you more than English I believe.
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Lucy.—
Yes.
Riley.—
The divil! I thought so; he wouldn't be kaperin' up his char=acter if he didn't.
Lucy.—
Teach me put grass, red hot, in hollow white stick.
Riley.—
What d'ye do that for?
Lucy.—
Put in my mouth—go poff, poff.
Riley.—
The ould blackguard—he taught you to smoke did he?
Lucy.—
Yes.
Riley.—
What became of the ould man at last?—What did yer countrymen do with him?
Lucy.—
Eat him one day—our king kill him.
Riley.—
Kill him!—Eat him! What the divil is to become of me? I'll be their next tit-bit.—But what damned stomachs, to swallow a
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tough old tar.—Ah! Riley, me boy, your killing comes next.
Lucy.—
No—no—not you—no—
Riley.—
No? why what shall I do, if I get in their paws?
Lucy.—
I fight for you!
Riley.—
Will ye? By the blessed powers, she's a good-natured wench, she'll be a black diamond among thim American wifes [20] —But how in the world am I to live here?
Lucy.—
I feed you—make you nice coat. [21]
Riley.—
Leopard's skin for win=ter wear, and feathers for a summer suit.—And for all this, if my master and I, find our way to America, you shall be part of our travelling bagge—and when I get there, I give you a couple of snug rooms on a first floor, and
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visit ye every evening as soon as I come from the counting=house. How d'ye like that?
Lucy.—
Yes—
Riley.—
What a Young America [22] , I'll be in the city—Then I'll teach you to write, and dress hair.
Lucy.—
You great man in your country?
Riley.—
Oh, yes, I'm thruly a great man—nature designed me for it—I'm head clerk, and sometimes I drive the coach.—But howld on—I'm getting ahead of me story—I forgot one pint—you arn't married, I hope?
Lucy.—
No—me want you for chum-chum!
Riley.—
Good—I like that!—But you have had a lover or two, you rogue, eh Lucy?
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Lucy.—
Oh, yes—great many—I tell you. Come my room, I tell all bout 'em. [23] (Exeunt.)
Curtain
X

From George Colman's Inkle and Yarico. (New York: Charles Wiley, 1825) 19-21:

Trudge.
Will you? ecod she's a brave, good-natured wench! she'll be worth a hundred of your English wives—Whenever they fight on their husband's account, its with him, instead of for him, I fancy. But how the plague am I to live here!
Wows.
I feed you—bring you kid.
White man, never go away— Tell me why need you? Stay, with your Wowski, stay: Wowski will feed you.
Cold moons are now coming in: Ah don't go grieve me! I'll wrap you in leopard's skin: White man, don't leave me.
And when all the sky is blue, Sun makes warm weather, I'll catch you a cockatoo, Dress you in feather. When cold comes, or when 'tis hot, Ah don't go grieve me. Poor Wowski will be forgot— White man, don't leave me.
Trudge.
Zounds! leopard's skin for winter wear, and feathers for a summer's suit! Ha! ha! I shall look like a walking hammer-cloth, at Christmas, and an upright shuttlecock, in the dog-days. And for all this, if my master and I find our way to England, you shall be part of our traveliling equipage; and, when I get there, I'll give you a couple of snug rooms, on a first floor, and visit you every evening as soon as I come from the counting house. Do you like it?
Wows.
Iss.
Trudge.
Damme, what a flashy fellow I shall seem in the city! I'll get her a white boy to bring up the tea-kettle. Then I'll teach you to write, and dress hair.
Wows.
You great man in your country?
Trudge.
Oh yes, a very great man. I'm head clerk of the counting-house, and first valet-de-chambre of the dressing-room. I pounce parchments, powder hair, black shoes, ink paper, shave beards, and mend pens. But hold; I had forgot one material point—you arn't married, I hope?
Wows.
No: you be my chum-chum!
Trudge.
So I will. It's best however, to be sure of her being single; for Indian husbands are not quite so complaisant as English ones—and the vulgar dogs might think of looking a little after their spouses. Well, as my master seems king of this palace, and has taken his Indian queen already, I'll e'en be usher of the black rod here. But you have had a lover or two in your time: eh, Wowski?
Wows.
Oh iss—great many—I tell you.
DUET. Wows. Wampum, Swampum, Yanko, Lanko, Nanko, Pownatowski, Black men—plenty—twenty—fight for me. White man, woo you true? Trudge. Who? Wows. You. Trudge. Yes, pretty little Wowski! Wows. Then, I'll leave all and follow thee. Trudge. O then turn about, my little tawny tight one! Don't you like me? Wows. Iss, you're like the snow! If you slight one.— Trudge. Never, not for any white one: You are beautiful as any sloe. Wows. War, jars, scars, can't expose ye, In our grot— Trudge. So snug and cosey! Wows. Flowers neatly Pick'd shall sweetly Make your bed. Trudge. Coying, toying, With a rosy posey, When I'm dosey, Bear-skin night-caps, too, shall warm my head, Both. Bear-skin night-caps, &c. &c. [Exeunt.

Editorial Note:

Trudge does not refer to the color of Wowski’s skin, whereas his counterpart in Swayze’s update, Riley, predicts his lover, Lucy, will “be a black diamond among thim American wifes.” Still, the remainder of the scene emphasizes their contrasting skin color, as seen in Wowski's remarkable song in which she pleads, "White man, Don't leave me," while enumerating how she will dress her new lover. Trudge subsequently imagines the winter furs and summer feathers causing him to resemble a carriage seat ("hammer-cloth") and shuttle-cock respectively and envisages Wowski as his kept woman back in London, residing in her own rooms with a young white servant. Alternatively, Swayze emphasizes the way in which having an African lover will put Riley in league with New York's boisterous young Democratic radicals, Young America (see note 22). Moreover, Swayze drops from this passage a repeated emphasis on the mixture of domestic and financial tasks Trudge performs for his employer, Inkle. Whereas in Swayze's update the scene ends with a minstrel-like Lucy inviting Riley to her room so she may enumerate her beaus, in Inkle and Yarico Wowski and Trudge sing about their love in a duet that emphasizes a playful sexuality (they will lie in a bed of roses donning bearskin nightcaps) and their contrasting skin tones: "tawny" versus "white," "snow" versus "sloe" (the dark fruit of the blackthorn [OED]). That said, we cannot be certain Swayze did not intend to include a song in this scene when the play was produced. See Felsenstein, English Trader, Indian Maid, 190n32.

ACT II



Scene 1. = The American Coast [24] ^The Bay.
Enter Several Planters.
1st Planter.—
I saw her this morning, gentlemen, you may depend on't. My telescope never fails me. I popped upon her as I was taking a peep from my balcony. A brave tight ship, I tell you, bearing down directly for the island our port.
2d Planter.—
Ods my life! rare news! We have not had a vessel
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from the coast of Africa to arrive in our harbor these six weeks.
1st Planter.—
We want slaves. A terrible want of them now on our plantations. Give me a vessel like the Wanderer when she came in, where all the lading tumbles out as black as my hat. But are you sure, now, you aren’t mistaken?
2d Planter.—
But were you not mistaken?
1st Planter.—
Mistaken! do you doubt my glass? I can discover a gull by it six leagues off—I could see everything as plain as if I was on board.
2d Planter.—
Indeed! and what were her colors?
1st Planter.—
hm! why English—or Dutch—or French—I don't exactly remember.
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2d Planter.—
What were the sailors aboard?
1st Plan.—
Eh! why they were English too—or Dutch, or French, I can't perfectly recollect.
2d Plan.—
Your glass, neighbor, is a little like a glass too much—it makes you forget everything you ought to remember.

(Cry without.) A sail! a sail!
1st Plan.—
Gad! I am right though. Now, gentlemen!
2d Plan.—
Ay, ay—the devil take the hindmost.
(All rush off.)
Enter Fanny & Betsey. [25] Bet.—
Well, ma'am, as I was saying—
Fan.—
Well, say no more of what you was saying—Betsey, you forget where you are—a little caution will be necessary now, I think.
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Betsey.—
Lord! ma'am, how is it possible to help talking? We are away off here from^all our city connections^to spend the winterand one must let out a little in a private morn=ing's walk by ourselves. [26]
Fan.—
No, it the same thing with you indoors.
Bet.—
I never blab, ma'am, never, as I hope for a gown.
Fan.—
And your never blabbing, as you call it, depends chiefly on that hope I believe. The unlocking of my wardrobe, locks up all your faculties. An old silk dress makes you turn your back on all my secrets—a large bonnet blinds your eyes—and a fashionable collar covers your ears, and stops your mouth at once, Betsey.
Bet.—
Dear ma'am, how can you think a lady so mercenary!
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am I always teasing you about dresses and gew-gaws, and fal=lals and finery? Or, do you take me for a conjuror, that nothing will come out of my mouth but ribbons? I have told the story of our journey to this remote and lonely little town, to old Barney the butler, who is very inquisitive—and between ourselves, is the ugli=est old quiz I ever saw in my life.
Fan.—
Well, well, I have seen him—pitted with the small-pox, and a red face.
Bet.—
Right, ma'am, It's for all the world like his master's cellar, full of holes and liquor. But, when he asks me what you and I think of the matter, why I look wise, and cry, like other wise people who have nothing to say—All's for the best.
Fan.—
And thus you lead him
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to imagine I am but little inclined to the match.
Bet.—
Lord, ma'am, how could that be? Why I never said a word about Capt. Stuart.
Fan.—
Hush, hush, for Heaven's sake.
Bet.—
Aye! there it is now.—There ma'am, I'm as mute as a mack=arel—That name strikes me dumb in a moment. I don't know how it is, but Captain Stuart some how or other has the knack of stopping my mouth oftener than any body else, ma'am.
Fan.—
His name again!—Consider—Never mention it—I desire you.
Bet.—
Not I, ma'am, not I. But if our voyage from the North was so pleasant, it wasn't owing to Mr. Lammer, I'm certain. He didn't play the fiddle in our cabin, and
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dance on the deck, and come languishing with a glass of warm water in his hand, when we were sea-sick. Ah, Ma'am, that water warmed your heart, I'm confident. Mr. Lammer—no, no! Captain Stu—
Fan.—
There is no end of this! Remember, Betty, keep your secrecy or you entirely lose my favor.
Bet.—
Never fear me ma'am. But if somebody I know is not acquain=ted with your father, there's such a thing as dancing at balls, and squeezing hands when you lead up and squeezing them again when you cast down, and walking on the beach in the morning. Oh, I won't utter a syllable—But re=member, I'm as close as a patch=box. Mum's the word Ma'am, I promise you. [27]
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Fan.—
How awkward is my present situation! promised to one, who, perhaps may never again be heard of—and who I suppose, if he ever appears to claim me, will do it mere=ly on the score of interest—pressed too by another, who has already, I fear, too much interest in my heart—what can I do? What plan can I follow?—
(Enter Edward Stuart.) [28] Ed.—
Follow my advice, Fanny, by all means. Enlist with me, under the best banners in the world. Gen. Hymen for my money—little Cupid's his drummer—he has been beating a round rub-a-dub on our hearts, and we have only to obey the word of command, fall into the ranks of matrimony, and march through life together.
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Fanny.—
Then consider our situation.
Ed.—
That has been duly considered. In short, the case stands exactly thus—your intended spouse is all for money—I am all for love—he is a rich rogue—I am rather a poor honest fellow. He would pocket your fortune—I will take you without a fortune in your pocket.
Fan.—
Oh! I am sensible of the favor, most gallant Captain Stuart—and my father, no doubt, will be very much obliged to you.
Ed.—
Aye, there's the point! Mr. Morrison's confounded good character—knocks me into a cocked hat. Yet I am not acquainted with him—not known to him even by sight—being here only as a private gentleman on a visit to my old
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relation, out of regimentals, and so forth—and not introduced to your father as other officers of the place—but then the report of his hospi=tality—his odd, blunt, whimsical, friendship—his whole behavior—
Fan.—
All stare you in the face, Mr. Stuart.
Ed.—
They do, till they put me out of countenance—but then again, when I stare you in the face, I can't think I have any reason to be ashamed of my proceedings—I stick here, between my love and my principle, I like a song between a toast and a sentiment.
Fan.—
And if your love and your principles were put in the scales, you doubt which would weigh most?
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Ed.—
Oh, no! I should act like a rogue, and let principle kick the beam—for love, Fanny, is as heavy as lead, and, like a bullet from a pistol, could never go through the heart, if it wanted weight.
Fan.—
Or rather like the pistol itself, that often goes off without doing any harm. Your fire must end in smoke, I believe.
Ed.—
Never whilst—
Fan.—
Nay, a truce to protesta=tions at present. What signifies talking to me when you have such opposition from others? Why hover about the city, instead of boldly at=tacking the guard? Wheel about, Captain! face the enemy! march! charge! rout 'em—Drive 'em before you, and then—
Ed.—
And then—
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Fan.—
Lord have mercy on the poor city! [29]
Enter Betsey. Betsey.—
Oh, lord, ma'am, I'm frightened out of my wits! Sure as I'm alive, ma'am, Mr. Lam=mer is not dead—I saw his man, ma'am, just now coming ashore in a boat with other passengers, from the vessel that's come to the island.
(Exit.)
Fan.—
Look here, Mr. Stuart, some=thing has happened which makes me waive ceremonies.—If you mean to apply to my father, re=member that delays are dangerous.
Ed.—
Indeed!
Fan.—
I may not always be in the same mind, you know.
(Exit.)
Ed.—
Then by—I'm almost
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afraid too—but living in this state of doubt is torment. I'll even put a good face on the matter—cock my hat, make my bow—and try to reason her old father into compliance. "Faint heart never won fair lady." [30]
(Exit.)
Enter Riley & Lucy. & Run [31] Riley.—
Come along, Lucy!—Take care of yer good clothes
Lucy.—
Yes.
Riley.—
That's right—some black=guard might steal 'em.
Lucy.—
Steal!—what dat? [32]
Riley.—
Oh, lord! See what what a fellow looses by not being born in a Christian country.—But how do Lucy you like this Lucy?
Lucy.—
Boot-ful!
Riley.—
Fine men, eh?
Lucy.—
Yes, all white, like you.
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Riley.—
Yes, all the fine men are like me—as different from your black divils as powder and ink, or paper and blacking.
Lucy.—
Look! look! (pointing off) fine lady—face like white sand.
Riley.—
What! the fine ladies' com=plexions?—But did ye mind their dresses?
Lucy.—
Your countrymen all dress so?
Riley.—
Yes a great deal better—that is in my own country where I was born. This is aping my country.
Lucy.—
You great man then—got country—your own!
Riley.—
Oh, yes! I'm a great man—(aside.) if I ain't I ought to be.—But if you could only see a flashy Irishman! [33] —why sometimes one will carry a whole fortune on his
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back.—But do ye mind the women All here and there—they have it all from my country. And then the fine things they carry on their heads, Lucy—
Lucy.—
Yes, one lady carry fish—so fine, she call everybody to look at her.
Riley.—
Oh, get out o' that now! an ould woman bawling flounders. But the fine girl we meet here on the promenade—so round, and so plump!
Lucy.—
You forget me now.
Riley.—
Forget ye! Upon me soul that very good, how the divil d'ye suppose I'll ever for=get ye afther so many proofs of your affections?
Lucy.—
Yes. Great many, but now you come here, you not love Lucy any more.
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Riley.—
Faith I stick to ye like wax.
Lucy.—
I fear!—what make you love me now?
Riley.—
Go way now—what the divil d'ye be axin that for? Gratitude, I suppose.
Lucy.—
Grati—what that?
Riley.—
There's the effects of a bad edication. The poor divils of her country are ivery day practis=in' gratitude, without findin' out the meaning of it—and in this country where we have great colleges to learn the meaning of all these hard words, it get divlish little practice I can tell ye. [34] —Now, look here Lucy.
Lucy.—
Yes.
Riley.—
Now we've accomplished our landing, I'll accomplish you. Do ye mind the teachins I gave ye
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on our voyage?
Lucy.—
Yes.
Riley.—
Lets see now—what are you to do, when I introduce you to the fine folks of my acquain=tance?
Lucy.—
Make believe sit down den git up.
Riley.—
Let me look at ye now and see you do it. (She makes a low courtsey.) That'll do! And how are ye to recommind yerself, when ye have nothing to say, amongst all my great friends?
Lucy.—
Grin—show nice white teeth.
Riley.—
Right! they'll think ye'r a great princess from your country. But suppose ye meet an ould blackguard and you don't want yer fine friends to
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see ye spakin' to him—what would ye do then?
Lucy.—
I look blind—not see him.
Riley.—
What d'ye do that for?
Lucy.—
'Cause I don't like see good friend in distress.
Riley.—
That's a good girl. ^(aside) It aint ivery body can boast of so kind a motive for such divilish bad behavior.—She's a purty good girl afther all.—But thim divils of clarks in Savannah, when I get back, they'll be tazin' the life out o' me, about me ebony wife.—The divil a bit do I care though, I wont be ash=amed of her anyhow. [35] —Hullo, here come Mr. Lammer. Go into the house there Lucy, and call for what ye want—and what ye like best.
X

From George Colman's Inkle and Yarico. (New York: Charles Wiley, 1825) 30:

Trudge.
That's a good girl! and I wish every body could boast of so kind a motive, for such cursed cruel behaviour. Lord! how some of your flashy banker's clerks have cut me in Threadneedle street. But come, though we have got among fine folks, here, in an English settlement, I won't be ashamed of my old acquaintance: yet, for my own part, I should not be sorry, now, to see my old friend with a new face. Odsbobs! I see Mr. Inkle—Go in, Wows; call for what you like best.

Editorial Note:

Having taught Wowski to follow the questionable conventions of a society that places status above benevolence, Trudge recalls being shunned by clerks back in London and seems to express some anxiety about being socially ostracized in the English society of Barbados. While he insists he will not be “ashamed” of Wowski, he admits he wishes she had a “new face,” that is, a different physical appearance. Swayze significantly alters this speech by having Riley anticipate how his fellow clerks back in Savannah will tease him about his “ebony wife” and then adamantly declare his imperviousness to such comments.
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Lucy.—
Then, I call for you—Ah! I fraid I not see you often now. But you come soon. [36]
(Exit.)
Riley.—
Eh! oh!—he's tolkin to somebody.—Well I won't disturb 'em I'll afther Lucy, and see what she's a doin'
(Starts off.)
Enter 1st Planter. Plan.—
Hello! young man! Is that young wench of yours goin' to our market?
Riley.—
What market?
Plan.—
Our Market—Savannah market.
Riley.—
What wench?
Plan.—
The one I saw here a moment ago.
Riley.—
No sir-ee! She never went to market in all her born days.
Plan.—
I mean, is she for our sale of slaves? Our Black Fair!
Riley.—
A black fair! ha, ha, ha!
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Ye howld it on a brown green, I suppose.
Plan.—
She's your slave I take it?
Riley.—
Yis—and I'm her hum=ble servant, I take it.
Plan.—
Ay, ay,—natural enough at sea. But at how much do you value her?
Riley.—
Jest as much as she has saved me—Me own life.
Plan.—
Pshaw! you mean to sell her?
Riley.—
Sell my Lucy!—Saint Pat=ricks day in the mornin'!—what a divil of a fellow!—Sell my Lucy, my poor, dear, dingy wife!
Plan.—
Come, come, I've heard your story from the ship. Don't let's haggle—I'll bid as fair as any trader amongst us—but no trick's
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upon travelers, young man, to raise your price—Your wife indeed! Why she's neither Chris=tian or Catholic?
Riley.—
No—but I am—so I'll do as I'd be done by, Mr. Black-Market—and, if you were a good one yourself, you'd know, that fellow-feeling for a poor body, who wants your caresses, is the noblest mark of our religion—(aside.) I wouldn't be clerk for such a man for the world.
Plan.—
Hello! the booby Irish=man's in love with her.—why to be sure, my friend, you would not live here in this country with a black for a wife?
Riley.—
Pleague on't—that's the divil, ye see—I'll be laughed out of me honesty, here.—I may feel a little queerish, perhaps, at
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showin' her face—but be-me-soul I'm niver ashamed of showin' me own
Plan.—
Why, I tell you, her very nose and lips—
Riley.—
To the divil with her nose—I'll tell ye, Misther, nigger trader, what I think ye ought to be afther doin—yet ought to import all the female niggers from Africa and marry 'em to all our young men, and export all our young ladies to Africa to be married to the niggers there, don't ye see, it would be followin' my example, besides dealing out equality, and blooded stock to all the world. [37]
Plan.—
Pshaw! the fellow is a fooll—a rude rascal—he ought to be sent back to the savages again.
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He's not fit to live among Christians.
(Exit.) Riley.—
Oh here he comes at last.
Enter Lammer & 2d Planter.) Plan.—
And, as you seem to understand business, I need not tell you that dispatch is the soul of it. Her name you say is—
Lam.—
Philis—but urge no more, I beg you. I must not listen to it—for to speak freely, of her anxious care of me demands, that here,—though here it may seem strange—I should avow my love for her.
Plan.—
Lord help you for a merchant!—Its the first time I ever heard a trader talk of love, except indeed, the love of trade, and the love of niggers for their worth alone.
X

From George Colman's Inkle and Yarico. (New York: Charles Wiley, 1825) 32-33:

Trudge.
No: but I am; so I shall do as I'd be done by, Master Black-market: and, if you were a good one yourself, you'd know, that fellow-feeling for a poor body, who wants your help, is the noblest mark of our religion. I would'nt be articled clerk to such a fellow for the world.
Plant.
Hey-dey! The booby's in love with her! Why, sure, friend, you would not live here with a black?
Trudge.
Plague on't; there it is. I shall be laughed out of my honesty, here.—But you may be jogging, friend; I may feel a little queer, perhaps, at showing her face—but, dam'me, if ever I do any thing to make me ashamed of showing my own.
Plant.
Why, I tell you, her very complexion—
Trudge.
Rot her complexion. I'll tell you what, Mr. Fair-trader; if your head and heart were to change places, I've a notion you'd be as black in the face as an ink-bottle.
Plant.
Pshaw! The fellow's a fool—a rude rascal—he ought to be sent back to the savages, again. He's not fit to live among us Christians. [exit.
Trudge.
Oh, here he is at last.
Enter Inkle and a second Planter. Inkle.
Nay, sir, I understand your customs well: your Indian markets are not unknown to me.
2 Plant.
And, as you seem to understand business, I need not tell you that despatch is the soul of it. Her name you say is—
Inkle.
Yarico: but urge this no more, I beg you. I must not listen to it: for to speak freely, her anxious care of me demands, that here,—though here it may seem strange—I should avow my love for her.
Plant.
Lord help you for a merchant!—It's the first time I ever heard a trader talk of love; except, indeed, the love of trade, and the love of the Sweet Molly, my ship.

Editorial Note:

Trudge defends his desire to live with Wowski by referring to her desire for "help"—which Swayze brazenly changes to "caresses"—and the Planter does not refer to Wowski as Trudge's "wife" as seen in Swayze's update. The Planter's emphasis in Inkle and Yarico on Wowski's dark complexion leads Trudge to accuse him of moral darkness, drawing on a figure common in antislavery literature beginning in the late eighteenth century. Swayze's text, in which the Planter instead refers to Lucy's African "nose and lips," altogether departs from this figure and instead portrays Riley voicing his plan for the racial intermixture of the Euro-American and African peoples. The entrance of Inkle and a second planter is followed by their discussion of Yarico's sale, and this conversation is quite similar to that in Swayze's adaptation with the notable exception of the final line: while the Planter in Inkle and Yarico knows merchants who love trade and shipping vessels, the one in "Sweethearts" knows merchants who love trade and "niggers for their worth alone." This line better captures the protagonist's dilemma: he must chose between trade in human beings and love for a human being.
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Lam.—
Then sir, you cannot feel my situation.
Plan.—
Oh, yes I can! We have a hundred such cases just after a voyage; but they never last long on land. It's amazing how constant a man is in a ship! But, in two words, will you dispose of her or no?
Lam.—
In two words then, meet me here at noon, and we'll speak further on this subject—and lest you think I trifle with your business, hear why I wish this pause. Chance threw me, on my voyage among the wild Africans. Deserted—defenseless, cut off from my companions, my life at strake—to this young creature I owe my preservation,—she found me, like a dying
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bough, torn from its kindred branches—which, as it drooped she moistened with her tears.
Plan.—
Nay, nay, talk like a man of this world.
Lam.—
Your patience.—And yet your interruption goes to my present feelings—for on our sail to this your island—the thoughts of time mispent—doubts—fears—for call it what you will—have much perplexed me—and as your spires arose, reflections still arose with them—for here, sir, lie my interests, great connec=tions, and other weighty matters—which now I need not mention.
Plan.—
But which her presence here will mar.
Lam.—
Even so!—And yet the gratitude I owe her!
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Plan.—
Pshaw! Lo—because she preserved your life your grati=tude is to make you give up all you have to live upon.
Lam.—
Why, in that light indeed—This never struck me yet, I'll think on't.
Plan.—
Ay, ay, do so—Why what return can the wench wish more than taking her from a wild, idle, indolent people, and providing for her here, so that she will not even have the care of herself on her mind, and yet enjoy benefits that half the whites cannot.
Lam.—
Well, sir, at noon—
Plan.—
I'll meet you—but remember, young gentleman, you must get her off your hands—you must indeed. (aside) I shall have her at a bargain I see that.—Your servant.
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Lam.—
Riley!
Riley.—
Sir!
Lam.—
Have you provided a proper appointment?
Riley.—
Yes, sir, a neat, spruce room—so the nigger said, sir.
Lam.—
Well, run down to the ship and bring Philis up here.
Riley.—
All right, sir.—(aside.) This begins to go like ould times.—what a fine thing it is to turn one's back on a masther, without running into a wolf's belly! One can follow one's nose on a message here, and be sure it won't be bit off by the way. (Exit.)
Lam.—
Let me reflect a little. Part with her—Justified!—Pshaw, my standing in society, interest, honor, engagements to Fanny, all demand it. My father's precepts, too—I can remember when I
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was a boy, what pains he took to mould me!—Schooled me from morn to night—and still the burden of his song was—prudence, Prudence, William, and you'll rise.—Early he taught me numbers—which he said, and he said right=ly, would give me a quick view of loss and profit—and banish from my mind those idle im=pulses of passion, which mark young thoughtless spendthrifts. His maxims rooted in my heart, and as I grew—they grew—till I was rec^koned, among our friends a steady, sober, solid, good young man—and all the neighbors called me the prudent Mr. Lammer. And shall I now, at once, kick down the character which I have raised so warily? Part with her —The thought once struck me in our
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cabin, as she lay sleeping by me—but, in her slumbers, she past her arm around me, murmured a blessing on my name, and broke my meditations.
Enter Philis and Riley. Philis.—
My love!
Riley.—
I have been showing her all the bales and boxes on the bay, sir.
Phil.—
Oh! I have feasted my eyes on wonders.
Riley.—
Yis—and I'll go and feast on a bit of cold beef
(Exit.) Phil.—
My mind has been so busy, that I almost forgot even you. I wish you had staid with me—You would have seen such sights!
Lam.—
These sights have grown familiar to me, Philis.
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Phil.—
And yet I wish they were not.—you might partake my pleasures—but now again, me=thinks, I will not wish so-for, with too much gazing you might neglect poor Philis.
Lam.—
Nay, nay, my care is still for you.
Phil.—
I'm sure it is—and if I thought it was not, I'd tell you tales about our poor old cave.—Bid you remember our palm-tree, near the brook, where in the shade you often stretched yourself, while I would take your head upon my lap, and sing my love to sleep. I know you'll love me then. [38]
Lam.—
But come, you must be fatigued, and need repose.
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Scene 2. = Room in Mr. Morrison's House Enter Mr. Morrison and Twaddle. Mor.—
I tell you, Twaddle, you are all wrong. Pleague on your doubts! Lammer shall have my Fanny. Poor fellow! I done say he is finely chagrined at this temporary parting—Eat up with the blue devils, I warrant.
Twa.—
Eat up by the black devils, I warrant—for I left him in hellish hungry company.
Mor.—
Pshaw! he'll arrive with the next vessel, depend on't—be=sides, have I not had this in view ever since they were children? I must and will have it so, I tell you. Is it not, as it were, a marriage made above? They shall meet I'm positive.
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Twa.—
Shall they? Then they must meet where the marriage was made—for, hang me if I think it will ever happen below.
Mor.—
Ha! and if that is the case—hang me, if I think you'll ever be at the celebration of it.
Twa.—
Yet, let me tell you Mr. Morrison, my character is as unsul=lied as a sheet of white paper.
Mor.—
Well said old fools-cap! and it's as mere a blank as a sheet of white paper. You are honest, old Twaddle, by comparison, just as a fellow sentenced to transportation is happier than his companion con=demned to the gallows—Very worthy, because you are no rogue—ten=der hearted because you never go to fires and executions—and an af=fectionate father and husband, be=
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cause you never pinch your children or kick your wife out of bed.
Twa.—
And that, as the world goes, is more than every man can say for himself. Yet, since you force me to speak my positive qualities—but, no matter—you re=member me in ^Boston New York— didn't I as a member of the Humane So=ciety, bring a man out of the East River ^River, who, it was afterwards found, had done me an injury?
Mor.—
And dam me, if I would not kick any man into the East River that had done me an inj=ury. There's the difference of our honesty. If you want to be an honest fellow, act from the im=pulse of nature. Why, you have no more gall than a pidgeon.
Twa.—
Ha! You're always so hasty—
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among the hodge-podge of your foibles, passion is always pre=dominent.
Mor.—
So much the better.—Foibles, say you? foibles are foils that give additional lustre to the gems of virtue. You have not so many foils as I, perhaps.
Twa.—
And what's more, I dont want 'em, Mr. Morrison, I thank you.
Mor.—
Very true—for the devil a gem have you to set off with 'em
Twa.—
Well, well—I never mention errors—that I flatter myself, is no disagreeable quality.—It don't be come me to say you are hot.
Mor.—
But it does though—it becomes every man in America American to speak the dictates of his heart
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*Didn't I leave the fanatics of the North for my present position. Ain't my daughter going to marry a Southerner?— [39]
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(Enter Servant, colored.) [40] Serv.—
Ship 'rive, Massa—here letter.
(Exit.) Mor.—
A ship!—Now for the news—if it's only as I hope—(opening letter.)
Twa.—
Well, read, Mr. Morrison.
Mor.—
Hurrah! here it is—He's safe—safe and sound!—Hurrah! Here take the letter and satisfy your=self, Twaddle. —I'll go and prepare Fanny directly, they shall be married, slap-dash, as soon as he comes from the ship. From Neptune to Hymen—from the hammock to the bridal bed—Hey! old boy!
Twa.—
Well, well, don't flurry yourself—you're so hot!
Mor.—
Hot! Blood!—ain't I a Southerner? Ain't I a prosperous merchant and nigger trader?^*—He shall have her as soon as he sets
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his foot on shore.—She shall rise to him like Venus out of the sea. The vessel ought to have been here by now.
Twa.—
Very true—but Venus' hus=band is always supposed to be lame, you know, Mr. Morrison.
Mor.—
Well, now do, my good friend, run down to the wharf, and see what detains him. (hurrys him off.)
Twa.—
Well, well—I will, I will!
Mor.—
In the mea
(Exit.) Mor.—
In the meantime, I will get Fanny ready and all shall be concluded in a second. My heart's set upon it.—Poor fellow! after all his rambles, and tumbles, and jumbles, and fits of despair, I shall be rejoiced to see him. I haven't seen him since he was
X

From George Colman's Inkle and Yarico. (New York: Charles Wiley, 1825) 37-38:

Enter a Servant. Serv.
An English vessel, sir, just arrived in the harbour.
Sir C.
A vessel! Od's my life!—Now for the news—If it is but as I hope—Any dispatches?
Serv.
This letter, sir, brought by a sailor from the quay.
Med.
Well, read, Sir Christopher.
Sir C.
[opening the letter.] Huzza! here it is. He's safe—safe and sound at Barbadoes. [Reading] Sir, My master, Mr. Inkle, is just arrived in your harbour. Here read, read! old Medium—
Med.
[reading] Um—Your harbour—we were taken up by an English vessel on the 14th ult. He only waits till I have puffed his hair, to pay his respects to you, and Miss. Narcissa.—In the mean time he has ordered me to brush up this letter for your honour from your humble servant to command,Timothy Trudge.
Sir C.
Hey day! here's a stile! the voyage has jumbled the fellow's brains out of their places; the water has made his head turn round. But no matter, mind turns round, too. I'll go and prepare Narcissa directly, they shall be married, slap-dash, as soon as he comes from the quay. From Neptune to Hymen; from the hammock to the bridal bed—Ha! old boy!
Med.
Well, well, dont flurry yourself—you're so hot!
Sir C.
Hot! blood, arn't I in the West Indies? Arn't I Governor of Barbadoes? He shall have her as soon as he sets his foot on shore.—She shall rise to him like Venus out of the sea. His hair puffed! He ought to have been puffing, here, out of breath, by this time.

Editorial Note:

The servant in this passage is not "colored” as in Swayze's adaptation, nor does he speak in minstrel dialect as in Swayze's adaptation, and Sir Christopher and Medium read aloud a letter from Trudge that builds on the joke about this "factotum" as confusing his various duties (namely dressing hair and writing letters). Most remarkable in this passage is the distance between Sir Christopher's and Morrison's angry responses to being called "hot." Both attribute their quick tempers to geographic location—or more accurately, relocation—but Morrison's transformation as a Yankee-turned-slave-trader is more striking. See the introduction for further discussion of this passage.
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knee high!—But, Zouns! he's so tardy!
Enter Servant. Serv.—
Gemmen wants see Massa.
Mor.—
That's him, I know its' him!—Show him in.(Exit Serv.) 'Tis Lammer! The rogue is expe=ditious after all—I'm so happy!

(Enter Stuart.)
My dear fellow! (embraces Stuart.) I'm rejoiced to see you. Welcome, welcome here with all my soul!
Stuart.—
This reception, Mr. Mor=rison, is beyond my warmest wishes.—Unknown to you—
Mor.—
Aye, aye—we shall be better acquainted by and bye. Well, and how, eh? Tell me!—Both old Twaddle and I have talked over your affair a hundred times a day, ever since Fanny's return from her trip to the North.
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Stu.—
You surprise me! Are you then really acquainted with the whole affair?
Mor.—
Every tittle.
Stu.—
And, can you, sir, pardon what is past?
Mor.—
Pooh! How could you help it?
Stu.—
Very true—sailing in the same ship—and—
Mor.—
Ay, ay, but we have had a hundred conjectures about you. Your despair and distress, and all that.—Yours must have been a damned situation to say the truth.
Stu.—
Cruel, indeed, sir, and I flatter myself will move your compassion. I have been almost inclined to despair, indeed, as you say, but when you consider the past state of my mind—the
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black prospect before me—
Mor.—
Ha, ha!—Black enough, I dare say.
Stu.—
The difficulty I have ex=perienced in bringing myself face to face to you.
Mor.—
That I am convinced of—but I knew you would come the first opportunity.
Stu.—
Very true—yet the distance between the subject of my love and myself—
Mor.—
Yes a devlish way asunder
Stua.—
Yes, sir—which has distressed me with the cruelest doubts as to our meeting.
Mor.—
It was a toss up.
Stu.—
(aside.) The old gentleman seems devlish kind—Here at him. Perhaps, sir, in your younger days, you may have been in the same situation yourself.
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Mor.—
Who?—I?—Bless you no, never in my life.
Stu.—
I wish you had, with all my soul, sir.
Mor.—
Upon my soul, sir, I am very much obliged to you.
Stu.—
As what I now mention might have greater weight with you.
Mor.—
Pooh!—I tell you I pitied you from the bottom of my heart.
Stu.—
Indeed! If with your leave, I may still venture to men=tion Miss Fanny—
Mor.—
An impatient, sensible young dog!—Like me to a hair! Set your heart at rest, my boy. She's yours—yours before to-morrow morning.
Stu.—
Amazement!—I can scarce believe my senses.
Mor.—
Zouns! you ought to be out of your senses—but despatch—
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make short work of it, ever while you live, my boy.

Enter Fanny & Betsey.
Here, girl—here's your swain.
Stu.—
I just parted with my Fanny on the Bay.
Mor.—
Did you! Ah, sly dog—had a meeting before you come to the old gentleman. But here—Take him, and make much of him—and, for fear of further separa=tions, you shall e'en be tacked together directly. What say you, girl?
Stu.—
Will my Fanny consent to my happiness?
Fanny.—
I always obey my fath=er's commands with pleasure, sir. [41]
Mor.—
Lord! I'm so happy, I hardly know which way to turn—but we'll have the carriage directly—drive down to church—and hey for matrimony!
(Exit.)
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Stu.—
With all my heart, Mr. Morrison—the sooner the better. [42]
(Exeunt.)

ACT III



Scene 1. = The Bay.—Same as Scene 1, Act 2. [43]
Enter Betty. Bet.—
Mercy on us! what a walk I have had of it! Well, matters go on sw^mingly at Mr Mor=rison's. The old gentleman has ordered the carriage, and the young couple will be whisked off to church, in a quarter of an hour. My business is to prevent young sobersides, young Lammer from appearing to interrupt the ceremony. This is the place where I hear he is stopping. So now to
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find Riley, and trump up a story, in the true style of a cham=bermaid. (Starts off and meets Riley.)
Enter Riley. Riley.—
Oh, Betty my darling, is it here ye are? (kisses her.) [44]
Bet.—
That's pretty behavior to practice in the public street, some=thing you have picked up among the Hottentots! [45] The politeness you used to study so much is all bloted out by the blacks you have been living with.
Riley.—
That no such a thing—I practised my politeness all the while I was in the woods. Our very lodging taught me good manners—for I could never bring myself to get into it without bowing.
Bet.—
Pshaw! fellow, I want none of your nonsense. I want
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to see Mr. Lammer, I have a mes=sage to him from Miss Fanny. I hope I shall see him.
Riley.—
That ye can't—He's a little busy at present.
Bet.—
Busy—yes—plodding! What He's at his multiplication again!
Riley.—
Very likely—So ye see it would be a pity to disturb him.
Bet.—
Certainly—and the whole of my business was to prevent him from hurrying himself—Tell him, we shan't be ready to receive him, at the house 'till to-morrow, d'ye hear?
Riley.—
No?
Bet.—
No. Things are not pre=pared. The place isn't in order; and the servants have not had proper notice of the arrival.—To-morrow, if nothing happens to prevent it, he'll get into church and be married
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in a crack.
Riley.—
Then he'll get himself into the divils own scrape in a crack. Oh! poor Philis! My poor master, what will become of him!
Bet.—
Why, what's the matter with the booby?
Riley.—
Nothing, nothing—he'll be hung for poli-bigamy.
Bet.—
Well?
Riley.—
Can you kape a secret?
Bet.—
Try me!
Riley.—
Then (whispers) my master keeps a girl!
Bet.—
Oh! monstrous! another woman?
Riley.—
As sure as one and one makes two.
Bet.—
(aside.) Rare news for my
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Mistress!— [46] Why I can hardly believe it—the grave, sly, steady, sober Mr. Lammer, do such a thing!
Riley.—
P-o-o-h! its always the way yer sly, sober fellows, that go the most after the girls.
Bet.—
Well—I should sooner suspect you.
Riley.—
Me? (aside.) Lord if she only knew.—
Bet.—
Tell me how it happened?
Riley.—
You shall hear—when the Wanderer left us ashore, my mas=ter turned as pale as a sheet of paper.—It isn't everybody that's blessed with courage Betty.
Bet.—
True!
Riley.—
I tould him to screw up his courage, took the lead me=self, and started.
Bet.—
Well?
Riley.—
We hadn't gone far, when
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a damned one-eyed black boar, that grinned like a divil, came a plungin' through the brush! Master melted as fast as a pot of pomatum in a stew pan.
Bet.—
Mercy on us!
Riley.—
But what does I do but whips out my pen-knife, that I used to cut quills with—met the monster, and slit up his throat like a pen!—The boar bled like a pig.
Bet.—
Lord! Riley, what a great traveller you are!
Riley.—
Yes—I remember we fed on the flich for a week.
Bet.—
Well, well—but the lady.
Riley.—
The lady? Oh yes—By and bye we came to a cave—a large hollow place under ground, like a warehouse on the wharf—Well, there we were half an hour, before
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I could get him to go in—there's no accounting for fear, you know. At last, in we went to a place hung round with skins, as it might be a furrier's shop, and there was a fine lady, fast asleep.
Bet.—
What? all alone?
Riley.—
Eh!—no—no—hum—she had a young lion by way of a lap-dog.
Bet.—
Gemini! what did you do?
Riley.—
Gave a jog, and she opened her eyes—She struck my master right off.
Bet.—
Mercy on us! with what?
Riley.—
With her beauty to-be-sure. Why how could he help it, poor fellow—Them teeth, beautiful mouth and nose.—I gave her to him—and we had board and lodgin' for nothing. [47]
Bet.—
And this is she he has brought to Savannah?
X

From George Colman's Inkle and Yarico. (New York: Charles Wiley, 1825) 45-46:

Patty.
Well, well; but the lady
Trudge.
The lady? Oh, true. By and by we came to a cave—a large hollow room, underground, like a warehouse in the Adelphi—Well! there we were half an hour, before I could get him to go in: there's no accounting for fear, you know. At last, in we went to a place hung round with skins, as it might be a furrier's shop, and there was a fine lady, snoring on a bow and arrows.
Patty.
What, all alone?
Trudge.
Eh!—No—no—Hum—She had a young lion by way of a lap-dog.
Patty.
Gemini; what did you do?
Trudge.
Gave her a jog, and she open'd her eyes she struck my master immediately.
Patty.
Mercy on us! with what?
Trudge.
With her beauty, you ninny, to be sure: and they soon brought matters to bear. The wolves witness'd the contract—I gave her away—The crows croak'd amen; and we had board and lodging for nothing.
Patty.
And this is she he has brought to Barbadoes?

Editorial Note:

As Patty presses Trudge for details of the time he and Inkle spent in the wilds of America, Trudge spins a fiction about Inkle's attachment to Yarico that carefully elides his own relationship with Wowski. Reference in this exchange to the Adelphi and to bows and arrows are changed by Swayze to reflect the shift in setting. Most striking is Trudge's recollection of Inkle and Yarico's wedding ceremony as attended by wolves and crows. Swayze drops the elaborate scene so Riley may, in an echo of his earlier exchange with a planter, elaborate on the beauty of his master's African bride, namely her "teeth, beautiful mouth and nose."
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Riley.—
That same.
Bet.—
Well—and tell me, Riley—She's pretty, you say.—Is she fair or brown or—
Riley.—
Um!—she's a good fast color!
Bet.—
How! a tawney?
Riley.—
Yes, or a leetle more so!
Bet.—
Oh! the monster! the filthy fellow!—Live with a black nigger!
Riley.—
Why, there's no great harm in that, I hope?
Bet.—
Pugh!—I wouldn't let him kiss me for the world—he'd make my face all smutty.
Riley.—
Faith!—ye'r mighty nice all of a sudden—but I'd have ye know Miss Betsey, that black nigger ladies, as you call 'em, are some of the very few, whose complexions never rub off!—(aside.) If they did Lucy and I should
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have changed faces by this time—But mum—not a word for your life.
Bet.—
Not I! (aside.) except to the governor and family. [48] —But I must run—and remember, Riley, if your master has made a mistake here, he has himself to thank for his pains. (Exit.)
Riley.—
Got out of that!—These girls are so proud of their white and red!—but I won't be ashamed of Lucy, that's flat. Masther, to be sure, while we were in the woods taught Philis to read with his pencil and pocket-book. What of that? Lucy comes on fine in her lessons!—She's got a bad way of eating with her hands though, and I can't get her to eat her victuals in a genteel Christian way for the soul of me. She takes her meat in
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her fingers and puts it on her fork, and then pops her knuckles to her mouth, and the meat goes up to her ear. Divil a bit do I care though,—they may laugh, but Lucy's the wench for my money. [49]
(Exit.)
Scene 2. = A Room in Hotel. [50] Enter Lammer.
Lam.—
I know not what to think—I have given her distant hints of parting—but still, so strong her confidence in my affection, she prattles on without regarding me. Poor Philis! I must not—cannot quit her. When I would speak, her look, her mere simplicity dis=arms me—I dare not wound such innocence. Simplicity is like a smiling babe; which to the ruffian that would murder it, stretching its little, naked, help=
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less arms, pleads, speechless, its own cause. And yet Fanny's family—
Enter Riley. Riley.—
There he is, poor divil, like a beau bespeaking a coat—and doubting which color to choose, Sir!—
Lam.—
What now?
Riley.—
Nothing unexpected, sir—I hope ye won't be angry, sir!
Lam.—
Angry!
Riley.—
I'm sorry for it—but I come to give ye joy, sir!
Lam.—
Joy!—of what?
Riley.—
A wife, sir,—a white one. I know ye don't like the news, but Miss Fanny means to make ye happy in the morning.
Lam.—
To-morrow!
Riley.—
Yes, sir!—and as I have
Lam.—
Whence comes your intelligence
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Riley.—
Betsey told all about it, sir! Women, ye know can never kape a sacret.—Ye'll be introduced in form, with the whole city to witness it.
Lam.—
So public too?—Unlucky!
Riley.—
Nothing but rejoicings, she tells me, in honor of the wedding—all noise, and uproar! Married peo=ple like it, they say.
Lam.—
Strange!—That I should be so blind to my interest, as to be the only person this distresses!
Riley.—
They are talking all over the city of the match it seems.
Lam.—
Confusion! How can I, in honor, retract?
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Riley.—
And the bride's merits—
Lam.—
True!—a fund of merits! I would not wish to—but from necessity—a case so nice as this—I—would not wish to retract.
Riley.—
They say she's very pretty—
Lam.—
Very true! so handsome! the whole world will laugh at me they'd call it folly to retract.
Riley.—
And thin they say so much about her fortune.
Lam.—
Oh, death!—It would be madness to retract. Surely my facul=ties have slept, and this long parting from my Fanny, has blunted my senses of her accomplishments. 'Tis this alone makes me so weak and wavering. I'll see her immediately.
(Going.)
Riley.—
Stop, stop, sir—I am desired to tell you that you can=not be received till tomorrow morn=ing—they're makin' preparations to receive you at breakfast, with all the honors of a matter-of-money! [51]
Lam.—
Well, be it so; it will give me time, at all events, to put my
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affairs in train.
Riley.—
Yis—its a short respite before execution—and if ye'd go and comfort poor Philis—
Lam.—
Damnation! Scoundrel! how dare you offer your advice? I dread to think of her!
Riley.—
Beg yer pardon, sir—I'll say no more about her.—But I know I'd blubber over Lucy all night if I thought of parting with her in the mornin!
Lam.—
Insolence! begone, sir!
Riley.—
Lord, sir, I only—
Lam.—
Get out of the room sir, directly.
Riley.—
(going) Ah! ye may well put your hand to your head—and a bad head it must be to forget that poor Philis previnted her coun=trymen from smashin' it, and making soup of it. (Exit.)
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Lam.—
'Sdeath, what am I about? How have I slumbered?—Is it I?—I—who, before I left here on this voyage, laughed at the young married men of the town—and when I saw their carriages, with some fine, tempting girl, perked in the corner, come shopping, would cry—Ah!—there sits ruin—there flies the Green=horn's money!—then wondered with myself how men could trifle time on women—or, indeed, think of any women without fortunes. And now, forsooth, it rests with me to turn romantic puppy, and give up all for love.—Give up!—Oh, monstrous folly!—thirty thousand pounds!—
(Riley peeping in.) Riley.—
And all for a nigger! [52]
Lam.—
Are you still there, rascal?
Riley.—
Yes, sir!—Your uncle wants
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to see you.
Lam.—
Mr. Twaddle! show him in directly. (Exit Riley)
He must not know of this. To-morrow I wish this marriage were more distant, that I might break it to her by degrees—she'd take my pur=pose better, were it less suddenly delivered.
Enter Twaddle. Twa.—
Ah, here he is! Give me your hand, nephew! welcome, welcome home, with all my heart.
Lam.—
I am glad to meet you here, uncle!
Twa.—
That you are, I'm sure—Lord, lord! when we parted last, how I wished we were in a room together, if it was but ^a the black hole. I have not been able to sleep o' nights, for thinking of you. I've laid awake and fancied I saw you sleeping
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your last, with your head in a lion's mouth, for a night-cap.
Lam.—
I am very much obliged to you.
Twa.—
Ay, ay, I am happy enough to find you safe and sound, I promise you. But you have a fine prospect before you now, young man. I am come to take you with me to Mr. Morrison, who is impatient to see you.
Lam.—
To-morrow, I hear he expects me.
Twa.—
To-morrow!—directly—this—moment—in half a second.—I left him standing on tip-toe, as he calls it, to embrace you—and he's standing on tip-toe now in the great parlor, and there he'll stand till you come to him.
Lam.—
Is he so hasty?
Twa.—
Hasty!—he's all pepper—and wonders you are not with
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him, before it's possible to get at him. Hasty indeed! Why, he vows you shall have his daughter this very night.
Lam.—
What a situation! (aside.)
Twa.—
Why, it's hardly fair just after a voyage. But come, bustle, bustle, he'll think you neglect him. He's sore and touchy, I can tell you—and if he once takes it in his head that you show the least slight to his daughter, it would defeat all your schemes in a minute.
Lam.—
^(aside.) Confusion! if he should hear of Philis.
Twa.—
But at present you are all and all with him—he has been telling me his intention these six weeks—you'll be a fine warm husband, I promise you.
Lam.—
This cursed connection. (aside.)
Twa.—
It is not for me, though,
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to tell you how to play your cards—you are a prudent young man, and can make calculations in a wood.
Lam.—
(aside.) Fool, fool, fool!
Twa.—
Why, what the devil is the matter with you?
Lam.—
(aside.) It must be done effectually, or all is lost—mere parting would not conceal it.
Twa.—
(aside.) Ah! now he's got to his damned square root again, I suppose, and old Nick would not move him—why, nephew!
Lam.—
(aside.) The planter that I spoke with cannot have arrived—but time is precious—the first I meet—common prudence demands it. I'm fixed—I'll part with her.
Twa.—
Dammee, but
(Exit.)
Twa.—
Damme, but he's mad! the woods have turned the poor boy's
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brain—he's gone crazy! [53] hoho! Wil=liam! nephew!—I must after him. (Exit.)
Scene 3. = The Baysame as Scene 1act 3 [54] Enter Mr. Morrison.
Mor.—
Ods my life! I can scarce contain my happiness. I have left them safe in church in the middle of the ceremony. I ought to have given Fanny away, but I capered about so much for joy, that the minister advised me to go and cool myself on the Bay, till it was all over. Od, I'm so happy—and they shall see, now, what an old fellow can do at a wedding.
Enter Lammer. Lam.—
(aside.) Now for despatch!—I say, old gentleman!
Mor.—
Well, young gentleman!
Lam.—
If I mistake not, I know your business here.
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Mor.—
Humph! I believe half the city knows it by this time.
Lam.—
Then to the point—I have a female, whom I wish to part with.
Mor.—
Very likely—it's a common case now-a-days, with many a man.
Lam.—
If you could satisfy me you would use her mildly, and treat her with more kindness than is usual—for I can tell you she is of no common stamp—perhaps we might agree.
Mor.—
Oho! a slave! Well, since I think of it my daughter may want an attendant or two extraordi=nary—and as you say she's a deli=cate girl, above the common run, and none of your thick lipped, fat nosed, squabby, dumpling dow=dies, I don't much care if—
Lam.—
And for her treatment—
Mor.—
Look here, young man,
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I love to be plain—I shall treat her a good deal better than you would, I fancy—for, though I witness this custom every day, I can't help thinking the only excuse for buying our fellow-creatures, is to rescue them from the hands of those who are unfeeling enough to bring them to market.
Lam.—
Fair words, old gentleman. But be careful you do not affront. I assure you, this is not my business—but for a private reason—an instant pressing necessity—
Mor.—
Well, well, I have a pressing necessity too—I can't stand to talk now—I expect company here presently—but if you'll ask for me to-morrow at the mansion—
Lam.—
The mansion!
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Mor.—
Aye, sir, the mansion—Morrison's mansion, known all over the city.
Lam.—
^(aside.) This man must be from there—the steward, perhaps, and sent after me, while the old gentleman himself impatiently waiting for me. I've gone too far—my secret may be known—As it is, I'll win this fellow to my purpose interest.—One word more, sir; my business must be done immediately—and as you seem acquainted at my friend's—if you should see me there—and there I mean to sleep to-night—
Mor.—
The devil you do!
Lam.—
Your finger on your lips—and never breathe a syllable of this transaction.
Mor.—
No?—why not?
Lam.—
For reason which, per=haps you'll know to-morrow, I
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might be injured with my friend whose most particular guest I am.
Mor.—
^(aside) Lo! Here's a particular friend and guest of mine, coming to sleep at my house, that I never saw in my life. I'll sound the fellow.—I fancy, young gentleman as you are such a bosom friend of Mi—(aside.) Look out! Mr. Morrison's, you can hardly do anything to alter your situation with him.
Lam.—
Oh! pardon me—but you'll find that hereafter—be=sides, you, doubtless know his character?
Mor.—
Oh, as well as my own; But let's understand one another. You must trust me know, you've gone so far. You are acquainted with his character no doubt to a hair.
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Lam.—
I am—I see we shall un=derstand each other. You know him too, I see, as well as I.—A very touchy, testy, hot, old fellow.
Mor.—
(aside) Here's a scoundrel! I hot and touchy!—I can hardly contain my passion!—but I wont discover myself. I'll see the bottom of this—Well now, as we seem to have come to a tolerable explan=ation—let's proceed to business—bring me the woman.
Lam.—
No—there you must excuse me. I rather would avoid seeing her at all—and wish it to be set=tled without my seeming interference. My presence might distress her—you conceive me?
Mor.—
^(aside) Zouns, what an unfeeling rascal!—the poor girl's in love with him, I suppose.—No, no, fair and open. My dealing's with you, and
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you only—I see her now or I declare off.
Lam.—
Well, then, you must be satisfied—yonder's my servant—ha—a thought has struck me. Come here, sir.

Enter Riley.
I'll write my purpose, and send it to her by him. It is lucky that I taught her to decypher characters—my labor now is paid— [55] (takes out pocket book and writes.)(aside) This is somewhat less abrupt—it will soften matters—Give this to Philis—then bring her hither with you.
Riley.—
I will, sir. (going.)
Lam.—
Stay—come back. (aside) This soft fool, if uninstruct=ed, may add to her distress—his drivelling sympathy may feed her grief, instead of soothing it.
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—When she has read the paper, seem to make light of it—tell her it is a thing of course, done purely for her good. I here inform her that I must part with her. D'ye under=stand your lesson?
Riley.—
Pa—part with Phi—Philis!
Lam.—
Why does the blockhead stammer! I have my reasons. No muttering—and let me tell you, sir, if your rare bargain were gone too, it would be the better for you—she may babble our story of the forest, and spoil our fortunes.
Riley.—
I'm very sorry for it, sir, I have lived with ye a long while—I've half a year's wages coming to me on the 25th—but take my wages, and I and Lucy will take ourselves off together. She saved
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my life, and faith nothin shall separate us but death.
Lam.—
Impertinent! Go, and deliver your message.
Riley.—
Yis, sir,—(aside) I niver carried a letter with such an ill will in all my born days.
(Exit.) Mor.—
Well, sir.—Shall I see the girl?
Lam.—
She will be here presently. One thing I had forgot—when she is yours, I need not caution you, after the hints I've given, to keep her from the mansion. If Mr. Morrison should see her, it would lead, you know, to a discovery of what I wish concealed.
Mor.—
Depend upon me—Mr. Morrison will know no more of our meeting than he does at this
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moment.
Lam.—
Your secrecy shall be rewarded—I'll recommend you particularly to his good graces.
Mor.—
Thank ye, thank ye—but I'm pretty much in his good graces as it is—I don't know anybody he has a greater respect for.
Enter Riley. Lam.—
Now, sir, have you executed your message?
Riley.—
Yes—I gave her the letter.
Lam.—
And and where is she? Did she say she would come? Did you do as you were ordered? Did you speak to her?
Riley.—
I couldn't, sir, I couldn't—I intended to say what you told me—but I felt such a pain my throat, I couldn't speak a word, for the soul of me—so, sir I fell a crying.
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Lam.—
Blockhead!
Mor.—
Gad! but he's a very honest blockhead. Tell, me, my good fellow, what said the wench?
Riley.—
Nothin' at all, sir. She sat down with her two hands on her knees and looked so pitifully in my face, I could not stand it.—There she comes, sir. I don't want to see her again.

(Exit.)
Mor.—
Ods my life, as comely a wench as ever I saw.
Enter Philiswho looks at Lammer [56] and then falls on his neck. Lam.—
In tears! nay Philis! why this?
Phil.—
Oh, do not—do not leave me!
Lam.—
Why, simple girl! I'm laboring for your good. My interest
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here is nothing—I can do nothing from myself, you are ignorant of our country's customs. I must give way to men more powerful, who will not have me with you. But see my Philis, ever anxious for your welfare, I've found a kind, good person, who will protect you.
Phil.—
Ah! why not you protect me?
Lam.—
I have no means—how can I?
Phil.—
Just as I sheltered you. Take me to some retired wilder=ness, where I see no smoke from tall, high houses, filled with your cruel countrymen. None of your rich folks, will come there to take me from you. And should they stray in our way we'll find a lurking place, just
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like my own poor cave—where many a day I sat beside you and blessed the chance that brought you to it—that I might save your life.
Mor.—
His life! Zouns! my blood boils at the scoundels ingratitude! [57]
Phil.—
I gave up all for you—my friends—my country—all that was dear to me—and still grown dearer since you shel=tered there.—All, all was left for you—and were it now to do again—again I'd cross the seas and follow you, all the world over.
Lam.—
We idle time,—sir, she is yours. See you obey this gentle=man—'twill be the better for you. (Going.)
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Phil.—
Oh, barbarous! (holds him.) Do not, do not abandon me!
Lam.—
No more.
Phil.—
Stay but a little—I shan't live long to be a burden to you—your cruelty has cut me to the heart. Protect me but a little—or I'll obey this man, and undergo all hardships for your good—stay but to witness them.—I soon shall sink with grief—tarry till then—and hear me bless your name when I am dying—and beg you, now and then, when I am gone, to leave a sigh for your poor Philis.
Lam.—
I dare not listen. You sir, I hope, will take good care of her. (going.)
Mor.—
Care of her!—that I will—I'll cherish her like my own daughter—and pour balm into
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ther heart of a poor, innocent girl, that has been wounded by the artifices of a scoundrel.
Lam.—
Ha!—Sir!—How dare you!—
Mor.—
'Sdeath, sir! how dare you look an honest man in the face?
Lam.—
Sir, you shall feel—
Mor.—
Feel!—I'ts more than you ever did, I believe. Mean, sordid wretch! dead to all sense of honor, gratitude, or humanity—I never heard of such barbarity! I have a son-in-law who has been left in the same situation—but if I thought him capable of such cruelty, dam me if I would not turn him to sea, with a peck loaf, in a cockle shell.—Come, come, cheer up, my girl! You shant want a friend to
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protect you, I warrant. (takes Philis by the hand.)
Lam.—
Insolence! Mr. Morrison shall hear of this insult.
Mor.—
Mr. Morrison! liar! cheat! rogue! impostor! breaking all ties you ought to keep, and pretending to those you have no right to. Mr. Morrison never had such a fellow in the whole catalogue of his acquaintance—Mr. Morrison disowns you—he disclaims you—Mr. Morrison abhors you—and to your utter confusion, here stands Mr. Morrison to tell you so. Here I am who never talks to a rogue without telling him what I think of him.
Lam.—
Mr. Morrison!—Lost and undone!
Twa.—
(without) Holo! Young multiplication! Zounds! I have
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been peeping in every cranny of the house.

Enter Twaddle.
Why, young Rule of Three!—Here you are at last—Ah! Mr. Mor=rison! what are you then! too impatient to wait at home. But here's one that will make you easy, I fancy. (taps Lammer on shoulder.)
Mor.—
How came you to know him?
Twa.—
Ha, ha, ha! well that's cu=rious enough too. So you have been talking here without finding out each other.
Mor.—
Oh no—I have found him out with a vengeance.
Twa.—
Not you! Why this the dear boy. It's my nephew, that is—your son-in-law, that is to be. It's Lammer!
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Mor.—
It's a lie—and you're a poor blind old booby—and this dear boy is a damned scoundrel.
Twa.—
Hey-day, what's the mean=ing of this! One was mad before, and he has bit the other, I suppose.
Mor.—
But here comes the dear boy—the true boy—the jolly boy, piping hot from church, with my daughter.
Enter Stuart, Fanny, & Betsey. Twa.—
Stuart!
Mor.—
Who?—Stuart!—its no such thing.
Stu.—
That's my name, indeed Mr. Morrison.
Mor.—
The devil it is! and how came you sir to impose upon me, and assume the name of Lammer! A name which every honest man ought to be ashamed of.
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Stu.—
I never did, sir.—Since I sailed from Boston with your daughter, my affections have daily increased—and when I came to explain myself to you, by a num=ber of concurring circumstances, which I am now partly acquainted with, you mistook me for that gentleman. Yet had I even then been aware of your mistake, I must confess, the regard for my own happiness, would have tempt=ed me to let you remain undeceived.
Mor.—
And did you, Fanny, join in—
Fan.—
How could I, dear father, disobey you?
Bet.—
Lord, sir—what young lady could refuse a captain?
Stuart.—
I am a soldier, Mr. Morrison. Love and War is the soldier's motto!—though my income
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is trifling to your intended son=in-law's, still the chance of war has enabled me to support the object of my love above indigence. Her fortune, Mr. Morrison, I do not consider myself by any means entitled to.
Mor.—
'Sblood! but you must though. Give me your hand my young Mars, and bless you both together!—I thank you for cheating an old fellow into giving his daughter to a lad of spirit, when he was going to throw her away upon one, in whose breast the mean passion of avarice smothers the smallest spark of affection, or humanity.
Lam.—
Confusion!
Fan.—
I have this moment heard a story of a transaction in the forest, which, I own, would have
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rendered compliance with your former commands very disagreeable.
Bet.—
Yes, sir, I told my mistress he had brought over a Hottentot gentlewoman.
Mor.—
Yes, but he would have left her for you—and you for his interest—and sold you per=haps, and he has this poor girl to me, as a requital for preserv=ing his life.
Fan.—
How!
Enter Riley & Lucy. Riley.—
Come along, Lucy! take a long, last leave of your poor mistress—throw your pretty ebony arms about her neck.
Lucy.—
No, no,—she not go—you not leave poor Lucy. (embraces Philis.)
Mor.—
Poor girl! a companion, I take it!
Riley.—
A thing of my own sir.
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I couldn't help following my master's example in the woods.
Mor.—
But you would not sell her you dog, would you?
Riley.—
Hang me like a dog if would sir.
Mor.—
So say I, to every fellow that breaks an obligation due to the feelings of a man. But, old Twaddle, what have you to say of your hopeful nephew?
Twa.—
I never speak ill of my friends, sir.
Mor.—
Pshaw!
Lam.—
Then let me speak—hear me defend a conduct—
Mor.—
Defend! Zounds! plead guilty at once—it's the only hope left of obtaining mercy.
Lam.—
Suppose, old gentleman, you had a son?
Mor.—
'Sblood! then I'd make
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him an honest fellow—and teach him that the feeling heart never knows greater pride than when it's employed in giving succour to the unfortunate. I'd teach him to be his father's own son to a hair.
Lam.—
Even so my father tutored me—from infancy, bending my tender mind like a young sap=ling, to his will—Interest was the grand prop round which he trained my pliant affections—taught me in childhood to repeat old sayings—all tending to his own fixed principles, and the first sentence that I ever lisped, was—"charity begins at home.
Mor.—
I shall never like a prov=erb again, as long as I live.
Lam.—
As I grew up he'd prove and by example—were I in want,
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I might starve for what the world cared for their neigh=bors—why then should I care for the world! men now lived for themselves. These ^were his doctrines—then, sir, what would you say, should I, in spite of habit, precept, education, fly into my father's face, and spurn his counsels?
Mor.—
Say! why, that you were a damned honest, undutiful fellow. Oh curse such principles! principles, which destroy all confidence between you and man—Principles, which none but a rogue could instill, and none but a rogue could imbibe—principles—
Lam.—
Which I renounce.
Mor.—
Eh!
Lam.—
Renounce entirely—
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Ill-founded precept too long has steeled my breast—but still 'tis vulnerable—this trial was too much—nature, against habit combating within me, has penetrated to my heart—a heart, I own, long callous to the feelings of sensibility—but now it bleeds—and bleeds for my poor Philis—Oh, let me clasp her to it, while 'tis glowing, and mingle tears of love and peni=tence. (Embraces Philis.)
Riley.—
(dances about.) Lucy, give me a kiss! (they embrace.)
Phil.—
And shall we be happy yet?
Lam.—
Aye, ever, ever, Philis.
Phil.—
I knew we should—and yet I feared—but shall I still watch over you? Oh! love, you surely gave your Philis such pain, only to make her feel this happiness the greater.
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Lucy.—
(embraces Philis.) Oh, Lucy so happy!—and yet I think I not glad neigthe. [58]
Riley.—
Eh, Lucy! How!—why not?
Lucy.—
Cause, can't help cry.—
Mor.—
Well according to that—curse me, if I think I'm very glad either. What the pleague's the matter with my eyes?—Young man, your hand—I am now proud and happy to shake it.
Twa.—
Well, Morrison, what do you say to my hopeful nephew now?
Mor.—
Say! why confound the fellow, I say, that it is un=generous enough to remember the bad action of a man who has virtue left in his heart to repent it.—As for you, my good fellow, (to Riley.) I must with your master's permission,
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employ you myself.
Riley.—
O, get out 'o that!—Bless yer honor!—Lucy you'll be lady, you jade to a gentle=man's factotum. [59]
Lucy.—
Yes—I lady Jactotum.
Mor.—
And now, my young folks, we'll drive home, and cele=brate the wedding. Ods my life! I long to be shaking a foot at the fiddles. [60] —And you Mr. Lammer, take an old man's advice—go—place yourself under the juris=diction of Horace Greeley, and you can live as happy with your nigger wife as with a white one, and she will re=quire ^a less number of servants to wait upon her.
X

From George Colman's Inkle and Yarico. (New York: Charles Wiley, 1825) 63-65:

Sir C.
And now, my young folks, we'll drive home, and celebrate the wedding. Od's my life! I long to be shaking a foot at the fiddles, and I shall dance ten times the lighter, for reforming an Inkle, while I have it in my power to reward the innocence of a Yarico.
FINALE.
Campley.
Come, let us dance and sing, While all Barbadoes bells shall ring; Love scrapes the fiddle string, And Venus plays the lute; Hymen gay, foots away, Happy at our wedding-day, Cocks his chin, and figures in, To tabor, fife, and flute. Chorus. Come than, &c
Narcissa.
Since thus each anxious care Is vanished into empty air, Ah! how can I forbear To join the jocund dance? To and fro, couples go, On the light fantastic toe, While with glee, merrily, The rosy hour's advance.
Yarico.
When first the swelling sea Hither bore my love and me, What then my fate would be, Little did I think— Doom'd to know care and woe, Happy still is Yarico; Since her love will constant prove, And nobly scorn to shrink.
Wowski.
Whilst all around rejoice, Pipe and tabor raise the voice, It can't be Wowski's choice, Whilst Trudge's, to be dumb. No, no, dey blythe and gay, Shall like massy, missy play, Dance and sing, hey ding, ding, Strike fiddle and beat drum.
Trudge.
'Sbobs! now I'm fix'd for love, My fortune's fair, though black's my wife, Who fears domestic strife— Who cares now a sous! Merry cheer my dingy dear Shall find with her Factotum here; Night and day, I'll frisk and play About the house with Wows.
Inkle.
Love's convert here behold, Banish' d now my thirst of gold, Blessed in these arms to fold My gentle Yarico. Hence all care, all doubt and fear, Love and joy each want shall cheer, Happy night, pure delight, Shall make our bosoms glow.
Patty.
Let Patty say a word— A chambermaid may sure be heard— Sure men are grown absurd, Thus taking black for white; To hug and kiss a dingy miss, Will hardly suit an age like this, Unless, here, some friends appear, Who like this wedding night.

Editorial Note:

Sir Christopher's closing speech to the happy couples (Inkle and Yarico, Trudge and Wowski) is rather simple and conventional in its emphasis on the play's central moral: generosity deserves gratitude and innocence deserves love. The joyful song that follows, however, challenges convention with its explicit affirmation of interracial marriage. The final stanza belongs to Narcissa's disapproving maid, Patty, who asks for the audience to weigh in on the subject. Through the conventional request for audience applause, the play scripts audience approval of these unions. In contrast, Morrison's blessing at the end of Swayze’s adaptation suggests that the couples relocate and makes a joke dependent on the assumption that the African women are innately servile. See the introduction for further discussion of the plays’ endings.

Notes

1. The first two sheets of the manuscript, presumably a title page and the dramatis personae, are missing from the volume. The racial epithet "nigger," commonplace in mid-nineteenth-century United States but absent from George Colman’s late-eighteenth-century Inkle and Yarico: An Opera in Three Acts, appears not only in the title of Swayze’s adaptation but also fifteen times within the dialogue and once in the stage directions. It replaces such terms as “negro” and “blackamoor” in Colman’s text and signals most immediately the influence of blackface minstrelsy on the play. For more on the history of the term in this period, including its connection to minstrelsy, see Jabari Asim, The N Word: Who Can Say It, Who Shouldn’t, and Why (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2007), 33–82.Go back
2. In George Colman’s Inkle and Yarico: An Opera, in Three Acts (New York: Charles Wiley and H. C. Carey and I. Lea; Philadelphia: M’Carty & Davis; Boston: Saml. H. Harper, 1825), this scene takes place in “An American Forrest” (5). In Swayze’s manuscript, the original description of the setting, “The Coast of Africa, The Wanderer,” has been erased and this description written its place.Go back
3. Twaddle is based on Medium in Inkle and Yarico and Riley on Trudge.Go back
4. Swayze’s transformation of Trudge in Inkle and Yarico to the stage Irish character of Riley is immediately visible in the opening scene. See the introduction for further discussion of Riley as a stage Irishman.Go back
5. As Frank Felenstein notes, this line, which appears in Inkle and Yarico, puns on the nakedness of the savages and the European practice of donning black clothing during periods of mourning. Frank Felsenstein, ed., English Trader, Indian Maid: Representing Gender, Race, and Slavery in the New World, An Inkle and Yarico Reader (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), 175n4.Go back
6. In a line that does not appear in Inkle and Yarico, Riley expresses fear that he will lose his job back in Savannah once his boss Lammer has obtained newly enslaved Africans. On the mounting tension between laboring Irish Americans and African Americans in this period, see especially Noel Ignatiev, How the Irish Became White (New York: Routledge, 1995).Go back
7. Lammer is based on Inkle in Inkle and Yarico. Swayze appears to have changed the name of Inkle to Lammer as an allusion to Charles Lamar, a Southern radical who, in open defiance of laws against the international slave trade, partnered with Capt. William C. Corrie on a venture to bring a shipment of enslaved individuals from the West Coast of Africa in 1858. Corrie’s ship, also named the Wanderer, landed on Jekyll Island off the southern coast of Georgia in late November 1858 with a cargo of over 400 souls. See especially Erik Calonius, The Wanderer: The Last American Slave Ship and the Conspiracy That Set Its Sails (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2006).Go back
8. The term “cuntry foxes” is a clever Americanization of “sentry boxes” in Inkle and Yarico (7).Go back
9. Given the illegal nature of their endeavor (the importation of slaves had been outlawed since January 1, 1808), this is certainly true. This line is a striking addition that emphasizes the play’s direct reference to the Wanderer scandal.Go back
10. According to Felenstein, “black legs” is slang for swindler. In this adaptation, Riley also refers quite explicitly to the presence of African bodies on the land Lammer reconnoiters. Felsenstein, English Trader, Indian Maid, 177n14.Go back
11. The retention of this line from Inkle and Yarico, with the addition of “and America,” means that the following statement that their primary purpose is to capture and enslave the locals is repetitious.Go back
12. The Wanderer was the name of the last ship known to transport enslaved individuals from Africa to the United States; see note 7 above and the introduction. In reference to the primary motive of the Wanderer, the stage directions refer to a “capturing party” whereas Inkle and Yarico reads “Enter Sailors and Mate, as returning from foraging” (10).Go back
13. The play includes no subsequent mention of these four enslaved Africans.Go back
14. Much of this scene from Inkle and Yarico has been cut, including the first song of the comic opera. Swayze includes none of the songs from Inkle and Yarico in her adaptation.Go back
15. Many lines from the original passage in Inkle and Yarico are omitted, including a song by Trudge about his dying of hunger.Go back
16. Lammer’s dismissive language (“none of the nigger in her face”), which is original to Swayze’s adaptation, is momentary, as the remainder of the scene sticks closely to Inkle’s undiluted admiration for Yarico in Inkle and Yarico.Go back
17. Philis is based on Yarico in Inkle and Yarico. Her introductory song about an attack by a lion does not appear here. Philis’s attendant, Lucy, is based on Wowski in Inkle and Yarico.Go back
18. The upper right-hand corner of page 27 in the manuscript has been ripped away.Go back
19. In Inkle and Yarico, a duet between Inkle and Yarico in which they express their love and pledge that they will travel the world together appears here.Go back
20. In the original, Trudge declares, “she’ll be worth a hundred of your English wives—Whenever they fight on their husband’s account, its with him, instead of for him, I fancy” (19).Go back
21. In Inkle and Yarico, a solo in which Lucy begs Trudge to never leave appears here.Go back
22. “Young America” refers to a New York Democratic group that at this point in time was associated with Horace Greeley’s New York Tribune and the antislavery cause. Young America is perhaps best known for the literary figures it attracted, especially Herman Melville. See Edward L. Widmer, Young America: The Flowering of Democracy in New York City (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). Jason Clarke Swayze appears to have been sympathetic to the movement; his novella The Lime-Kiln Man, or, The Victim of Misfortune (New York: DeWitt & Davenport, 1855) bears a striking resemblance to Melville’s Pierre; or, The Ambiguities (1852), with its focus on the suppression of genius and the destructive force of sexual desire.Go back
23. Lucy’s line is different from Wowski’s, reflecting the shift toward a minstrel-like character. Whereas Wowski responds, “Oh iss—great may—I tell you” (21), Lucy invites her beau directly to her room. The duet that follows in Inkle and Yarico emphasizes their love despite the difference in skin color.Go back
24. In Inkle and Yarico, the setting is “The Quay at Barbadoes” (22).Go back
25. Fanny is based on Narcissa and Betsey (or Betty) on Patty in Inkle and Yarico. In Inkle and Yarico, a song by Narcissa comparing her heart to a ship at anchor appears here.Go back
26. In Inkle and Yarico, Inkle and company are transporting Narcissa back to Barbados for the reunion with her father and her marriage to Inkle. In this version, Fanny is not on the same ship; she comes directly from New York to Savannah for the winter.Go back
27. In Inkle and Yarico, a song by Patty about keeping secrets appears here.Go back
28. Captain Stuart is based on Campley in Inkle and Yarico.Go back
29. In Inkle and Yarico, a song by Narcissa about courage and love appears here.Go back
30. In Inkle and Yarico, a song by Campley steeling himself up for wooing appears here.Go back
31. In Inkle and Yarico, this scene includes a runner from one of the inns.Go back
32. The change of “that” to “dat” in this line and subsequent insertion of the word “Boot-ful” is an example of Swayze’s inclusion of minstrel-like speech.Go back
33. Swayze compounds the comedy of the original by having Riley assert that the residents of Savannah ape not British fashion but Irish fashion.Go back
34. Trudge’s general critique of civilized culture’s failure to breed gratitude becomes an Irish immigrant’s reflection on selfishness in a young nation gifted with institutions of higher learning.Go back
35. This is a far more forthright embrace of Lucy—regardless of social costs—than that of Wowski by Trudge in Inkle and Yarico.Go back
36. In Inkle and Yarico, a song by Wowski recalling their time together in her land and stating her fear that he will not remain true appears here.Go back
37. Riley provides a very practical solution to racism in the United States—one that does not appear in Inkle and Yarico and that appears deeply connected to the concluding marriages between Riley and Lucy and Lammer and Philis.Go back
38. A song by Yarico about her love for Inkle appears here in Inkle and Yarico rather than the following line.Go back
39. This insertion appears on the verso of page 66, the placement of which suggests Swayze, or perhaps her amanuensis, belatedly sought to emphasize Morrison’s Yankee origins and the potential for his eventual rejection of the Southern identity he has adopted.Go back
40. Unlike the servant character of Inkle and Yarico, this one is identified as “colored” and speaks in minstrel dialect.Go back
41. Here there is a minor plot change. In Inkle and Yarico, Patty is present for the scene, and Narcissa, recognizing her father’s mistake, sends Patty off to prevent Inkle’s reappearance.Go back
42. In Inkle and Yarico, a joyful song by Sir Christopher, Campley, Narcissa, and Patty appears here.Go back
43. In Inkle and Yarico, the setting is simply “The Quay” (42).Go back
44. Here there is another plot change. In Inkle and Yarico, Patty enters the house but Trudge refuses to allow her upstairs.Go back
45. Hottentot is an archaic and now derogatory term for a group of people from southern Africa (OED). The word is given as Hottypot in Inkle and Yarico. In Jason Clarke Swayze’s novella, The Lime-Kiln Man, or, A Victim of Misfortune (1855), servants who find a family guest to be less than cultivated refer to him as a Hottentot. See Swayze, The Lime-Kiln Man, 51.Go back
46. Here a necessary stage direction that appears in Inkle and Yarico (“aloud”) has been omitted.Go back
47. Here Trudge’s lines in Inkle and Yarico—which describe a wedding ceremony attended by wolves and crows—have been substantially changed.Go back
48. Here a necessary stage direction that appears in Inkle and Yarico (“aloud”) has been omitted.Go back
49. In Inkle and Yarico, a song by Trudge in which he refers to himself as “A white Othello” and Lucy as “A dingy Desdemona” (48), inverting the races of the central couple in Shakespeare’s tragedy, appears here.Go back
50. In Inkle and Yarico, the setting is “A Room in the Crown” (48).Go back
51. The malapropism does not appear in Inkle and Yarico, where Trudge simply refers to “all the honours of matrimony” (49).Go back
52. Riley’s sarcasm constitutes one of the handful of occasions—all of them involving Riley—in which the n-word is used to resist the racial logic of slavery.Go back
53. In Inkle and Yarico, Medium declares, “he’s scalped and gone crazy!” (52), presumably referring to his time among Native Americans.Go back
54. In Inkle and Yarico, the setting is simply “The Quay” (52).Go back
55. The biting irony of this line, especially as it persists from Inkle and Yarico in Swayze’s adaptation, emphasizes the central role of illiteracy in the maintenance of slavery.Go back
56. In the stage directions for Inkle and Yarico, Philis “bursts into tears” (56).Go back
57. Much of the dialogue of this scene in Inkle and Yarico does not appear here. In particular, gone is Yarico’s plea that they flee the city for the Edenic woods and Inkle’s response that “My countrymen and yours differ as much in minds as in complexions.” (57).Go back
58. This should read neither.Go back
59. A factotum is “a domestic servant who undertakes all kinds of household tasks” (OED). See also Felsenstein, English Trader, Indian Maid, 176n9.Go back
60. The remainder of Sir Christopher’s speech in Inkle and Yarico is replaced with Morrison’s advice and joke at the expense of Philis. In addition, the song that concludes Inkle and Yarico—a celebration of interracial marriage by all the main characters—does not appear. “Sweethearts,” like Colman’s Inkle and Yarico before it, assumes certain qualities inherent to the races. Yet unlike Colman’s Inkle and Yarico, Swayze’s “Sweethearts” does not end with a romantic portrait of the noble indigene and chastened man of the world united in love. Rather, it reverts to a keyword of American slavery and minstrelsy.Go back